Jesus apparently thought things should be the other way round.

• “Puritans were ‘the hotter sort of Protestants’” (p. 51). Now that’s the right kind of heat.
• “The Puritans, conservative or radical, followed a different faith to the Quakers, and this difference resulted from opposing views on Word and Spirit” (p. 53). “Both Puritans and Quakers” recognised these “deep theological differences” (p. 53).
• Archbishop Ussher (the hitherto-unknown standup comic): “Nothing is so familiar nowadays … as to father upon Antichrist whatsoever in church matters we do not find to sort with our own humours” (p. 53).
• “Many Quakers came from a Puritan background” (p. 55).
• The fundamental disagreement: “The Puritans believed that God spoke through the Bible, and the Quakers believed that God spoke immediately, and not through the Bible” (p. 55).
• “The use [by Quakers] of biblical words and phrases … concealed the wide gap between Puritan faith and Quaker experience … the Quaker message was a radical departure from Puritan faith” (p. 58).
• Luther (another secret comedian) would not believe the Zwickau prophets even if “they had swallowed the Holy Ghost, feathers and all” (p. 59).
• Section 3 – the worrying consequences of Quaker teaching.
• The puritan/Quaker differences may have originated in differences among the Reformers, exemplified by the differences between Zwingli and Luther (p. 84):
  • Zwingli: the Bible is a sign of the truth that God communicates by his Spirit;
  • Luther: the Bible is the means God uses to communicate his truth.
• “Zwingli wants to refute an ex opere operato view of preaching but in doing so runs the danger of failing to recognise that the Bible is God’s words ‘intrinsically as well as instrumentally,’ in the useful phrase of J. I. Packer” (p. 85).
• “Calvin asserts both the efficacy of the external Spirit-inspired Word and the necessity for the internal word and testimony of the Spirit. In this he honours the ‘means’ which God uses, Bible and preacher, as well as pointing to our own powerlessness and our dependence on God’s work in our hearts, minds, and lives” (p. 85).
• A final thought: It’s one thing to ask the question, “Which words can we trust?” It’s another thing to ask the question, “Which words have the power to change us?” I’m inclined to think that the second question is at least as important, perhaps sometimes more important, as the first.

Here they are:

1. ‘The eschaton is not the restoration of the proton. In the eschaton there is an abundance, a richness in intimacy with God and in human transformation that the proton did not know. In Christ we gain more than we lost in Adam … The richness of the eschaton … is not contingent upon sin. And since Christ is the embodiment of the abundance of eschatological life, neither is the incarnation contingent upon sin.’ (pp. 150–151)

2. “… if the eschatological goal of humanity is to enjoy God in the beatific vision, this vision should not be understood purely in terms of intellectual cognition but should also imply sensory perception. However, this can only take place if God makes Godself present in bodily form.’ (p. 156)

3. God’s ultimate goal is to be a friend of his creatures and friendship involves making oneself available to another. ‘This friendship is not based on the divine desire to reconcile estranged humanity; it is the other way around—the divine desire to reconcile estranged humanity is based on, and therefore logically follows, divine friendship. Therefore, if the incarnation is the fullest expression of this divine friendship, the incarnation also logically does not follow human estrangement and divine reconciliation, but precedes it …’ (p. 162)

Thompson himself is somewhat sceptical of van Driel’s view. He is uncomfortable with the view that “the incarnation has a more important focus than the salvation of men and women,” suggesting that such a claim “raises other questions, not least among them why such a focus on salvation is considered insufficient.”

I’d be inclined to suggest that Thompson’s criticism is a little unfair. The Incarnation Anyway view doesn’t entail a downgrading of “salvation”; rather, it invites us to consider again what salvation actually is. Salvation is more that the forgiveness of sins (though it most certainly includes forgiveness, praise God). If van Driel is right (and I think he is) that “salvation” includes the restoration of an abundance of life not known in Eden, our sensory delight in the presence of God, and the closest possible experience of friendship with God, then the central importance of “salvation” serves as an argument in support of the Incarnation Anyway position, not against it.

All of this is very confused and confusing.

First, there is not the slightest tension between divine sovereignty and human responsibility, or between the bondage of the fallen human will and human responsibility. Human responsibility requires liberty of sponteneity (consent to the action performed) not liberty of indifference (the power of contrary choice). Liberty of sponteneity is not remotely compromised by either the bondage of the will or the sovereignty of God.

Second, the wave/particle analogy doesn’t work at all. The wave/particle thing amounts to two different ways of looking at the same thing, at least one of which (the particle theory) is a pretty hopeless approximation which makes no sense of almost anything. By contrast, the sovereignty of God, the bondage of the will and human moral responsibility are different things which are all completely true all of the time.

Further reading: Jonathan Edwards, The Freedom of the Will.

• 3.1.3 The attempt to Separate Israel and Jesus. The NT is not to be read in a theological or historical vacuum, but against the backdrop of the OT. For the NT is precisely the means by which the OT addressed the world. “It is my argument that the New Testament is the public vindication of Israel by Israel’s king before all other empires. … Israel’s Scriptures are opened and made readable by this New Testament … They express Israel’s knowledge of itself as steward of the world and of Israel’s mandate to rule it. … Exegesis which makes Israel’s rites, purity teaching, sacrifice, and temple problematic serves only to render invisible the action given to Israel for our sake.” (pp. 70-71).
• 3.2.1 The Priestly work of the Son. Knight wants to talk about Jesus becoming the Son through the process of learning obedience to his Father – and this in continuity with the OT account of Israel’s becoming God’s Son. “An Adam Christology provides the narrative of an action. It allows us to say that Jesus has been made the Son by the Spirit. It is not enough to say solely that he is the Son. We must see him becoming the Son. He learned obedience.” (p. 75).
• 3.3.1 Israel and the world. N. T. Wright’s “strong version of the meaning of messiah” (p. 85) challenges pagan imperial claims precisely by locating Jesus’ kingship firmly within the context of Israel’s messianic expectations. The resurrection of the messiah is the real “apocalypse” [uncovering? revelation? unveiling?] which simultaneously fulfils the expectations Israel should have had (even if they largely didn’t) and defeats the idolatry of the pagan world, for all nations are now summoned to give allegiance to Israel’s king.

I’m not quite sure whether Knight really thinks that the people of Israel today are still “led by the Spirit of God.” If he doesn’t, then apologies in advance. But if he does, I am sure that I disagree.

I agree that what is sometimes called “supercessionism” is wrong. Knight is right that it “[subjects] Israel to an inappropriate logic, one in which an unredeemed community is replaced by a redeemed community” (italics added). Yet to suggest that Israel per se – Israel outside of Christ – simply continues as a Redeemed community is no less objectionable. Neither “replacement” nor “continuity” accurately captures the relationship between Old Covenant Israel and the New Covenant church. Fortunately, these are not the only alternatives.

There is a third way: Israel is not replaced, but transformed, renewed, redefined. “It is we who are the circumcision,” Paul declares, “We who worship by the Spirit of God and glory in Christ Jesus.” Almost everything Knight says about Israel in chapter 3 is spot on, provided we read “Israel” as “Israel transformed, renewed and redefined around her King, the Lord Jesus, the Messiah.” Israel was a rock that has become a mountain; a seed that has become a tree. It’s the “same” rock, the “same seed”; but it is now changed; it is a rock and a seed no longer. Look for the seed, look for the rock, and you will search in vain. Israel has become in Christ what she was always destined to be.

“All things can be said of God, but nothing can be said worthily of him.”

“On earth, a fountain is one thing, light another. When you are thirsty, you look for a fountain, and to get to the fountain you look for light … But he is both a fountain and a light: to the thirsty he is a fountain, to the blind a light … God is all these things to you: if you are hungry, he is bread to you; if you are thirsty, he is water to you; if you live in darkness, he is light to you.”

(Quoted in Bavinck, RD, II:101-102.)

As ever, John Frame is on hand to breathe a little sanity into the situation with this short article, written back in 2002, which should prove a useful guide to the perplexed. Here’s an extract from the conclusion:

The sharp distinction between law and gospel is becoming popular in Reformed, as well as Lutheran circles. It is the view of Westminster Seminary California, Modern Reformation magazine, and the White Horse Inn radio broadcast. The leaders of these organizations are very insistent that theirs is the only biblical view of the matter. One has recently claimed that people who hold a different view repudiate the Reformation and even deny the gospel itself. On that view, we must use the term gospel only in what the Formula [of Concord] calls the “proper” sense, not in the biblical sense. I believe that we should stand with the Scriptures against this tradition. (Italics added.)

Black’s argument needs to be followed closely, but it repays careful attention.

Black points out that “because a preposition tends to be repeated before each noun in a series of nouns joined by kai [and], sometimes the non-use of a second or third preposition in New Testament Greek may be significant, indicating that the writer regarded the terms in one list as belonging together” (p. 87).

As an example, Black cites the phrase ex hudatos kai pneumatos (by water and Spirit) in John 3:5. Normally, says Black, NT Greek would repeat the preposition before each noun in such a list, giving us ex hudatos kai ex pneumatos (by water and by Spirit). The omission of the second ex (by) is therefore significant, implying that “‘water and Spirit’ together form a single means of regeneration” (p. 87).

Yikes – water alongside the Spirit as a single means of regeneration? And this from a professor at a Baptist theological seminary! That takes exegetical courage in a climate when many evangelicals would fear accusations of being on the road to Rome.

Of course, if questions were ever raised about Professor Black’s theological orthodoxy, he would find ample support from John Calvin. Of course the water of baptism doesn’t displace the work of the Spirit in the work of regeneration. Calvin hotly denies that “water contains in itself the power to cleanse, regenerate, and renew” and that it “is the cause of salvation” (Institutes, IV.xv.2). “The sacraments,” Calvin says, “profit not a whit without the power of the Holy Spirit” (Institutes, IV.xiv.9). However, “God uses means and instuments which he himself sees to be expedient,” and “truly executes whatever he promises and represents in signs” (Institutes, IV.xiv.12, 17). Baptism “is given for the arousing, nourishing, and confirming of our faith,” and in it God “does not feed our eyes with a mere appearance only, but leads us to the present reality and effectively performs what it symbolizes” (Institutes, IV.xv.14)

Sometimes this criticism is coupled with the claim that these ideas are absent from so-called “Hebraic” thought. The cry goes up: we need to abandon the accretions of Greek philosophy and return to the thoroughly embodied, historically-grounded world of the Hebrews. (That faint rumble you just heard was James Barr turning – or perhaps spinning – in his grave.)

Now doubtless some of these notions are mistaken, and perhaps many of them can find parallels in Greek philosophy. And the last thing I want to do is discourage us from seeking philosophical insight in the (Hebrew) Old Testament. But let’s pause before we abandon everything the church suposedly owes to Greek philosophy. If we turn to the Bible, we might just find that some of them come in useful.

To take just one example, the Bible teaches that we have been buried with Christ, raised to new life with him and seated with him in the heavenly places (Romans 6:1-12; Eph 2:6; Col 2:12). Yet at the same time a moment’s glance reveals a very non-resurrected physical body. What are we supposed to do with this apparent contradiction? Enter, if you please, the battered and bruised (and Greek – boo, hiss) distinction between the spirit and the body. The Bible teaches that we are raised with Christ spiritually, through faith; while at the same time we still await the bodily resurrection (Romans 8:12; 1 Corinthians 15). To be sure, “spiritually” here might not mean everything that Plato and his ilk would have us believe, but some kind of distinction between spirit and body is nonetheless necessary in order to make sense of the New Testament, which, after all, was written in Greek.

I wonder if Calvin deliberately used five specific examples in this section, which when added to the two dominical sacraments of baptism and the Lord’s Supper, bring the total to seven. After all, there were other people in 16th-century Europe who really did have seven sacraments. Subversive fulfilment? A subtle dig at the Medieval Catholic church? Who knows.

Actually, he put it better than that. More along the lines of, “Can a Grand Master be a Grand Master without the masterpiece? I’d suggest that he can’t. Can God be God without creation?”

In other words, isn’t God disanalogous to a great artist like a Grand Master at precisely this point – God would still be God if he hadn’t created the world, whereas a great artist is contingent upon his work to gain his status as a great artist. Creatures are contingent; God is not.

The question is a good one. To figure our way through the complexities, we need to make a few distinctions. For the answer, as Garry Williams once memorably put it, is always found in a distinction.

There’s certainly a sense in which the objection stands. God doesn’t “need” the creation in the sense he gains anything from it that he cannot provide for himself. Most certainly, the creation is not a “thing” independent from God upon which God depends for his status as God-the-Creator. Considered in himself, in eternity, without regard for the creation, God is still God.

On the other hand, if we make the appropriate distinctions, we can identify two senses in which God does “need” the creation, both of which are analogous to the great artist’s need for his (or her) masterpiece.

First, given the kind of God that he is, God was compelled by his very nature to create precisely this world. This follows a line of thought found in Jonathan Edwards, The End for Which God Created the World. God does nothing by external constraint; he is driven always and only by who and what he is in himself. This means in turn that everything he does is necessary, in the sense that (given who God is) it could not have been otherwise. So (in this restricted and well-defined sense) he “needed” to create the world in order to be the kind of God that he is. If he hadn’t created this world, he would have had to be some other kind of God (which is impossible).

Great artists are a bit like this. At least, that’s what they all tell me. There’s something about them as artists that means they “need” to create beautiful works of art; otherwise they’d have to be someone different, which (though not impossible) is hard to contemplate.

Second, God delights in this world in the same kind of way that a great artist delights in his masterpiece. There is nothing in the great masterpiece that arises independently of the artist, just as there is nothing in the world that exists independently of God. And yet the artist still admires it, and in the same way God “admires” (needs?) his creation.

In both cases (the artist admiring his painting, and God admiring the world), what they are admiring is strictly speaking not their-work-in-itself, but themselves-in-their-work. This is important. The painting doesn’t give anything to the artist that was not first found in the artist himself. The creation does not give anything to God that wasn’t first present in himself.

Enter Herman Bavinck, from whom I got the original illustration, and who here provides us with a glorious paragraph in which every word repays careful, thoughtful contemplation:

So there is also a delight in God that is infinitely superior to need or force, or poverty or riches, which embodies his artistic ideas in creation and finds intense pleasure in it. Indeed, what is the case of man is merely a weak analogy is present in God in absolute originality. A creature, like the creation of an artist, has no independence apart from, and in opposition to, God. God, therefore, never seeks out a creature as if that creature were able to give him something he lacks or could take from him something he possesses. He does not seek the creature (as an end in itself), but through the creature he seeks himself. He is and always remains his own end. His striving is always – also in and through his creatures – total self-enjoyment, perfect bliss. The world, accordingly, did not arise from a need in God, from his poverty or lack of bliss, for what he seeks in the creature is not that creature but himself. (Reformed Dogmatics, 2:435; HT: KN for digging out the reference all those months ago)

That’ll do for now. If you want more, you should probably consider enrolling on this.

This kind of distinction goes back to Augustine, and is standard fare among the Reformed. The Westminster Confession of Faith, for example, describes the invisible church as “the whole number of the elect,” all of whom will be saved on the Last Day, while the visible church “consists of all those throughout the world that profess the true religion, and of their children,” some of whom are tragically destined to fall away (WCF, XXV.1, 2).

The distinction between the visible and invisible church is very helpful. It gives us “language to express the presence of both believers and unbelievers in the church” (John Frame, Salvation Belongs to the Lord, p. 236). It creates a theological category to make sense of those whom Jesus likens to seed falling on rocky ground and seed sown among thorns. Moreover, it encapsulates in simple and intuitive terms the important truth that the identity of God’s elect is unknown – invisible – to us.

However, helpful though this distinction is, it is worth drawing attention to some of its shortcomings. I must emphasize that what follows should not be understood as a criticism of the distinction between the visible and invisible church as such. I believe the distinction is important and useful, and should be retained. However, there are three reasons why it is insufficient on its own to do justice to all the biblical data.

First, though the visible/invisible distinction is very valuable if applied from the perspective of the Last Day, it can create confusion if applied to the present situation. For example, consider someone who is elect but not yet converted, or perhaps not even born. According to the above definitions, such a person is already a member of the invisible church. On the Last Day it will make perfect sense to say this, but at the present time this is rather strange, because they are not yet a member of the visible church at all. It would be helpful to have another distinction that took into account the progress of history, and allowed us to say that such a person, though elect, is not a member of the church in any sense until they repent and believe in Jesus.

Second, the visible/invisible distinction can create the confused notion that there are two different churches (visible and invisible) in existence at the same time.  From here it is a short step (though not one taken by Calvin or the Westminster divines) to say that these two churches are either loosely connected or completely disconnected. This is unbiblical. For though – as Calvin says – the Bible “speaks of the church in two ways” (Institutes, IV.i.7), it never suggests for a moment that these are two separate churches, much less that they can be played off against each other.

Third, and related to the previous problem, the visible/invisible distinction can also sometimes lead to a disparagement of the visible church. Once the visible church and the invisible church have been disconnected in some way, it is tempting to ignore the former and focus entirely on the latter. “After all,” someone might say, “only those in the invisible church will finally be saved. Membership in the visible church doesn’t guarantee anything about our eternal destiny, so surely the visible church is not so important.”

Our Reformed forefathers would be horrified by this thought. The Westminster Confession declares unequivocally that outside the visible church “there is no ordinary possibility of salvation” (WCF XXV.2). Calvin, speaking of “the visible church,” declares that “there is no other way to enter life unless this mother conceive us in her womb,” for “away from her bosom one cannot hope for any forgiveness of sins or any salvation” (Institutes, IV.i.4). It is at best debatable whether contemporary evangelicalism has maintained this high view of the visible church.

Of course there are exceptions to the general rule expressed by Calvin and the Westminster divines. But the fact that the thief on the cross never attended a church service should does not make church unnecessary for the rest of us, for his situation was far from ordinary. And just because some believers are imprisoned for their faith and therefore unable to attend church does not prove that you and I can do without it. The Bible teaches that under normal circumstances membership of the invisible church should be reflected in commitment to a particular visible congregation, “not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some” (Hebrews 10:25).

All three of these problems can be addressed by introducing a second distinction between what might be called the historical church (the church as it exists now) and the eschatological church (the church as it will exist on the last day). The “membership list” of the historical church is growing as people turn to Christ, while tragically some names are also being removed as people who formerly professed faith turn away and leave the church. On the Last Day, what had previously been called the historical church will have become the eschatological church.

The historical/eschatological distinction enables us to describe unambiguously those who are elect but not yet born or converted: they will one day become members of the historical church (and subsequently of the eschatological church), but they are not yet members of the church at all. It avoids the suggestion that there are two churches existing at the same time – there is one church with different labels at different points in history. And it therefore makes it much less likely that we will disparage the local, visible church, for the historical church has a glorious future – it is in the process of becoming the eschatological people of God.

This might form a helpful supplement to the questions in the next session of the Guided Reading Course, which may be found here.

I think you’re right – there’s always a danger of lack of proportion in our thinking. That is to say, while all evangelicals share a certain set of common convictions, there are variations between (for example) baptists and paedobaptists, postmillennialists and amillenialists, and so on. We hold these varied views because though they are not themselves the gospel, they are (we believe) true, biblical implications of the gospel. (All truth is unified, remember, and the gospel stands at the heart of everything and has implications in everything from sheep farming to nuclear physics.) It’s therefore a good thing to hold these convictions, since we’re not at liberty to believe something while abandoning its logical or scriptural entailments.

However, you’re right that if these distinctives start to become more significant in our thinking than the gospel around which evangelicals are united, then something has gone wrong. A due sense of proportion means that though we might disagree with the evangelical church up the road on infant baptism, we’re not going to fall out over it. The gospel unifies us in the way that truly counts – as members of The Church, the Body of Christ.

There was even (gasp!) the occasional retraction.

How ironic that discussions of the Westminster Standards in the contemporary Reformed world are so often marked by hasty jumping to conclusions, lazy partisanship, bitterness and rancour.

Thank God for these men who thought so carefully about their faith.

Get more here on 2 October 2010.

On the one hand, none of us want creeds and confessions to replace Scripture as the ultimate authority. Consequently,

Any church which believes in semper reformanda will ever be ready to redefine and reshape its confessional formulae in harmony with the new insights the Holy Spirit may be pleased to give the church. (p. 10)

Yet, on the other hand, “the cry, Semper reformanda, has too often been an excuse for ignoring the collected wisdom of the church over many centuries” (p. 10). Moreover, experience teaches that when denominations have in the past required only “system subscription” or “good faith subscription” to their doctrinal standards, rather than “strict subscription,” the result has almost always been theological decline (p. 8).

How, then, can these twin concerns for the absolute authority of Scripture and the doctrinal purity of the church be maintained?

I’m not sure, but I’m inclined to make three suggestions:

(1) Perhaps a middle way could be sought between strict subscription and good faith subscription, whereby Ministers and Elders are required to declare specific exceptions to the doctrinal standards of their denominations, and subscribe strictly to those that remain. In this way, the specific theological positions and – very importantly – the reasons for them, could be discussed, and exceptions to (some) subordinate standards could be permitted, without opening the door to a flood of ill-defined and serious deviations on matters of central importance. I have a feeling that some denominations already operate in this way.

(2) The further a denomination moves towards requiring strict subscription from its officers, the more important it will be for that denomination to recognise that those standards do not define the boundaries of Christ’s church. I, for one, would have extremely grave reservations about ordaining a man as a Minister if he denied the doctrine of unconditional election. But I would want to insist equally strongly that my Arminian friend in the church down the road is a brother in Christ.

(3) One possible corollary of (2) is that, ironically, the more tightly we define our confessional standards, and the more strictly we require subscription to them, the less significant they become in relation to the identity of the members of Christ’s church. This fact ought to be reflected in the way we conduct ourselves in discussions about matters of theological disagreement.

These are just ideas, of course. I’m looking forward to running them past Ian Hamilton personally on 2 October. Why not come along and join us?

However, “election” does not always have this meaning. The Bible forces us to recognise that there is more than one kind of election, and indeed a failure to recognise this will open the door to the unravelling of Reformed soteriology. Calvin highlights this distinction in his discussion of the preservation of the saints in his Institutes, III.xxiv.9.

Calvin first points out that in John 6:70 Jesus says that he has “chosen” all twelve of the disciples, including Judas, whom he immediately describes as “a devil”. Here the term “election” refers to Judas’s “apostolic office.” In this sense, election is revocable.

By contrast, Jesus is clearly speaking of a different kind of election in John 13:18, where he uses the term to distinguish Judas from the other eleven disciples. In this case, Calvin says, Jesus “banishes [Judas] from the number of the elect: ‘I am not speaking of all of you; I know whom I have chosen’” (Calvin, Institutes, III.xxiv.9).

The distinction between these two kinds of election is critically important in Calvin’s mind: “If anyone confuses the word ‘election’ in the two passages, he will miserably entangle himself; if he notes their difference, nothing is plainer” (Calvin, Institutes, III.xxiv.9). It’s easy to see why: only by maintaining this difference can the Reformed doctrine of the preservation of the saints be upheld.

Really? Why should this be surprising? Doesn’t the Bible itself teach clearly the full deity and full humanity of Christ? Granted that there is in Ignatius “a lack of [the] theological argumentation” (p. xxiii) one finds in later treatments, why should we be surprised to find an early Christian affirming bluntly what the Bible says plainly?

There are few things more tragic than seeing someone trapped by institutionalised spiritual blindness.

The problem is compounded by the fact that JWs have their own Bible translation, the New World Translation, which translates away many of the clearest biblical proofs for key biblical doctrines denied by JW theology, such as the deity of Christ.

However, we’ve got to begin somewhere, and the deity of Christ is a sensible place to open a conversation. Here, with thanks to Louis Berkhof (Systematic Theology, pp. 94-95), are some useful places to turn. The underlined references are (I think) likely to be most effective at helping a JW to see the inadequacy of the teaching they’ve received from their organisation.

Jesus is explicitly described as divine

John 1:1; John 20:28; Romans 9:5; Philippians 2:6; Titus 2:13; 1 John 5:20

Jesus is given divine names

Isaiah 9:6; Isaiah 40:3, cf. Matthew 3:3; Jeremiah 23:5-6; Joel 2:32, cf. Acts 2:21

Divine attributes are ascribed to Jesus

Eternal existence

Isaiah 9:6; John 1:1-2

Omniscience

John 2:24-25; John 21:17; Revelation 2:23

Omnipotence

Isaiah 9:6; Philippians 3:21

Immutability

Hebrews 1:10-12; Hebrews 13:8

Every attribute belonging to the Father

Colossians 2:9

Jesus does divine works

Creation

John 1:3, 10; Colossians 1:16; Hebrews 1:2, 10

Providence

Luke 10:22; John 3:35; John 17:2; Ephesians 1:22; Colossians 1:17; Hebrews 1:3

Forgiveness of sins

Matthew 9:2-7; Mark 2:7-10

Resurrection and judgment

Matthew 25:31-32; John 5:19-29; Acts 10:42; Acts 17:31; Philippians 3:21; 2 Timothy 4:1

The final renewal of all things

Hebrews 1:10-12; Philippians 3:21; Revelation 21:5

Jesus receives divine honours

John 5:22-23; John 14:1; Hebrews 1:6; Matthew 28:19

13 But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. 14 For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. 15 For this we declare to you by a word from the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. 16 For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. 17 Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord. 18 Therefore encourage one another with these words.

Several considerations suggest that Paul is talking here about the final judgment, not AD 70.

• The presenting issue is what will happen to believers who have ‘fallen asleep’ (i.e. died, 4:13-15; cf. 1 Cor 11:30). It’s hard to imagine how a reply about Jesus coming in judgment on the Temple would address this concern.
• Paul answers this concern by drawing a parallel between Jesus’ death and resurrection, on the one hand, and the way in which God will bring with Jesus those believers who have died (4:14), on the other. Just as Jesus died and was raised, the argument runs, so also these brothers and sisters who have died will be raised. Again, this points to the general resurrection.
• The reference to the general resurrection becomes explicit in 4:16: ‘the dead in Christ will rise first’.

So far, so good. But there’s a fly in the ointment. Paul seems to anticipate that he and his hearers will still be alive at ‘the coming of the Lord’ (4:15) about which he has been speaking. ‘We who are alive’, he says twice (4:15, 17); not ‘those who are alive’. How can the text be about the general resurrection if Paul expected to still be alive when the great day came?

Some have attempted to solve this puzzle by suggesting that Paul was mistaken about the time of Jesus final coming. Others (e.g. C. H. Dodd) have argued that Paul changed his mind about the timing of the last day: near the beginning of his ministry (when he wrote 1 Thessalonians) he expected Jesus to return very soon, but later he had decided that the final judgment would be delayed.

I’m not sure how these solutions can be reconciled with an evangelical doctrine of Scripture. It’s one thing to say that Paul’s understanding of the gospel developed during his life – after all, he started out as a gospel denying, church-persecuting Pharisee. But it is quite another to claim that Paul expressed his early misunderstandings in his biblical writings, for this effectively undermines the truthfulness of the Bible.

A much better solution is found by looking closer at the Greek text. It turns out that the phrase ‘we who are alive’ doesn’t necessarily imply that Paul expected the parousia to occur before his death. Following I. H. Marshall and C. E. B. Cranfield, Paul Woodbridge[1] has pointed out that the ‘we’ may be hypothetical (i.e. ‘if we are alive’), or indeed it may ’signify nothing more that a general designation’ (i.e. ‘we, insofar as this will, as events turn out, apply to us’). Paul’s ‘we who are alive’ does not, in itself, indicate that Paul expected the day of resurrection to come before his death.

Taking all this together, it seems overwhelmingly likely that 1 Thess 4:13-18, like 2:19-20; 3:11-13 and 5:23-24, refers not to AD 70 but to the general resurrection.

We’ll begin with 1 Th 2:19-20; 3:11-13 and 5:23-24.

19 For what is our hope or joy or crown of boasting before our Lord Jesus at his coming? Is it not you? 20 For you are our glory and joy. (1 Th 2:19-20)

11 Now may our God and Father himself, and our Lord Jesus, direct our way to you, 12 and may the Lord make you increase and abound in love for one another and for all, as we do for you, 13 so that he may establish your hearts blameless in holiness before our God and Father, at the coming of our Lord Jesus with all his saints. (1 Th 3:11-13)

23 Now may the God of peace himself sanctify you completely, and may your whole spirit and soul and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. 24 He who calls you is faithful; he will surely do it. (1 Th 5:23-24)

It’s tempting, when reading these texts, simply to assume that the ‘coming’ (parousia) spoken of is the final coming of Jesus at the last judgment. After all, we all believe in the second coming. Well, it’s true that Jesus will return to judge the living and the dead on the last day, but to assume that ‘coming’ means this here comes dangerously close to begging the question about their referent. After all, the purpose of the present discussion is precisely to work out whether or not the text might actually be referring to Jesus’ ‘coming’ in judgment on apostate Israel in AD 70. It’s at least possible for parousia to be used in this latter sense, as in Matthew 24:3, 27 (so R. T. France, Matthew). So what does it mean here?

1 Th 2:19 says that the Thessalonians will be the ‘crown [stephanos] of boasting’ for Paul and his companions at Jesus’ coming. The term stephanos appears in only three other places in Paul’s letters – 1 Cor 9:25; Phil 4:1; 2 Tim 4:8. Phil 4:1 is especially relevant, because here Paul refers to his believing readers as his stephanos, just as in 1 Th 2:19. The context plainly has to do with the bodily resurrection, when Christ ‘will transform our lowly body to be like his glorious body’ (Phil 3:21).

2 Tim 4:8 points in the same direction, for here Paul is contemplating his own death: ‘I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race’ (2 Tim 4:7). This being the case, clearly the next event in world history with particular significance for him would be the day of resurrection, not the destruction of the Jewish Temple. Again, the stephanos is the reward received at the final judgment.

Similarly, 1 Cor 9:25 speaks of an ‘imperishable’ staphanos, which must surely be understood as a picture of the everlasting blessings of the resurrection age.

Thus 1 Th 2:19 seems to refer to the final coming of Christ at the last judgment.

The use of the same word for ‘coming’ (parousia) in both 1 Th 3:11-13 and 5:23-24 might make us think that these texts also refer to the day of resurrection. But we shouldn’t be too hasty, for the same word can mean different things in different contexts. As it happens, though, the context in each of these two texts does in fact support a final judgment referent.

The two passages are remarkably similar. Both are prayers for the sanctification of the Thessalonians, and as prayers go they are pretty ambitious. Paul prays not just that they would ‘increase and abound in love’, but that they would be ‘blameless … at the coming of our Lord Jesus’ (3:13; 5:23). More than this, he appears confident that God ‘will surely do it’ (5:24). This can only refer to the final judgment on the day of resurrection, for only then (and not before) will God’s people be ‘blameless in holiness’ before him.

Thus a preterist reading of 1 Th 2:19-20; 3:11-13 and 5:23-24 would be mistaken. These texts refer to Jesus’ ‘coming’ to judge the living and the dead at the general resurrection.

‘Preterism’, in the most general sense, refers to the view that a given future-oriented biblical text refers to an event that now lies in the past. All orthodox Christians are therefore preterists on some texts but not on others. We’re all preterists on Mark 10:45 (Christ came ‘to give his life as a ransom for many’, and the ransom has now been paid) but not 1 Corinthians 15:52 (the dead ‘will be raised imperishable’, but they haven’t been yet). However, although this is what preterist / preterism means in the most general sense, it’s not how the term is normally used.

Preterism most commonly refers to the view that a given future-oriented biblical text, which might be (and often is) thought to refer to the general resurrection / final judgment, in fact refers to the events surrounding the destruction of the Jerusalem temple in AD 70. The texts most often debated include Mark 13, Matthew 24, 2 Thessalonians 2 and the book of Revelation, but many others could be (and often are) thrown into the discussion, such as 1 Corinthians 7:26 (what is ‘the present distress’?), the book of Hebrews (what is ‘the world to come’ in 2:5, for example?) and a whole pile more besides. The term is normally used to describe a interpretation of these texts that relates them to AD 70, rather than the final judgment.

Preterism must be carefully distinguished from hyper-preterism (sometimes called ‘full preterism’ or ‘consistent preterism’), which wrongly claims that all such texts were fulfilled in AD 70. Hyper-preterism is heretical, not least because it denies such credal essentials as the future bodily return of Christ and the future general bodily resurrection.

Clearly, it is both possible (indeed, necessary) to be a preterist on some texts but not others. You could be a preterist on Revelation, but not Hebrews or 1 Corinthians 15; on Mark 13:1-31, but not 1 Corinthians 7:26, and so on. The question, ‘Are you a preterist?’ should therefore always be met with the reply, ‘On which text(s)?’

Moreover, the only way to answer the more specific question ‘Are you a preterist on text x’ is by careful exegesis of the text concerned. Taking a preterist reading of one text might incline us towards a similar reading of others – especially if they use similar imagery in similar ways, such as in Matthew 24 and Mark 13 – but it wouldn’t necessarily do so. Moreover, just knowing that it could be about AD 70 doesn’t by itself get us very far; it merely draws our attention to one possible interpretative option that we might otherwise overlook. Nonetheless, this is a step in the right direction, for it’s striking how many solid evangelical commentaries either dismiss preterist readings with a brief wave of the hand, or even don’t mention the possibility at all. Sadly, this often leaves them in a bit of a tangle. An awareness of preterism would often clear up the mess.

When Potiphar’s wife keeps pestering Joseph to sleep with her, he replies at length about the privilege he enjoys at the hand of his Egyptian master. The obvious implication being that it would be an outrage to repay Potiphar’s kindness with such treachery (Gen 39:8-9). Yet at the climax of Joseph’s reply, his words echo David’s concern not to sin against the Lord: ‘how then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?’

The issue concerns the relationship between fallen nature, on the one hand, and nature renewed in Christ, on the other (ER, 1.1, p. 80). Following Bavinck’s analysis, he observes that ‘Rome construes the natural as being good in itself, not necessarily evil’. Though this appears superficially to be ‘honouring to nature’, in fact it consigns nature to a second-class status, for in the end ‘grace can do nothing to nature other than allow it its own space … grace and nature have little to do with each other’.

Sadly, ‘Luther never attempted to overcome [this] Roman dualism’, nor did Zwingli or the Anabaptists. But Calvin understood the relationship between nature and grace far more clearly, with significant results for the scope of his theology, especially in the public sphere.

Re-creation is not a system that supplements creation, as in Catholicism, not a religious Reformation that leaves creation intact, as in Luther, much less a radically new creation as in Anabaptism, but a joyful tiding of the renewal of all creatures. (quoting Bavinck)

Consequently, ‘not only the church but also home, school, society and state are placed in the dominion of the principle of Christianity.’ The Bible was, for Calvin, not merely ‘a source of salvation truth,’ but ‘the norm for all of life’.

Owen’s interpretation differs from that of most modern evangelicals: in Owen’s view many of the future-oriented texts refer not the the general resurrection / final judgment / etc., but to the destruction of the Jewish Temple and the Old Covenant order in AD 70. Such a view is called a preterist reading of the text, because it locates their referent in the past (hence preterist). Of course Owen still believes in the general resurrection / final judgment / etc; he just doesn’t think that’s what Hebrews is talking about.

As far as I can see, many of Owen’s exegetical judgments on this subject are pretty solid. But I think it would be fair to say that there’s an underlying anxiety about such a reading among many people, which is grounded not so much on exegetical conclusions but on fears about what such a conclusion might imply.

The same anxieties appear to be evident in relation to other future-oriented texts in the NT, such as Mark 13:1-31 and Matthew 24, which are commonly assumed to be about the final judgment / general resurrection, but which (according to at least some Reformed evangelicals) refer to the events surrounding AD 70.

Here are some of those anxieties, and some initial responses to them.

1. The ’stench of liberalism’ argument. ‘Some liberals have argued that future-oriented texts in the NT refer to AD 70, either because they think that predictive prophecy is impossible (the texts must therefore be written after AD 70), or because they deny a future general resurrection / final judgment, or possibly both. A preterist reading of these texts therefore puts us squarely on the road to Schleiermacher.’

Formally, this argument commits the fallacy of affirming the consequent. Less formally, just because some liberals believe some right things for some of the wrong reasons, that doesn’t stop evangelicals believing those same right things for right reasons. For example, you could believe that Hebrews was written before AD 70 (not least because the Temple appears still to be in operation at the time it was written, cf. 10:2, 11), and you could believe in a future general resurrection / final judgment etc (because of 1 Cor 15, for example), and you could at the same time without the slightest shred of contradiction believe that Hebrews is talking about AD 70.

2. The ’slippery slope’ argument. ‘Once you start interpreting Hebrews like that, pretty soon you’ll end up doing the same with every future-oriented passage in the NT, with the result that you’ll end up denying the general resurrection / final judgment.’

Not so. Though some espouse the heresy of hyper-preterism (affirming that every future-oriented text in the NT has been fulfilled, and thus denying the classical orthodox doctrine of a future bodily resurrection), this is not an inevitable result of affirming that some NT texts have already been fulfilled. Each text must be addressed individually.

Indeed, if a preterist wanted to be provocative (perish the thought), (s)he could deploy the same (fallacious) argument the other way: ‘So, you deny that Mark 13 has already been fulfilled? Wow, that’s really dangerous. You carry on like that, and pretty soon you’ll be saying the same about Isaiah 53.’

3. The ‘implied irrelevance’ argument. ‘If the text has already been fulfilled, then it’s not relevant for us, because the future judgment about which it warns lies in the past.’

But it doesn’t follow that a text is irrelevant for us just because its referent lies in the past. True, it might not have the relevance which some think it has, but it will be relevant in other ways. After all, everyone believes that some NT texts have already been fulfilled, right? Like Mark 10:45? Does that make them irrelevant for us today?

People sometimes misunderstand what Jesus is saying here. They wrongly imagine that he is doing away with the category of law as such, and replacing it with love: ‘The Old Testament taught about law; Jesus taught about love.’

The problem with this ought to be obvious. The Bible commands us to love. Consequently, if commandments as a category are now to be abandoned, then by the same token love is lost as well. Listen to John Frame:

Scripture clearly makes love a command of God. That fact immediately rules out any opposition or antithesis between love and commandments in general. Any arguments directed against the keeping of commandments in general carry equal weight against the keeping of the love commandment specifically. But in an ethic governed by Scripture, such arguments carry no weight at all. (Frame, Doctrine of the Christian Life, pp. 194-195)

The relationship between law and love works equally the other way. Not only does the Bible command us to love; it also tells us that true love is necessarily expressed in obedience to God’s commands. For example:

You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might. And these words that I command you today shall be on your heart. (Deuteronomy 6:5-6)

Frame again: ‘Jesus says that those who love him will keep his commands’ (p. 195; cf. John 14; 1 John 2; 5; 2 John).

Many thanks to all who came for a warm welcome and a wonderfully thought-provoking day.

Here’s an outline of what I meant to say.

And here are a few very brief tasters:

Edwards was extraordinary. By many estimates, he was the most acute early American philosopher and the most brilliant of all American theologians. At least three of his many works – Religious Affections, Freedom of the Will, and The Nature of True Virtue – stand as masterpieces in the larger history of Christian literature. (George Marsden, Jonathan Edwards: A Life, p. 1)

I think the notion of liberty, consisting in a contingent self-determination of the will, as necessary to the morality of men’s dispositions and actions [...] almost inconceivably pernicious. (Edwards to John Erskine, 1757)

Thus it appears, if we consider matters strictly, there is no such thing as any identity or oneness in created objects, existing at different times, but what depends on God’s sovereign constitution. And so it appears, that the objection [...] is built on a false hypothesis: for it appears, that a divine constitution is the thing which makes truth, in affairs of this nature. (Edwards, Original Sin, p. 404)

If it be so, that true religion lies much in the affections, hence we may infer, that such means are to be desired, as have much of a tendency to move the affections. Such books, and such a way of preaching the Word, and administration of ordinances, and such a way of worshiping God in prayer, and singing praises, is much to be desired, as has a tendency deeply to affect the hearts of those who attend these means. (Edwards, Religious Affections, p. 121)

Perhaps the most obvious facet of the Psalm’s teaching in this connection is that the hope, though still future, is undimmed. The fact that it is not yet experienced does not make it any less certain. Nor does it make the vision of the future any less magnificent, or the anticipated extent of God’s rule any less total. The Psalm teaches us to believe what God has said about his Son’s triumph, even though we don’t (yet) see it as clearly as one day we will, and even though our present trials sometimes make it hard to believe that the world is headed in the right direction.

To live like this is to live by faith, in the sense that it is to believe what God has said about the future while that future is still unseen. Faith in the Bible, though sometimes connected with believing in what is intrinsically invisible (God, for example), is also often connected with believing in what is now invisible only because it hasn’t yet happened. Think for example of the future blessings to which the heroes of faith looked forward in Hebrews 11. Faith is thus confidence in the future manifestation of a victory already accomplished.

Here’s a potted version:

Whereas many believers neglect the Lord’s Supper (maybe because we’re [rightly] suspicious of Roman Catholic or Anglo-Catholic sacramentalism, or maybe because we [wrongly] regard it simply as a dispensable memorial), Calvin held it in high esteem, arguing that ‘the Lord’s table should have been spread at least once a week for the assembly of Christians’ (p. 329, quoting Calvin), since (contra Zwingli) it is not merely a memorial, but also ‘a banquet, whereby we feed on Christ’ (p. 334).

This doesn’t mean that we feed on Christ physically (contra Luther and Rome). Christ is seated in heaven; he’s not ‘in’ the bread and wine. Rather, ‘we are united to him by his Spirit,’ who ‘raises us up to heaven to feed spiritually on Christ’ (p. 337) by faith.

A double feeding takes place: ‘our souls are fed by the flesh and blood of Christ in the same way that bread and wine keep and sustain physical life’ (p. 337, quoting Calvin).

When we eat, we ‘participate’ in the body and blood of Christ. As the Apostle Paul says:

The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a participation in the blood of Christ? The bread that we break, is it not a participation in the body of Christ? (1 Corinthians 10:16)

It’s worth pausing for a moment to ask why such pragmatism is such a bad idea. In one sense, pragmatism per se is OK. It’s fine to do things that work. The problem lies with pragmatism as a guide to moral decisions, resting on the (often unstated) dichotomy between ends and means, which in turn relies on the assumption that ends are morally significant whereas means (in themselves) are not.

This dichotomy, together with the assumption that underlies it, are unbiblical because the Bible speaks with complete authority and sufficient clarity on all the moral aspects of every decision we ever face. To deny this is to imply that God has left us in the dark about moral issues that matter to him. It is an attempt to ‘fence off’ some areas of human existence from the lordship of Christ, to claim that there are large slices of our lives where we can do what we like, where our Creator can safely be ignored.

The Bible knows no moral distinction between ends and means. A sinful action can never be justified on the grounds that it was a means to some other end, however laudable that end might be. The Bible just says, ‘Don’t sin’, and that’s the end of it.

In practice, this kind of pragmatism rejects Scripture as a guide to conduct, replacing it with whatever-we-think-works. In effect, it is a form of traditionalism, for it allows the word of God to be displaced by human conventions, human experience and human wisdom. And Jesus had some pretty uncompromising things to say about that.

Among the many things that might be said here, one important factor to bear in mind is that the LORD has different motives in causing people to commit such actions than the people themselves have in performing them. The (sinful) people intend evil, and their actions are therefore sinful; the LORD intends only good, and his actions are therefore holy. As Joseph said of his brothers’ wickedness: ‘you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good’ (Genesis 50:20).

Isaiah 9-10 helpfully draws attention to the importance of motives in determining the sinfulness or otherwise of an action.

Here the LORD promises to raise up Assyria as an agent of judgment against the wicked Northern Kingdom of Israel (10:5-6). The LORD acts righteously in doing this – consider the multitude of Israel’s sins in 9:8-10:4.

Yet at the same time the LORD threatens judgment against Assyria also (10:16-19) for the sinfulness of her (divinely appointed!) military campaign against Israel. For while the LORD’s motives are just and holy, Assyria is acting with very different motives:

He does not so intend … he says, “By the strength of my hand I have done it, and by my wisdom” (10:7, 13; cf. 15).

Thus the LORD’s (righteous) motives leave him morally blameless in decreeing Assyria’s conquest of Israel, which (because of Assyria’s unrighteous motives) leaves them morally culpable.

Crystal clear, relentlessly logical, delightfully understated. How can anyone not love John Frame?

Scripture does not contain a definition of culture. (p. 854)

We use the term culture to describe anything that human beings work at to achieve. (p. 854)

We should make an important distinction between creation and culture. Creation is what God makes; culture is what we make. … Or, somewhat better: creation is what God makes by himself, and culture is what he makes through us. (p. 854)

Culture is not a creation, but something that God has commanded, or “mandated,” us to make. … (Gen. 1:28). … the “cultural mandate”. … This command governed everything Adam and Eve would do thereafter. It defines the very purpose of human life. (p. 854)

As we go back and look again at the various definitions of culture that people have offered, we can see that there is almost always a value element, a normative element. (p. 856)

Culture always involves evaluation, a common understanding, not only of what is, but also of what is good and right. (p. 857)

So now we can see how culture is related to religion. When we talk about values and ideals, we are talking about religion. … Culture and cult go together. (p. 858)

Every worldview, every philosophy, even if it professes to be nonreligious, has this totalitarian influence on human life, and, followed consistently, will dictate a certain kind of culture. Culture, therefore, is never religiously neutral. Everything in culture expresses and communicates a religious conviction; either faith in the true God or denial of him. (p. 858)

There are some kinds of goodness even in pagan culture. [These are products of] common grace, nonsaving grace. (p. 860)

The other source of goodness, of course, is God’s special grace, his work of saving the world through Christ. This work of God goes far beyond common grace. (p. 861)

Does God’s saving grace make an impact on culture? Certainly it does. When you believe in Jesus, your whole life changes direction … Whether you eat, or drink, or whatever you do, you seek to do it for God’s glory. (p. 861)

The gospel, you see, is not only a message for individuals, telling them how to avoid God’s wrath. It is also a message about a kingdom, a society, a new community, and new covenant, a new family, a new nation, a new way of life, and, therefore, a new culture. God calls us to build a city of God, a New Jerusalem. (p. 861-862)

I call these three ‘perspectives’ normative (the law), situational (the facts, the world), and existential (the person). The normative perspective studies Scripture as the moral law that applies to situations and persons … The situational perspective studies the world as a field of ethical action … The existential perspective studies the ethical subject – his griefs, his happiness, his capacities for making decisions (Frame, Doctrine of the Knowledge of God, pp. 74-75).

Though each perspective covers the same ground and will lead to the same conclusions, they nonetheless do so with different emphases, shedding light on different aspects of the issue under consideration.

Another John (Calvin, this time), sees a similar (though perhaps not identical) relationship between our knowledge of something ‘out there’ (God) and our (existential?) knowledge of ourselves. These two aspects of human knowledge are interdependent, in the sense that each sheds light on the other.

The knowledge of ourselves not only arouses us to seek God, but also, as it were, leads us by the hand to find him …

Man never achieves a clear knowledge of himself unless he has first looked upon God’s face … For we always seem to ourselves righteous and upright and wise and holy – this pride is innate in all of us – unless by clear proofs we stand convinced of our own unrighteousness, foulness, folly, and impurity. Moreover, we are not thus convinced if we look merely to ourselves and not also to the Lord, who is the sole standard by which this judgment must be measured. (Institutes, I.i.1-2)

This observation implies (among other things) an intriguing methodological conclusion: Calvin and Frame think in very similar ways without expressing themselves in the same terms. It would be easy to leap to the conclusion that Frame is onto something novel and quirky, merely on the grounds that he expresses things in a new way. In fact, Calvin was singing from the same hymn-sheet, just in a different language.

And Jesus came and said to them, ‘All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations (matheteusate panta ta ethne), baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit,  teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.’ (Matthew 28:18-20)

The Greek text of Matthew 28:19 (matheteusate panta ta ethne) should be translated, ‘disciple all the nations’, with ‘all the nations’ as the object of the verb. And it means exactly what it says.

Think about that for a moment.

If our Lord had wanted his followers merely to disciple people from every nation, there would have been at least three different ways of saying it, but Jesus chose none of them.

(FWIW, they are ek with the genitive [cf. Galatians 2:15; Revelation 5:9; 7:9; 11:9], en with the dative [cf. Acts 10:35], or apo with the genitive [cf. Acts 2:5; 15:19]).

As it stands, however, Matthew 28:19 is quite clear: the nations are to be discipled, as anticipated by the Abrahamic covenant (cf. Genesis 22:18).

This obviously entails that people within the nations are to be discipled, but it envisages more than this. Nations, as nations, will learn to conduct themselves in all their affairs (legal, political, economic, social, etc.) in obedience to the Lord.

John Owen got the hang of it:

The great promise of Christ is, that in these latter days of the world he will lay the nations in a subserviency to him, the kingdoms of the world shall become his; that is, act as kingdoms and governments no longer against him, but for him. (Owen, ‘Christ’s Kingdom and the Magistrate’s Power’, Works 8:390)

That is what is meant, properly speaking, by ‘A Christian Nation’.

The remark by John Lennon, which triggered deep indignation mainly in the United States, after many years sounds only like a ‘boast’ by a young working-class Englishman faced with unexpected success, after growing up in the legend of Elvis and rock and roll.

I’m not sure exactly what the Vatican says this is, but it certainly is not forgiveness. This is revising the original estimate of the bad-ness of Lennon’s words (which may or may not be the right thing to do): ‘We used to think it was wicked, but we’ve changed our minds – it wasn’t so bad after all.’

That ain’t forgiveness.

Forgivenesss leaves the verdict of ‘wicked’ on the deed itself intact. It doesn’t redefine the action as ‘non-sinful’, but instead announces that the offence has been covered over, and the verdict reversed, whilst simultaneously insisting that it was a sin, and it would still be a sin if you did it again.

Forgiveness (well, God’s forgiveness, anyway) isn’t a make-believe re-write of history, with all the nasty bits rubbed out. God lets history stand intact, full of the glaring horror of human wickedness, and at the same time declares, ‘I won’t count that against you. Or that. Or that. Or even that.’

Blessed are those whose lawless deeds are forgiven, and whose sins are covered;  blessed is the man against whom the Lord will not count his sin. (Romans 4:7-8)