Tag Archives: Theology

On Theology and History in the Gospel of John

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


On Psalm 119.169-176 (Taw)

169 Let my cry reach you, Lord;
give me understanding according to your word.
170 Let my plea reach you;
rescue me according to your promise.
171 My lips pour out praise,
for you teach me your statutes.
172 My tongue sings about your promise,
for all your commands are righteous.
173 May your hand be ready to help me,
for I have chosen your precepts.
174 I long for your salvation, Lord,
and your instruction is my delight.
175 Let me live, and I will praise you;
may your judgments help me.
176 I wander like a lost sheep;
seek your servant,
for I do not forget your commands.

Well, we have finally come to the last stanza of Psalm 119 (ת/taw), and it is fitting that our psalmist opens with a prayer. In verses 169–170, he petitions the Lord, “Let my cry reach you, Lord; give me understanding according to your word. Let my plea reach you; rescue me according to your promise.” After nearly 170 verses extolling the beauty, perfection, and life-giving power of God’s Word, he is still asking for understanding. In other words, his extensive knowledge of Holy Scripture has not diminished his dependence upon God. In the language of systematic theology, this truth is often described as the doctrine of illumination. Illumination is the gracious work of the Holy Spirit whereby he enlightens our minds and hearts to understand and receive God’s Word as he intended. (For a more extended discussion of this doctrine, see On Biblical Interpretation and the Holy Spirit.) The point is that a right understanding of Scripture is ultimately a gift of God. It certainly comes through careful study and diligent reflection, but our study must always be accompanied by humble dependence upon the Spirit who inspired the Scriptures in the first place. Throughout Psalm 119, we have repeatedly seen that God’s Word imparts wisdom, yet wisdom comes as God illumines the heart. The mature believer, therefore, never outgrows the need to pray, “Give me understanding according to your word.”

He also prays for deliverance when he says, “Rescue me according to your promise.” Once again, we are reminded that our psalmist continues to face hardship and opposition. Throughout Psalm 119 he has repeatedly cried out for God’s intervention, and here the same prayer rises once more from his lips. Yet what is particularly striking is the basis upon which he asks for deliverance. He does not appeal to his own merit, his own worthiness, or even his own obedience. Rather, he appeals to God’s promise. In other words, his confidence rests not in himself but in God’s covenant faithfulness. Or to put it another way, even after all his devotion to God’s Word, he still depends entirely upon divine grace. As D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones wisely observed, “Everything is of grace in the Christian life from the very beginning to the very end.” Apart from God’s grace we have nothing and are nothing. Even our most faithful obedience must be sustained and empowered by the God who first called us to himself. This is why the promises of Scripture are such a source of comfort for the believer. They remind us that God’s faithfulness does not fluctuate with our circumstances or our performance. Rather, his promises are rooted in his unchanging character. It is these gracious promises that become the foundation of confident prayer, enabling us to approach the throne of grace with boldness because we know that the God who has spoken is always faithful to his Word.

In verses 171–172, our psalmist moves from prayer to praise when he says, “My lips pour out praise, for you teach me your statutes. My tongue sings about your promise, for all your commands are righteous.” Notice here the motivation for his praise: it is that God has taught him his righteous commands and statutes. In other words, the purpose of Holy Scripture is not merely information. Our study of God’s Word should produce praise, obedience, and delight. Or, to put it another way, theology should produce doxology. God’s commands are righteous; therefore, praise is the fitting response. This has been one of the dominant themes throughout Psalm 119. The psalmist has repeatedly reminded us that God’s Word is sweeter than honey, more valuable than gold, a lamp to his feet, and a source of wisdom, comfort, hope, and peace. Yet all of these blessings ultimately direct his attention back to the God who has spoken. Scripture never terminates upon itself. It reveals the character, faithfulness, wisdom, and holiness of the Lord, and as we behold these divine perfections, our hearts are moved to worship. This is why genuine knowledge of God can never remain merely intellectual. The more deeply God’s truth takes root within us, the more naturally praise flows from our lips. If our study of Scripture produces greater knowledge without greater love for God, then we have missed the very purpose for which the Scriptures were given. True biblical understanding always culminates in joyful worship, because the ultimate goal of God’s Word is not simply that we know about him, but that we know him, delight in him, and glorify him with our lives.

In verses 173–174, our psalmist continues this theme of dependence when he prays, “May your hand be ready to help me, for I have chosen your precepts. I long for your salvation, Lord, and your instruction is my delight.” At first glance, these two statements may seem contradictory. On the one hand, he declares that he has chosen God’s precepts. On the other hand, he immediately asks for God’s help. Yet this is precisely the balance that runs throughout the Christian life. Genuine obedience is never independent of divine grace. Our willingness to follow the Lord is itself sustained by his continual presence and power. The psalmist recognizes that choosing God’s ways does not eliminate his need for God’s help; rather, it deepens his awareness of that need. Likewise, his longing for God’s salvation reminds us that he continues to look forward in hope. Though he delights in God’s instruction, he still awaits the full realization of God’s saving purposes. Throughout Psalm 119 we have repeatedly encountered this tension between present obedience and future expectation. God’s Word teaches us how to live faithfully today while at the same time directing our hope toward the salvation that God has promised to complete. The Christian life, therefore, is one of continual dependence upon the Lord, trusting that the God who calls us to walk in his ways is also the God who strengthens us to persevere until his work of redemption is brought to completion.

The final verses of Psalm 119 bring us to one of the most surprising conclusions in all of Scripture. After extolling the beauty, wisdom, and sufficiency of God’s Word for 175 verses, our psalmist concludes with this remarkable confession: “Let me live, and I will praise you;
may your judgments help me. I wander like a lost sheep; seek your servant, for I do not forget your commands.”
At first glance, this seems almost out of place. Has not our psalmist repeatedly affirmed his love for God’s law, his delight in God’s commandments, and his commitment to walk in God’s ways? Why, then, does he end by describing himself as a wandering sheep? The answer is that this is not a confession of apostasy but of humble dependence. He recognizes that even the most faithful believer remains vulnerable apart from the preserving grace of God. Yet his wandering is immediately balanced by a profound affirmation: “I do not forget your commands.” Though he stumbles, he still belongs to the Lord. His hope rests not in his own ability to remain faithful but in the God who faithfully seeks and restores his servants. It is difficult to read these words without thinking of the Good Shepherd who came “to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19.10), or of Jesus’ parable of the shepherd who leaves the ninety-nine sheep to search for the one that has wandered (Luke 15.4–7). Indeed, Isaiah had already declared, “We all went astray like sheep; we all have turned to our own way; and the Lord has punished him for the iniquity of us all” (Isa. 53.6). Thus, the final note of Psalm 119 is not one of self-confidence but of grace. The believer’s security ultimately rests not in the strength of his obedience but in the faithfulness of the Shepherd who continually seeks, preserves, and restores his wandering sheep.

As Psalm 119 draws to a close, we discover that its final emphasis is not human achievement but divine faithfulness. Throughout these twenty-two stanzas, our psalmist has celebrated the beauty, wisdom, sufficiency, and life-giving power of God’s Word. He has endured persecution, wrestled with suffering, delighted in God’s commandments, longed for deliverance, and found peace amid adversity. Yet the final word of the psalm is not self-confidence but humble dependence. Even after a lifetime devoted to God’s Word, he still cries out for understanding, seeks God’s help, and confesses his need for the Shepherd who alone can preserve him. In this way, Psalm 119 reminds us that the purpose of Scripture is never merely to increase our knowledge but to deepen our dependence upon the God who has spoken. The more faithfully we walk according to God’s Word, the more clearly we recognize our continual need for his sustaining grace. It is this gracious God who teaches, strengthens, seeks, and restores his people. And that, perhaps, is the greatest lesson of Psalm 119: the written Word continually directs us to the living God, whose truth, presence, and faithfulness are the sure foundation of the believer’s life.

For further study:
Introduction
Psalm 119.1-8
Psalm 119.9-16
Psalm 119.17-24
Psalm 119.25-32
Psalm 119.33-40
Psalm 119.41-48
Psalm 119.49-56
Psalm 119.57-64
Psalm 119.65-72
Psalm 119.73-80
Psalm 119.81-88
Psalm 119.89-96
Psalm 119.97-104
Psalm 119.105-112
Psalm 119.113-120
Psalm 119.121-128
Psalm 119.129-136
Psalm 119.137-144
Psalm 119.145-152
Psalm 119.153-160
Psalm 119.161-168


On Deborah, Barak, and the “Failure of Men” Hypothesis

I was recently reading through the Book of Judges as part of my Bible reading plan, and I had the opportunity to revisit the story of Deborah and Barak (Judges 4–5). It is a remarkable account of how God delivered his people from Canaanite oppression and remained faithful to his covenant promises even when Israel was not faithful to him. At the same time, this passage often becomes a flashpoint in debates concerning gender roles in the home and in the church, particularly regarding the role of women. On the one hand, egalitarians point to Deborah as a paradigm for female leadership that should be emulated in the church today. On the other hand, complementarians often explain her leadership as the result of male failure, i.e. that God raised Deborah because no man was willing to step forward. It is this latter claim that I would like to examine in this post. While the “failure of men” hypothesis may resonate with certain instincts and seems to account for Barak’s initial hesitation, it ultimately goes beyond what the text itself supports. Deborah’s role is not presented as a corrective to male absence, nor as a structural shift in leadership patterns. Rather, Judges 4–5 presents a more complex picture of divine deliverance, prophetic authority, and covenant faithfulness.

Textually, the “failure of men” hypothesis is built on Barak’s apparent hesitation. In Judges 4.8, when Deborah instructs Barak to gather the tribes in preparation for battle, he responds, “If you will go with me, I will go. But if you will not go with me, I will not go.” Deborah agrees to accompany him, but she also declares that the honor of the victory will not go to Barak. From this, the argument is often made that Barak’s hesitation reveals a lack of courage or leadership, and that Deborah steps in to fill the resulting gap. The conclusion, then, is that God raises up women to lead when men fail. While it is certainly true that Barak hesitates and that Deborah plays a central leadership role, this conclusion goes beyond what the text itself actually supports. It does not arise from the narrative so much as it is imposed upon it. The issue is not whether Deborah leads—the text clearly affirms that she does—but whether her leadership is presented as a response to male absence or failure.

A close and careful reading of the text reveals that Deborah is introduced first, and she is already functioning in a leadership role before Barak even appears in the narrative. In Judges 4:4–5, we are told that “Deborah, a prophetess and the wife of Lappidoth, was judging Israel at that time,” and that the people of Israel came to her for judgment. This indicates that Deborah was already established as both a prophetess and a judge. She is not raised up in response to Barak; she is already exercising leadership within Israel. Moreover, it is Deborah who summons Barak and speaks with divine authority as she relays the Lord’s command (4:6–7). In other words, the initiative in the narrative belongs to God through Deborah, not to a vacuum created by men. As for Barak, as noted above, he does appear to hesitate in response to the Lord’s command. However, this is not an outright refusal to lead, but a form of conditional obedience. He expresses a desire for the Lord’s prophet to accompany him in the task. Importantly, Deborah does not rebuke or condemn him for this response. Instead, she simply declares that the honor of the victory will go to a woman. This is a prophetic statement of outcome, not a moral indictment. Deborah supports Barak in his role; she does not portray him as a failed leader.

The key to understanding this narrative comes in chapter 5. Judges 5 is a poetic retelling of the events of chapter 4, and as such, it functions as the inspired interpretation of those events. In the song, Deborah is praised as “a mother in Israel” (5:7), but just as importantly, Barak is also commended. He is included among the military leaders who participated in the Lord’s deliverance, and nowhere in the song is he criticized or portrayed as a failed or reluctant figure. The narrative simply does not frame Barak as a man who failed to lead. In fact, the only explicit condemnation in the song appears in verse 23, which reads “Curse Meroz,” says the angel of the Lord, “bitterly curse her inhabitants, for they did not come to help the Lord, to help the Lord with the warriors.” Meroz, likely a nearby town expected to join the battle, is condemned precisely because it failed to respond. This is significant. If the narrator intended to highlight male failure in Barak, he had the language and categories to do so—and he uses them elsewhere in the text. But Barak is never cursed, rebuked, or condemned. Instead, he is remembered as one who participated in the Lord’s victory. The silence of the text where we might expect condemnation is itself interpretively significant.

Stepping back from the story of Deborah and Barak, the broader pattern of the Book of Judges is that Israel’s history follows a predictable cycle. The people fall into sin, God punishes them with oppression, they cry out for deliverance, and the Lord raises up a judge to rescue them. Yet this cycle does not simply repeat—it spirals downward. As the narrative progresses, the judges themselves become increasingly flawed, and the moral and spiritual condition of Israel deteriorates. We need only consider figures like Gideon, Jephthah, and Samson to see that the author of Judges knows how to highlight the failures of male leadership when he intends to do so. Their weaknesses are not subtle; they are central to their stories. But Deborah’s narrative does not function in this way. She is presented as a faithful and effective leader, and Barak is not portrayed as a cautionary figure. In other words, the text does not present Deborah as a divine workaround for male incompetence, but as a legitimate agent of God’s deliverance within a broader pattern of imperfect yet usable leaders.

So, what do we do with Deborah? The fact of the matter is that Deborah does lead. She is a prophetess and a judge, and she is used powerfully by God in the deliverance of his people. However, her role must be understood within its narrative and redemptive context, not abstracted into a universal principle. On the one hand, we should not use Deborah to overturn broader biblical patterns of leadership and authority. This is the well-known distinction between what is descriptive and what is prescriptive. In this narrative, Deborah is described as a faithful and effective leader through whom God works; she is not explicitly presented as a paradigm for leadership structures in the home or the church. On the other hand, we must also resist the impulse to minimize or dismiss her role. Deborah is not an anomaly to be explained away. She is a genuine agent of God’s deliverance, and her story is preserved in Scripture as part of God’s inspired revelation. Her leadership is real, authoritative, and significant. Yet the text itself does not frame her role as establishing a normative pattern for ecclesial or domestic leadership. Rather, it highlights the sovereignty of God, who works through whom he wills to accomplish his purposes.

The point of all this is to say that the story of Deborah and Barak is not about gender polemics. This is a concern that is external to the text and often imposed upon it by modern debates. This does not mean that those debates are unimportant; they are all the more pressing in this current cultural moment. But, the question is not what Deborah means for our debates, but what this text reveals about how God works in the history of his people. The narrative of Deborah and Barak directs our attention elsewhere. This story is about God’s faithfulness to his promises, his sovereignty over his people and their circumstances, and his willingness to use unexpected agents to accomplish his purposes in the world. Throughout the Book of Judges, Israel repeatedly proves unfaithful, yet God remains steadfast. He raises up deliverers, not because of their inherent greatness, but because of his covenant commitment. Deborah and Barak are no exception. Their story highlights the fact that God is not limited by human expectations, conventions, or categories. He works through whom he wills and accomplishes his purposes in ways that often surprise us. The emphasis of Judges 4–5 is not that men failed, but that God delivers his people often in ways that subvert human expectations and call us to trust in his sovereign power rather than our own assumptions.

In the end, this discussion brings us back to a matter of method. We must let the text speak for itself rather than imposing our own categories and concerns upon it. The “failure of men” hypothesis ultimately reads more into the narrative than it draws out of it, importing assumptions that the text itself does not explicitly support. Deborah is neither an anomaly to be explained away nor a weapon to be deployed in broader ideological debates. She is a faithful servant of the Lord, raised up within a particular moment in Israel’s history to accomplish God’s purposes for his people. Her story reminds us that God is both sovereign and free in the instruments he chooses to use. At the same time, it calls us to read Scripture carefully, attentively, and humbly. Faithful interpretation requires that we resist the urge to make the text serve our frameworks, and instead allow it to shape them, even when it refuses to fit neatly into our categories.


On the Value and Wisdom of Seminary Training for Pastors

When I surrendered my life to God’s calling for vocational ministry at the age of 15, I always knew that that path would eventually take me to seminary, and now, as I am more than halfway through my PhD in Biblical Studies (New Testament) at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, KY (pictured above), I can’t help but reflect on the value and benefits it has brought to my life and to my ministry. However, down here in the good ole’ “Bible Belt”, formal theological education is often viewed with a measure of skepticism and distrust. On the one hand, many people know faithful pastors who have influenced their lives who have never gone to seminary. On other hand, there is a lingering suspicion of academia that is left over from the historical influence of the Fundamentalist movement. So, it is understandable that in many churches, formal theological education can feel unnecessary at best and spiritually dangerous at worst. However, the real question is not simply whether theological education is necessary, but what kind of formation is required to faithfully know, teach, and live the truth of Scripture. Therefore, it is the thesis of this post that while formal theological education is not strictly necessary for faithful ministry, it is profoundly valuable because it cultivates the habits of careful thinking, deep reading, and disciplined reflection on the things of God.

Those who are leery of formal theological education point to several reasons why seminary is sometimes less than helpful. Some suggest that going to seminary kills spiritual passion, that academic theological knowledge can choke out personal devotion and piety. Seminary becomes a cemetery. And let’s be honest, this can happen. There is a real temptation in academia that one’s experience of faith can become utterly cerebral and lacking in spiritual pathos. However, I would suggest that this temptation is not unique to the seminary setting, and that it has more to do with the student than with the institution. Another objection that is sometimes heard is that “all we need is the Bible and the Spirit,” that the Scriptures are sufficient, and that the Spirit leads us into all truth. I have addressed this question in another post, but suffice it to say here that we do not download biblical understanding from the Spirit. His work has more to do with confirming and applying the truths of Scripture in our lives than with the transmission of content. Interpretation still requires care and study. Some also object that education can lead to pride and liberalism, and here again, these are legitimate concerns. And while discernment must be exercised in selecting an institution, it is up to the student to maintain their own humility and faithfulness. Lastly, as mentioned above, scores of pastors throughout the history of the church have served faithfully without formal theological training, and I praise God for those individuals. Let me say it clearly: seminary is not necessary for pastoral faithfulness. It is not a matter of necessity, but a matter of wisdom. The concerns I’ve listed here are not imaginary; they reflect real temptations and dangers. But they are dangers of misuse, not arguments against the value of theological training itself.

So, in the interest of clarity, it is important at this point to distinguish what theological education is and what it is not. First, theological education is not mere information transfer; it is not primarily about the mastery of content, though that is certainly a component of it. The fact is that we live in an information age, and theological content is available at the click of a button. Of course, not all of it is of the same quality, but it is true that taking in theological content is easier today than it has ever been. There are literally tons of resources both digital and in print that are available to the pastor who wants to grow in theological knowledge. And pastors should be taking it in; they should read and read widely and deeply, but seminary is not just about the transfer of information. Secondly, it is not a substitute for a person’s spiritual or devotional life. This I think is the misconception that undergirds a lot of the objections mentioned above, namely that seminary cannot replace personal piety and devotion. It is not a substitute for prayer, for holiness, for obedience, or for involvement in the local church. These are vital for spiritual life, and seminaries are not primarily focused on training these personal disciplines. Seminary is focused training in how to read carefully, how to think clearly, and how to serve faithfully throughout the course of one’s life. It is not about knowing more things; it is about learning how to think rightly about God and his Word.

This is exactly the point, namely that the Scriptures require careful and attentive reading. We must be taught the importance of historical and literary context, of genre and authorial intent, of words and sentences and paragraphs and how they communicate textual meaning. Ideally, these hermeneutical principles are modeled in the pulpit and Sunday school classroom. However, mastery requires focused and intensive didactic formation, because it is this kind of training that guards us from interpretive error. We must be taught how to rightly divide the Word of truth, so that we do not misuse Scripture for our own aims and ends or read our assumptions back into the text. Understanding the literary and historical intricacies and complexities of the Bible keeps us from falling into the arrogance of overconfidence, where familiarity is mistaken for understanding. It forces us to slow down, to wrestle with difficult passages, and to recognize that Scripture does not always yield its meaning at a glance. And in this way, it teaches us the discipline of slowness, how to let the text speak on its own terms and to listen carefully rather than forcing quick conclusions. What I am saying is that formal theological training teaches us not just what the Bible says, but how to listen to it well—and that is a skill that serves both the church and the individual believer for a lifetime.

In addition to learning to read carefully, formal theological training also helps us to develop theological depth in our understanding of the Word. It helps us to see the whole Bible, to understand the metanarrative of Scripture, and to locate particular books and passages within that unfolding storyline. We learn to follow themes and their development through the canon, and we come to appreciate both the continuity and the discontinuity between the Testaments. In doing so, we begin to see that the Bible is not a loose collection of disconnected texts, but a unified and coherent witness to God’s redemptive work in history. We also develop a certain measure of doctrinal coherence, in that we begin to understand how themes and concepts relate to one another, and we avoid fragmented theological reflections that isolate passages from the larger framework of Scripture. Questions of Christology, salvation, covenant, and kingdom are no longer treated in isolation, but are understood in relation to the whole counsel of God. Formal theological training also helps us to learn from the history of the church; it teaches us to see tradition as a resource rather than as a threat. (On the Use and Benefit of Tradition, see here.) To put it rather bluntly, we are not the first to read the Bible, and we won’t be the last. thankfully, this is a gift, not a limitation. It is an invitation to listen, to learn, and to be shaped by the wisdom of those who have gone before us.

Lastly, formal theological education helps us to develop intellectual humility. It exposes us to the difficult questions of the faith that have been asked throughout church history, and it forces us to wrestle with issues that do not admit of easy or immediate answers. It requires us to read and engage hard texts, both biblical and extrabiblical, and it immerses us in the real debates that continue to shape theological reflection even today. In doing so, it helps us develop a rightly calibrated confidence, one that is rooted in strong convictions, yet carried with a softer ego. We come to see that clarity is often hard-won, and that many of the questions we face have been carefully considered by thoughtful believers long before us. And as a result, we learn not only how to argue well, but how to disagree well. This is perhaps one of the greatest challenges in our present moment, and formal theological training can teach us to treat our interlocutors with patience, precision, and grace, even when we disagree deeply. In other words, theological education does not simply make you smarter; it makes you more aware of your limits. It reveals our strengths, exposes our weaknesses, and teaches us to value the insights of others, even when they do not fully align with our own.

However, even with all these benefits, formal theological education has its limits and dangers, and it is important that we are clear on what they are. For one, seminary training cannot produce spiritual life. And while many schools are now attempting to incorporate more spiritual life components into their curricula, it will always be true that knowledge simply does not equal transformation. True transformation is a work of the Spirit in us, and it is up to each individual to work with the Spirit through the classic spiritual disciplines in order to experience transformation. (On the Spiritual Disciplines, see here.) Second, seminary education can foster pride. This is a real danger. As the Scriptures remind us, “Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up.” (1 Corinthians 8.1) This is an ever-present temptation for those who are well informed in the study of the Scriptures. And lastly, seminary education can drift from the primary importance of the local church. At present, there is an ever-growing movement to reconnect seminary education with the local church, and this is to be celebrated. But seminaries must always orient their purpose and mission toward the service of the church, because it is the church that is Christ’s bride. However, in all three of these, the problem is not theological education itself, but theological education disconnected from the life of the church and the work of the Spirit.

This is why it is so important that head, heart, and ministry remain inherently intertwined. Pastors must always make sure that their thinking about God and their love for God remain together. There should be no head/heart divisions, as though theological precision and spiritual devotion were somehow in competition with one another. Rather, careful thinking about God should deepen our love for him, and our love for him should drive us to think more carefully about his Word. Further, pastors must remember that we do theology for the sake of the church, not for publications, not for CV development, not for accolades or recognition. All theology must be oriented toward the teaching, preaching, and discipleship ministries of the local church. “For the Church” must be more than an institutional mantra or a tagline; it must be the driving motivation in all of our theological efforts. Theology that does not serve the church ultimately fails in its purpose. And finally, we must remember that theological education is primarily about formation and faithfulness. We are seeking to develop the knowledge, skills, and habits that will sustain long-term ministry stability, presentational clarity, and faithful endurance. The goal is not to produce scholars detached from the church, but servants equipped to build it up, men who can think clearly, love deeply, and labor faithfully for the good of God’s people.

In the end, we must say this carefully: formal theological education is not necessary, but it is wise. God has used, and will continue to use, many faithful pastors and teachers who have never set foot in a seminary classroom. Again, thank God for his grace in this! The power of ministry has never rested in credentials, but in the faithful proclamation of the Word and the work of the Spirit. And yet, when pursued rightly, theological education is a gift. It strengthens the church by equipping its leaders to handle Scripture with greater care, to think with greater clarity, and to teach with greater depth and precision. It forms habits that serve a lifetime of ministry, not just a moment of preparation. To study theology carefully is not to move away from God, but to learn how to think about him rightly. That is a task worthy of our best effort.


On the Jesus of History and the Christ of Faith

One of my favorite topics in the study of the New Testament is the historical Jesus; it is an area of study that attempts to understand Jesus as he was within the context of first century Judaism. However, many who study the historical Jesus argue that the Jesus of history (the first century Jewish teacher) is not the Christ of faith (the exalted Lord proclaimed by the church). In other words, the early church’s understanding of Jesus has been embellished and augmented by influences that go well beyond who Jesus actually was and what he taught. This presupposition is one of the the primary factors that originally inspired the now century old quest(s) for the historical Jesus. Of course, we must affirm that historical investigation is indispensable for understanding the person and work of Jesus, but the hard distinction between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith collapses under the weight of the earliest evidence. The church’s confession of Christ emerges not as a departure from Jesus, but as the historically grounded interpretation of his life, death, and resurrection. In the space that follows, I would like to defend this thesis by examining why history matters, where the split came from, and why the evidence actually favors continuity and not discontinuity.

It would seem to be readily evident that the historical study of the New Testament is essential for understanding the Christian faith. This is because Christianity makes several direct and specific claims about real events that took place in historical space and time. So understanding these events and their historical and theological significance is a matter of first importance when it comes to understanding our faith. As a case in point, when the eternal Son came incarnate in the person of Jesus Christ, he stepped into a particular place at a particular time, the fullness of time according to Galatians 4.4. In other words, the doctrine of the incarnation requires some historical understanding of the place and time when Jesus was born. In fact, the Gospels themselves are anchored in the geography, personalities, and events of the first century Palestine. The point is that if Jesus is severed from the places and times in which he lived, then we run the risk of distorting the significance of his life and teaching. More than this, we run the risk of reshaping Jesus into a man of our making, as a some kind of modern therapist or social reform mascot. The bottom line is that the hard work of history disciplines our theology and grounds it in the life of our savior as he lived it. Or to put it more simply, to confess that the Word became flesh is to confess that history matters.

The point of this is to say that historical inquiry is not the enemy of faith. The problem comes when we presume to dictate what history is allowed to contain. During the Enlightenment of the 18th Century, philosophers and historians began to doubt the details of the New Testament’s depictions of Jesus. Because of their presuppositions about the supremacy of human reason in the pursuit of truth, they were highly skeptical of the Gospels’ accounts of Jesus’s miracles, particularly his resurrection. Their skepticism resulted in an approach to history that might be called methodological naturalism, or the idea that anything that even remotely smells like it might be supernatural must be ruled out as a theological fabrication. Ultimately, their dismissal of the miracles of Jesus, particularly his resurrection, led them to conclude that the church’s high Christology, or its understanding of Jesus as the divine Lord of heaven, must be a late addition to the New Testament that has nothing to do with who Jesus was and what he did and taught during his lifetime, a conclusion which had more to do with their own presuppositions than with any actual analysis of the evidence. The real question, however, is not whether the theology of the early church developed over time (it clearly did), but the question is whether that development moved away from Jesus or unfolded from within the impact of his life and resurrection. An examination of the earliest documents clearly demonstrates that this is in fact what happened.

Now, the earliest Christian documents are the 13 letters of Paul, which were likely written between the years 49 CE and 68 CE. (The earliest of these is most likely 1 Thessalonians, and the latest is 2 Timothy.) Important for this post is the fact that several of these letters include embedded hymns and creedal material that clearly exalt Jesus as the divine Lord. For example, in Philippians 2.6, he “existed in the form of God,” and in Colossians 1.15, “He is the image of the invisible God.” In 1 Corinthians 8.6, the Apostle writes, “for us there is one God, the Father. All things are from him, and we exist for him. And there is one Lord, Jesus Christ. All things are through him, and we exist through him.” This is clearly a reworking of the Shema (Deut 6.4) which equates Jesus with the God of Israel. Even outside of Paul, in Hebrews 1.3, Jesus is “the radiance of God’s glory and the exact expression of his nature, sustaining all things by his powerful word.” And in James 5.9 (possibly the earliest document in the New Testament), he is “the judge [who] stands at the door!” The point of all this is to show that the church’s so called “high Christology” developed very early in the life of the church, and that within the context of strict Jewish monotheism. And so the question must be asked, “How did first century Jews come to worship Jesus as God so quickly?” The only possible answer is that the seeds of this belief were already present in the life and ministry of Jesus.

Of course, Jesus never articulated his identity in the language of the Nicaean Creed, but he clearly acted with divine authority. When the Pharisees ask, “Who can forgive sins but God alone?” Jesus says to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven. Get up, take your mat, and go home.” (Mark 2.1-12) When his disciples were rebuked for picking heads of grain on the sabbath, he responded, “For the Son of Man is Lord of the Sabbath.” (Matthew 12.1-8) He calmed the storms, he healed the sick, he cast out demons, he raised the dead. He equated his body with the temple, and he proclaimed a Kingdom of God that centered on his own person and work. And when the High Priest asked him if he was indeed the Christ, he responded, ““I am, and you will see the Son of Man seated at the right hand of Power and coming with the clouds of heaven,” to which the High Priest responded by accusing him of blasphemy. (Mark 14.61-64) As a side note, the title Son of Man is most likely taken from Daniel 7, where Daniel sees “one like a son of Man” approaching the Ancient of Days to be vindicated and enthroned as king. The identity of this “one like a Son of Man” is debated, but it is highly likely that Daniel understood him as (quasi) divine figure. The point is that Jesus made several extraordinarily “high” claims about himself, claims that clearly threatened the Jerusalem religious establishment and eventually got him killed.

Moreover, the church did not invent these categories out of thin air; rather, it interpreted the shock of Jesus’ life and resurrection within the context and storyline of Israel’s Scriptures. And for them, the resurrection was the decisive interpretive key. The historical plausibility of the resurrection is practically certain given the cumulative effect of the evidence. The earliest confessions assume the truth of the resurrection (1 Cor 15.3-8). The earliest disciples went from fearing for their lives in the upper room to boldly proclaiming the truth of the resurrection in the temple square. The first witnesses of the resurrection were a couple of women whose testimony would have been viewed as untrustworthy in their day. All eleven of the disciples went to their deaths preaching Christ as risen from the dead, and the apostle Paul went from hateful persecutor of Christians to the most effective preacher and missionary in the early church. In other words, the resurrection was a central component of the early church’s belief, and its exalted understanding of Jesus flows naturally from this belief. If Christ was truly raised from the dead, then he truly was who he said he was, i.e. “the Christ, the Son of the living God.” The point is that the Christ of the church’s faith is what the Jesus of history looks like after Easter. Without the resurrection, a hard divide makes sense, but with the resurrection, the continuity between the two becomes inherently plausible. Or to put it another way, the resurrection is not some theological embroidery added to the story of the historical Jesus. No, it is the primary engine of the early church’s “high” Christology.

The bottom of line is simply this, namely that the hard division between historical events and their theological significance is a false dichotomy. There simply is no such thing as uninterpreted history; all historical events are immediately interpreted. The moment something happens, it is interpreted. The question, then, is not whether theology exists, but whether it faithfully corresponds to what actually occurred. In other words, theology is not the corruption of history; it is reflection upon it. And when it comes the person and work of Jesus, the Gospel accounts are just historical testimony that has been shaped by conviction. The faith of the early church was an organic and continuous development that grew out of the life and teaching of the historical Jesus, and the earliest confessions of Christ are best understood as historically grounded worship. If we separate the Jesus of history from the Christ of faith, the our faith becomes mere myth layered on memory. Jesus came incarnate at a particular time in a concrete place, and he was resurrected and he ascended to be seated at the right hand of the Father. And this is why both the history of Jesus and the faith of the early church matter. The one worshiped in the church is not a theological invention layered upon a forgotten Galilean. He is the crucified and risen Jesus of Nazareth. There is theological development, yes. There is interpretation, certainly. But there is no canyon between the Jesus who walked the hills of Galilee and the Christ that the church confesses as Lord. There is continuity — deep, historical, and theologically unavoidable continuity between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith.


On Resurrection and De-dustification

It is common in Biblical studies to suggest that the doctrine of the resurrection is a late development in Old Testament theology. Of course, the clearest Old Testament affirmation of this belief is found in Daniel 12.2, where we read, “Many who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake, some to eternal life, and some to disgrace and eternal contempt.” While the dating of Daniel is a much debated question, this verse certainly stands as a clear affirmation of the doctrine of a general resurrection possibly from as early as the exilic period. But is it possible that the doctrine of resurrection has a much longer presence in the Old Testament. I would suggest that it does, and I would base this suggestion, at least in part, on the words of David in Psalm 16, verse 10, where we read, “For you will not abandon me to Sheol; you will not allow your faithful one to see decay.” In this psalm, David is  seeking divine protection because he has remained loyal to God, and he is praising God for his rich blessings with full confidence God will vindicate him and deliver him from death.

Now, this particular verse is quoted twice in the in the Book of Acts in defense of the resurrection of Jesus, once by Peter in Acts 2.27, and once again by Paul in Acts 13.35. Of course, their appeal to this verse raises all kinds of questions regarding the interpretive methods of Luke and the other apostles, but suffice it to say here that there is no need to suggest that they have misinterpreted it. They haven’t read something into it that wasn’t actually there in the first place. No, they have rightly understood the implications of David’s words, and by way of typological prediction, they have applied these words to the Messianic Son of David, Jesus the Christ. David genuinely believed that that God could and would deliver him even from death, so while the doctrine of resurrection is not spelled out explicitly, we have ample reason to believe that David held some conception of physical life after death. This is why he says, “you will not allow your faithful one to see decay.”

However, Peter’s explanation here deserves our attention. In Acts 2.29, he says, “Brothers and sisters, I can confidently speak to you about the patriarch David: He is both dead and buried, and his tomb is with us to this day.” Likewise, Paul explains similarly in Acts 13.36-37, “For David, after serving God’s purpose in his own generation, fell asleep, was buried with his fathers, and decayed, but the one God raised up did not decay.” Jesus was only in the grave for three days; there simply wasn’t enough time for his physical body to see decay. But David’s bones turned to dust a long time ago, as it is written, “All are going to the same place; all come from dust, and all return to dust.” (Ecclesiastes 3.20) This dusty fate is part of God’s curse on human sin, as we read in Genesis 3.19, “For you are dust, and you will return to dust.” It is a fate that awaits us all. So, we must ask the question: was David wrong in his expectation that his body would not see decay? Was he wrong in his hope for a bodily resurrection?

The answer to these questions must be a resounding, “May it never be.” David was not wrong to believe that God could and would deliver him even from the depths of death itself, and even though his physical body has long returned to the dust from whence it came, one day, his body will be raised new, perfectly whole and completely glorified. This is the hope of resurrection; it is the hope of de-dustification. As the Apostle Paul writes in Romans 8.11, “And if the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead lives in you, then he who raised Christ from the dead will also bring your mortal bodies to life through his Spirit who lives in you.” Or again, in Philippians 3.21, “He will transform the body of our humble condition into the likeness of his glorious body, by the power that enables him to subject everything to himself.” If God can create man from the dust and breath the breath (the Hebrew word is the same word sometimes translated Spirit) of life into him so that he becomes a living soul, then he can certainly raise our bodies from the dust and give them eternal physical life by His Spirit.

In other words, far from being some late postulate in Old Testament theology, the idea of resurrection has a long standing place in Old Testament thought. It goes back at least to the time of David and the monarchy, some 1000 years before the time of Daniel and the exile, and it possibly goes back farther than that (but that is a topic for another time.) The point here is simply the Christian hope, nay, the biblical hope, is for nothing less than the perfected glory of bodily resurrection. As Jesus himself says, “a time is coming when all who are in the graves will hear his voice and come out—those who have done good things, to the resurrection of life, but those who have done wicked things, to the resurrection of condemnation.” (John 5.28-29) Maranatha!

For further study, see:
On the Logic of the Resurrection
On Christian Hope: Heaven or Resurrection
On Resurrection and the Path of Glory

See also,
Chase, Mitchell L. Resurrection Hope and the Death of Death. Short Studies in Biblical Theology. Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2022.


On Apocalyptic Eschatology and Christian Theology

In a frequently repeated statement, Ernst Käsemann famously said that “Apocalyptic was the mother of all Christian theology.” Not as well-known is that two years later, Käsemann clarified what he actually meant by “apocalyptic”: for him, it referred to “eschatology,” or in his words, “the expectation of an imminent Parousia.” Personally, I would define apocalyptic eschatology a bit more broadly. Apocalyptic eschatology is the belief that this present age is irredeemably corrupted by sin, that God is coming to intervene in a final judgment on the wicked, and that at that time he will vindicate the righteous and deliver them into a new of age of eschatological salvation that is both personal in the sense of resurrection and cosmic in the sense of renewal. The question remains, however, as to how this perspective might rightly be considered to be the “mother of all Christian theology,” and in the space that remains, I would simply like to offer a few brief explanations for this claim.

First, apocalyptic eschatology revolves around the final, climactic visitation of God to the earth. In the Old Testament, this visitation was often referred to as “the Day of the Lord.” In fact, there were many “days of the Lord” in the Old Testament, all of which function as typological portends of the final Day of the Lord when God comes in eschatological glory and power. Christian theology believes that this final Day of the Lord began when God came to earth in the incarnate Lord Jesus Christ. He was to be called Emmanuel, which is translated “God with us.” (Matthew 1.23). And the Lord Jesus himself said of Jerusalem, “you did not recognize the time when God visited you.” (Luke 19.44) This is exactly the point, namely that the coming of Christ in his incarnation was the beginning of the apocalyptic visitation of God to the earth. Of course, we know that He is coming again in glory and power to bring to consummation that which he began in His first coming, but the point here is that in Christ, God himself came in climactic apocalyptic visitation.

And this brings me to the second reason why apocalyptic eschatology is the mother of all Christian theology, namely that the first coming of Christ to the earth as a baby in a manger marked the beginning of the end of this corrupt present age. In New Testament theology, this is commonly referred to as the already and the not yet, namely that God’s plan for the final redemption of his people has already begun in Christ but it is not yet complete. Consequently, we live in this in between time of already and not yet, already saved, already filled with the eschatological spirit, already living under the blessings of God’s eschatological salvation in part, but we await the time when Christ will come again to consummate, or to bring to completion, that which he began by his death, resurrection and ascension. This is why Peter, in his Pentecost sermon, can say, “And it will be in the last days, says God, that I will pour out my Spirit on all people.” (Acts 2.17). The underlined phrase marks a change that Peter has applied to his source text (Joel 2.28), which simply says, “After this.” Peter understood that in Christ the last days had begun, and we have been living “in the [apocalyptic] last days” now for 2000 years.

But what about the final judgment of the wicked? Isn’t this something that is still yet future? How can we say that the apocalyptic judgment of the wicked began in Christ at his first coming? The answer is that this is exactly what we must say, as Jesus says in John 12.31-32, “Now is the judgment of this world. Now the ruler of this world will be cast out. As for me, if I am lifted up from the earth I will draw all people to myself.” The verb here, “lift up”, means to lift up on high, to exalt, or to raise to dignity and honor. This is why it is so ironic that John goes on to add the explanatory note, “He said this to indicate what kind of death he was about to die.” (John 12.33) The death of Jesus on the cross is nothing less than his enthronement. By his death, he judges the wickedness of this world and its ruler; He exposes the sinfulness and the ultimate fate of those that would reject him. This is why we can say that the final judgment began in Jesus, because a person’s response to the crucified and risen Christ will determine their eternal fate. In the death of Christ, judgment has begun, and it will be meted out when “the lamb who was slain,” as the Revelation calls him, returns in glory and power.

Finally, apocalyptic eschatology is the mother of all Christian theology because in Christ eschatological salvation has come. Salvation is inherently and irreducibly an eschatological concept. Saved from what, we might ask? We are saved from the eschatological wrath of God toward sin. And in Christ this salvation has broken into this present age and been made available to all those who respond to Christ in faith. This is why Peter refers to Joel’s prophecy to explain the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost, as we saw above. We have been filled with the eschatological Spirit, the seal and sign of the new age. We are new creatures, the fruit of a new creation, in Christ because of the Spirit. This is why the Apostle Paul can say, “Blessed is the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavens in Christ.” (Ephesians 1.3) Every spiritual blessing, every blessing of the age to come is already ours in Christ. We have been saved. We are being saved. And we will be saved. Apocalyptic salvation has already begun in Christ, and we are partakers of it by His indwelling Spirit.

So, I agree with the sentiments of Ernst Käsemann as expressed above. Apocalyptic eschatology is the mother of all Christian theology, because in Christ the apocalyptic visitation of God has come. All of the rest of our theology must be derived from this point, that the climactic work of God for the salvation of His people and His world has come in Christ. This is the Gospel; this is the good news of our salvation. In Christ, God himself has broken into this present age to redeem his people from their sin and set us free from its bondage, its corruption, even its very presence. And this is why we can have hope.


On the Errors of Full Preterism

Full preterism, or consistent eschatology as it is sometimes called, is the belief that all of the Bible’s prophecies regarding the consummation of God’s plan for the redemption of humanity, including but not limited to the second coming of Jesus, the resurrection, final judgment, and the establishment of the new heavens and the new earth, occurred in 70 AD when the Romans destroyed the temple in Jerusalem. This event in their understanding marked the eschatological transition from the Old Covenant to the New Covenant, meaning that no further fulfillment is necessary. The new has come; it is really and truly here to its fullest extent. There is no need for any further act of God to complete his redemptive purposes in the world.

Now, let me be clear, this position is complete and utter heresy. It is a false gospel, because it denies the essential orthodox belief that “He will come again to judge the living and the dead” (Apostle’s Creed). It denies “the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come” (Nicene Creed). These denials among others put the views of full preterism wholly outside the boundaries of historic Christian orthodoxy. In the space that remains here, I would simply like to outline a few of the methodological and theological errors that are typical of this view, and then I will conclude by reaffirming the orthodox Christian hope.

The first error of full preterism is that they have a conspiracy theory view of hermeneutical method. In other words, their interpretations are based on a string of loosely related or even unrelated texts that are tied together by the occurrence of similar words. Of course, they would claim that they are following the principle of sola scriptura, namely that “scripture interprets scripture,” but I would submit that this is a theological conviction for biblical interpretation not a hermeneutical method for biblical interpretation. (See my post here). In stringing texts together the way that they do, they completely disregard concerns for the text’s historical and theological context and the author’s flow of thought. Instead, they flatten out the distinctive emphases of particular texts by smashing them together to say that same thing. More often than not, their exegesis comes across like someone throwing paint against a wall and then concluding they’ve painted Mona Lisa.

A second error of full preterism is that they hold to a gnostic view of the human person. Gnosticism is a heresy from the second century CE that suggests that Christ came to save us from this evil material world so that we could throw off the limits of our physical bodies and exist eternally as pure spirit. Of course, there is much more to it than this simple definition, but its weakness is that it disregards God’s design for human beings as embodied souls. We were made with a body and a soul, and to exist without either one of these is to be incomplete from the biblical point of view. This is why the resurrection of the body is such a primary doctrine; we are not merely transformed spiritually, we will be transformed physically when He comes again. Full preterism denies the future bodily resurrection of both the righteous and the wicked, and they suppose that when we die, we either go to heaven or hell to continue on as a “spiritual” being for eternity.

Thirdly, full preterism has an adoptionistic view of the incarnation. Adoptionism, or dynamic monarchianism, is a heresy from the third century CE that suggests that the divine logos came upon the man Jesus as his baptism, left him at his crucifixion, but then came upon him again at his resurrection. In other words, the man Jesus was “adopted” by God at his resurrection. The view of full preterism is not unlike adoptionistic Christology because they seem to believe the body of Jesus was only necessary during his earthly life. Often they suggest that his body was burnt up, or maybe it disappeared, at His ascension, so that He no longer has a body in heaven now. In other words, the son “adopted” a body for as long as he needed it, but then, when he no longer needed it, he discarded it. Along with the gnostic notions discussed above, this position negates the necessity of the resurrection. Why did Jesus even have to be resurrected from the dead with a body? Why not just rise as pure spirit? Here again, this view cannot explain the glorified body of Jesus, because it makes the incarnation temporary.

A fourth error that is part of the full preterist view is that they seem to have a fatalistic view of human history. Since they view this world as it is now as the “new heavens and new earth,” they have no expectation for any kind of renewal or transformation of the created order. According to this view, sin, death, disease, heartache, and the like will continue in perpetuity, eternally, without end. The only escape from the harsh realities of this world is when we die and go to heaven. But a renewed earth free of the corruption of sin and death is not in the purview of full preterism. This is fatalistic, because it essentially says that this is how the world is and this is how it will be. Nothing will ever get better, paradise will never be restored. Among others problems, this perspective denies the original purity and goodness of God’s creation and God’s intent to restore creation to that state of purity and goodness.

The final error that I see with full preterism, and perhaps the greatest, is that it offers a hopeless view of the Gospel. The reason for this is that it does not offer a final and full defeat of sin. Sure, the penalty of sin has been paid on the cross, and Satan has been defeated. But according to the full preterists, Satan and sin continue to run free forever. There is no final end to sin; there is no final defeat of Satan, no final judgment of the wicked. These things continue into perpetuity. The fact of the matter is that this is not the Gospel. Christ came, yes to pay the penalty for our sin, but also to free us from sin, and not only us, but the entirety of His creation. This is why the creation groans with yearning for the revelation of the sons of God (Romans 8.19-22). We look forward to a world that will be free of the domination and corruption of sin, free of the decay of death, where there will be no more tears, no more pains, no more heartaches. This is hope. This is the Gospel. And so we say, “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22.20)

For further study:
On Christian Hope: Heaven or Resurrection
On Eschatology and the Gospel


On How Christians are Different

TEXT

Therefore I, the prisoner in the Lord, urge you to walk worthy of the calling you have received, with all humility and gentleness, with patience, bearing with one another in love, making every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to one hope at your calling— one Lord, one faith, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is above all and through all and in all.

Now grace was given to each one of us according to the measure of Christ’s gift. For it says:

When he ascended on high,
he took the captives captive;
he gave gifts to people.

But what does “he ascended” mean except that he also descended to the lower parts of the earth? 10 The one who descended is also the one who ascended far above all the heavens, to fill all things. 11 And he himself gave some to be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, 12 to equip the saints for the work of ministry, to build up the body of Christ, 13 until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of God’s Son, growing into maturity with a stature measured by Christ’s fullness. 14 Then we will no longer be little children, tossed by the waves and blown around by every wind of teaching, by human cunning with cleverness in the techniques of deceit. 15 But speaking the truth in love, let us grow in every way into him who is the head—Christ. 16 From him the whole body, fitted and knit together by every supporting ligament, promotes the growth of the body for building itself up in love by the proper working of each individual part.

~Ephesians 4.1-16

Title: On How Christians are Different
Text: Ephesians 4.1-16
Series: The Letter to the Ephesians
Church: South Caraway Baptist Church, Jonesboro, AR
Date: July 23, 2023


On Christ Our Blessing

TEXT

Blessed is the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in the heavens in Christ. For he chose us in him, before the foundation of the world, to be holy and blameless in love before him. He predestined us to be adopted as sons through Jesus Christ for himself, according to the good pleasure of his will, to the praise of his glorious grace that he lavished on us in the Beloved One.

~Ephesians 1.3-6

Title: On the Blessings of Election and Predestination in Christ
Text: Ephesians 1.3-6
Series: The Letter to the Ephesians
Church: South Caraway Baptist Church, Jonesboro, AR
Date: May 8, 2023


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