“The seven days of Genesis 1 are a chiasm, and therefore these sections are a chiasm. The Adam who doesn’t come to rule at the beginning is answered by the Adam who does come to rule at the end.”

Adapted from James B. Jordan, “The Life of Jacob,” Biblical Horizons No. 258, July 2017.

Genesis has a sevenfold structure. Many books of the Bible, including Revelation, have the same structure. The book is marked out in sections by a phrase that is found about ten times in the book: these are the generations of. Chapter 5:1: “These are the generations of Adam.” Chapter 6:9: “These are the generations of Noah.” The word “generations” in Hebrew is toledot. The “ot” is a feminine plural ending. “Sabbaot”—Lord of sabbaoth—Lord of hosts—armies. “Im” is masculine plural—“Elohim”—plural of “El” or God—majestic God, or many gods. Toledot is the plural of generation—toledah, and the reason I mention that is that these sections of Genesis are called toledah sections.

There are ten of these sections, but if you look at it more carefully you notice that some of the sections are grouped so that we come up with seven sections. The structure of Genesis consists of an introduction and then seven sections that correspond to the seven days of Genesis 1…

This sequence of seven speech actions is the way God always works with the world… That is why Genesis has seven sections, and why the first seven books of the Bible follow the same format. Genesis is the book of the first day. Exodus is where the firmament is made—the firmament people—that is the Tabernacle. Leviticus has to do with flesh and blood, plants and seeds. Numbers has to do with stars. Deuteronomy has to do with the organisation of a group of people. Joshua has to do with planting of a people int he land. Judges has to do with sin bringing a time to its fulfillment on the Sabbath Day. The Spirit works that way, and that is why the Bible is written as it is.

Now, the first section we have is the generations of the heaven and earth, what the heaven and earth brought forth. The heaven and earth bring forth—they marry—and bring forth humanity. What is generated by the heavens and the earth? Genesis 2:4, “This is the generation of the heaven and the earth after they were created in the day Yahweh God made earth and heaven.” Verse 7, “Then Yahweh God formed man of dust (not clay) of the ground,”—that’s the earthy part—“and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life”—that’s the heavenly part. The Spirit comes from heaven into dust, the marriage of earth and heaven, and man is formed. That is what the heavens and the earth generate. They generate Adam. And Adam generates Eve, and Adam and Eve generate Cain and Abel and Seth. That’s the generation of the heaven and earth, and what the heavens and earth bring forth is Adam.

This corresponds to day one—the creation of heaven and earth out of formlessness corresponds to the creation of man. The earth was formless and the Spirit of God moved in. Dust is about as formless as you can get. A brick has form. A rock has form. Clay has form. Dust has no form. Man wasn’t made of clay, but of dust. It is formless, and then God’s Spirit comes into it as a parallel to day one. In Genesis 2 the creation of man corresponds to the creation of light on day one. Genesis 2 has the same sevenfold fold outline as Genesis 1. In Genesis 2 the phrase “The Lord God did” follow the same sequence as in Genesis 1, and forming man is parallel to making light on the first day, which is followed throughout Bible. Human beings are lights, stars, etc.

The comes the separation of light and darkness on day one. “God separated the light from the darkness, he saw the light was good. He called the light day, and the darkness he called night.” That separation theme is carried through in this section of Genesis by the judgment on man where he is separated from the Garden, and then primarily the separation of Cain and Abel into a darkened and light kind of people. This second section goes down to the end of Genesis 4.

The next section is the generations of Adam. Chapter 5 says, “This is the book of the generations of Adam,” and then it talks about Adam. Adam had a son in is likeness named Seth, so Adam generates Seth, and then Enosh, Kenan, Mehalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, and Noah.

This corresponds to the establishment on the second day of the firmament to separate waters above from waters below. The godly line of Seth is the human form of that firmament, and the corruption of that line is answered by the removal of the firmament and the re-coalescence of the waters in the flood.

The godly line stands between, as Adam was supposed to do from the beginning, heaven and earth. There was a mountain rising up out of the earth, and on the mountain stood the priest who mediated between God and man. Symbolically speaking, this was Adam’s position in the firmament—below God and above the world. That is the position of the godly line that comes from Adam, the Sethites. The creation of the Sethite race, as opposed to the Cainite race, is equivalent to the formation of the firmament, linked with that aspect of creation week. This is the second toledot section in Genesis and it relates to the firmament. All of the things made in the first week have a human equivalent now in this story. This group of human beings is placed between heaven and earth.

Noah brings forth Shem, Ham, and Japheth, and the whole “table of nations” comes from them. Just as in Day 3 of Genesis 1 there are two section where land and sea are separated, and then the plants are put on the earth—two actions on the third day. So here, the separation of land and sea is answered by the flood, and then the fact that as the flood receded we have a new separation of land and sea. This is very much the same language as in Genesis 1.

And then the multiplication of plants on the land is answered by the table of nations in Chapter 10. “These are the generations of Shem, Ham, and Japheth…” This is another subsection of toledot. The 70 nations grow up, which are the plants on the earth. Does the book of Genesis symbolize humans as plants? Yes, it does, and that is clear from the very first chapters when God says that the earth will bring forth thorns and thistles. Man is made of earth, and what is the next thing that happens after God says the earth will bring forth thorns and good things? First there is Cain, then Abel. But that isn’t where it starts. It starts when God says that the seed of the woman will defeat the seed of the serpent. Women don’t have seeds in a biological sense. In Genesis 1 the plants are said to have seeds about 8 or 9 times and establishes what is meant. In vs. 11 God says, “Let the earth sprout forth vegetation, plants seeding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit with seed in them on the earth.” And the earth brought forth vegetation, verbs seeding seeds after their kind, and trees bearing fruit with seed in them after their kind. On and on the word “seed” goes. I have given you every plant seeding seed, and every tree having fruit yielding seed.

The seed of a plant comes when it blooms and has seed to become the next generation. The seed of the woman comes when she blooms by getting pregnant and has the next generation. The seed of the woman is the child, but this is plant language. So to make people analogous to plants is right there in Genesis. We are in the third section of Genesis, and we read about all these nations, which are plants growing and spreading all over the earth.

Then for the fourth day section we have the generations of Shem—just a short section. The fourth day is when the lights are put in the heavens, and the Shemites are the new light bearers to rule the heavens. Genesis 9:26 says, “Blessed be Yahweh, the God of Shem! May Canaan be the slave of Shem. May God extend the territory of Japheth; may Japheth live in the tents of Shem, and may Canaan be his slave.” Shem has the responsibility for worship. Japheth needs to dwell in the tents of Shem, which means to come to worship. Shem is designated as the line of the covenant seed, and that will later be specified to be Weber, and then Abram, then Isaac, and then Jacob. This is a series of narrowing specification. This is the firmament line of light bearers who maintain God’s truth in the firmament position between heaven and earth.

The fifth section in Genesis is the generations of Terah. What did Terah bring forth? He brought forth Abraham, so this is the Abraham narrative (Genesis 11:27). Terah brought forth Abram, Nahor, and Haran. Corresponding to Day 5 when great swarming creatures were made and God gave his first command to any creature, these themes of multiplication and law are highlighted in the story of Abram, which Genesis 11:27-25:11 delineate. In fact, this theme of multiplication and swarms of people is greatly emphasized here. God says to Abraham, “Your seed will be like the stars of the heavens, like the sand of the sea,” and not only that, Abraham’s brother, Nahor, has twelve children (Genesis 22:20-24). The whole theme of having twelve children starts here, which is multiplication. If you have twelve children you haven’t just reproduced, you have multiplied.

It is part of the “patience” theme that is one of the major themes of Genesis. Abraham has to look over at his brother and say, “He has twelve children,” and then Isaac has to look over at Ishmael and say the same thing while his wife is barren. Abraham has to say the same thing, finally he has just one child. At every point the believers are being told to wait and be patient, while God is giving numerous children to all the unbelievers, or at least those not marked by Divine election to service.

The next section is the generations of Ishmael and Isaac, two section that need to be grouped together as one. In Genesis 25:12 are the twelve sons of Ishmael who are twelve princes, and then vs. 10 gives the generations of Isaac.

We have the generations of Terah, which is the Abraham narrative, and then we have the generations of Isaac, which is the Jacob narrative. You will notice there is no section called the generations of Abraham. There is no Isaac section. There is an Abraham section, a Jacob section, and the ones ones are the generations of Jacob which is the Joseph/Judah section. The Jacob section is a very carefully constructed chiasm, as is the Abraham section. These are very carefully constructed literary units. The first part of Isaac’s life is in the Abraham section when he is a son, and the second half is in the Jacob section where he is a father.

The generations of Ishmael and Isaac correspond to Day 6. Just as Day 6 had two sections—the creation of animals and the creation of man—the toledoth of Ishmael corresponds to the creation of helpful animals because the Ishaelistes are not enemies of Israel Ishmael is regenerated, and is in heaven. The Bible tells us so. They are helpers to Israel. And then the seance half of Day 6 is the creation of man, which corresponds to the generations of Isaac, and is concerned with Jacob, the man who is able to wrestle with God and prevail. This is what it means to be a real, true godly man.

And then the last section is the generations of Esau and Jacob. Genesis 36 is the generation of Esau. That is Cain, the bad thorny plant. The generation of Jacob is the story of Joseph and Judah that has to do with sabbath rest—coming into rest, enthronement, feeding the entire world, and living in the best part of the land. Trace it through in Genesis. It says that the area of the city of Sodom was like the circle of the Jordan, like the Garden of Eden. Then it says that the land of Goshen was the best part of Egypt, and it was like the circle of the Jordan. Being put in Goshen was the equivalent to being put back in the Garden of Eden. Genesis ends with a return to full redemption and Sabbath rest in the story of Joseph. Everything broken has been fixed, at least partially. When we get to Exodus we find that it falls apart. It is Jesus who has to bring the full and final restoration. The generations of Esau in chapter 36 point to the fall of man, which happened on the Sabbath. A false Sabbath rest is given to Esau as he multiplies and takes control, while true Sabbath rest is given to the godly in the land of Goshen.

This is a general chiastic structure. The seven days of Genesis 1 are a chiasm, and therefore these sections are a chiasm. The Adam who doesn’t come to rule at the beginning is answered by the Adam who does come to rule at the end. Adam was supposed to mature and rule, but he didn’t. Joseph does. Adam makes his own clothes. Joseph is given robes by those who honor him. Adam is not honored and not given robes—just bloody animal skins.

It still seems a bit odd for the title of the Abraham narrative to be called the generations of Terah, since it turns out to be all about Abraham. The reason for that is that it is the seed of the woman, the second Adam, who is going to accomplish everything. At every point in Genesis it is the son, the next person in line who is going to accomplish tings, who is going to save the world and be the Messiah. That is the first thing Eve says when she gives birth to Cain. That is why the book is laid out the way it is—the book of generations—the father isn’t adequate, so the son has to come and accomplish the mission. That son turns out to be inadequate, so his son has to come and do it until the coming of Jesus who is the fully capable Son.

Stolen from Tim Nichols

“If we are going to be good interpreters of Scripture, it’s not enough to grasp the didactic literature. We need to learn to read the higher levels of language as well.”

A couple years ago, I read Paul Graham’s ruminations on higher- and lower-level languages in Hackers and Painters. Although he’s talking about computer languages, his insights have bearing on biblical language and hermeneutics. So bear with me while I lay out some of the basic points, and then we’ll look at the applications.

• The very lowest level of language has a very small number of things it can do. Every level up combines those basic instructions in increasingly complex ways to get tasks done.
• Anything a computer can do, you can do in binary. But you can’t do some things in Basic that you can do in C++, and you can’t do some things in C++ that you can do in Lisp (Graham’s examples; I wouldn’t know). Lower-level languages lack the abstractions and features that higher-level languages have.
• Perhaps equally important, many of the things you can do in all 3 languages take more steps in Basic than C++, and more steps in C++ than Lisp. The code is longer, the further down the hierarchy you go. Longer code tends to breed more mistakes, because humans don’t deal well with obsessive levels of detail.
• Conversely, the higher the level of language, the faster you can work. If it takes 3x longer to write in (say) C++ than in Lisp, and your competitor is writing in C++, he can’t keep up with you. A feature that takes you a month to program takes him 3 to duplicate. A feature that takes him 3 months to program, you can duplicate in 1. When you’re ahead, you’re way ahead. When you’re behind, you catch up quickly.
• A programmer thinks primarily in a certain language. Down the hierarchy, he can see that all the languages are lower level than his preferred one, because “they don’t even have [feature].” Up the hierarchy from his primary language, the languages just look weird, because he doesn’t think in them. So they have these higher-order abstractions that he can’t quite grasp, or he can’t see what anybody would ever want them for.

One other observation that is going to be important for this: good programmers often don’t solve a really difficult problem. They formulate another (easier) problem that is the practical equivalent of the hard one, and then solve that.

So given that, the analogy for biblical studies:

• Basic linguistic/textual analysis tools like sentence diagramming or outlining are like machine code. There’s a very limited number of options, and it’s very laborious to describe what’s happening in the text.
• Didactic literature is the next level up. It’s using the linguistic options available in a pretty basic, transparent way.
• Narrative comes after that. While narrative is often grammatically simpler than didactic (paratactic rather than hypotactic, and so on), there are some very complex things going on that you really can’t get at with a sentence diagram. The tools you use to decode didactic literature aren’t sufficient to interpret narrative well.
• Proverbs, parables and typology are very high-level, an order of magnitude beyond narrative.

So if you think in Didactic, and you do it well enough to really have it and know you have it, then you know you don’t quite have a handle on Narrative. Narrative operates with a whole set of signifiers that your interpretive grid doesn’t know what to do with. And you really have an awful time with Typology. (This was the case for the folks that trained me in exegesis. We had a great set of tools for didactic literature, and we knew we didn’t have a parallel set of tools for narrative. And for typology? Forget it! One of our hermeneutics texts seriously claimed that we could only identify something as a type if the New Testament (didactic) literature said it was!)

Conversely, if you can operate in Typology, you can certainly handle Narrative. And when you go to prove a point using Narrative, your argument makes no sense to a Didactic-speaker, because your reasoning just doesn’t translate into his language (and it’s worse if you use Typology!) You’re using higher-order abstractions that he simply doesn’t have. If we are going to be good interpreters of Scripture, it’s not enough to grasp the didactic literature. We need to learn to read the higher levels of language as well.

And then, because we are called to speak like God speaks, we need to learn to speak at higher levels of language, too. It comes in handy. I was having breakfast with a group of friends a while back, and one of the guys was making his case for education outside the home (and against homeschooling). His argument centered around the impossibility of sheltering your kids from the prevailing culture forever, and homeschoolers’ inability to cope with the culture when they were suddenly thrown into it at age 19 or so. He took maybe 10 minutes, and early on I told him I was going to rebut him. As he reached the end of his case, someone pointed out what time it was, and he said “Oh, crap! I gotta go!” As he was getting up from his chair to put on his coat, he said to me “But you were going to argue against that. I’m sorry about this, but can you say it fast?”

I said, “‘As arrows in the hands of a warrior, so are the children of one’s youth.’ You want to send your arrows out in the midst of your enemies — but you don’t let your enemies mess with the arrows while the glue on the fletchings is still wet.”

He got it. I was able to cleanly counterpoint his 10-minute speech in 2 sentences because I can operate at a parabolic/typological level of discourse. Of course, that’s not the same thing as winning the argument, and I’d have really liked to have more time. But I laid out a relevant objection to his point of view and gave us room for further discussion. Not bad for 2 sentences.

The book of Esther describes the fulfillment of the battle of Gog and Magog

An excerpt from “Esther in the Midst of Covenant History” by James B. Jordan (2001)

The battle of Gog and Magog is found in Ezekiel 38-39. Ezekiel presents the destruction of Jerusalem as simultaneously a judgment on the whole world (Ezekiel 24-33). After this, he prophesies that the people will return to the land. Sometime after this there would be a time of trouble and the land would be invaded by an army made up of many peoples under the leadership of Prince Gog. In my book Through New Eyes: Developing a Biblical View of the World I followed many older commentators in referring this to the invasion of the land by Antiochus Epiphanes.

After this huge battle, a new Temple is built out of the spoils. This follows the pattern of victory followed by house building that we see everywhere in the Bible. The Tabernacle was built of the spoils of Egypt, and the Temple of the spoils of the Philistines. Ezekiel’s Temple is described in a vision of sacred geometry, but it was intended to apply to the Restoration era. The actual building erected by Joshua and Zerubbabel (Haggai 1-2; Zechariah 1-6) and glorified by Ezra was the literal fulfillment of the visions of Ezekiel 40-48. The changes in sacrificial administration set out in these visions were implemented in the Restoration Temple. I noted in Through New Eyes that this was the view of Adam Clarke, Matthew Henry, Matthew Poole, and E. W. Hengstenberg.

I wasn’t quite happy with this, since it puts the battle of Gog and Magog out of sequence. Antiochus Epiphanes invaded the land years after the Temple was initially rebuilt and then made glorious. Is there another event that better fits as the fulfillment of Ezekiel 38-30? I believe there is. I suggest that the book of Esther describes the fulfillment of the battle of Gog and Magog.

Let me make a detour into Zechariah. Zechariah sees the Kingdom in the form of a grove of myrtle trees (Zech. 1:8). It is significant that Esther’s original Hebrew name, Hadassah, is the word for “myrtle” (Esth. 2:7). Moreover, Zechariah prophesies the events of Esther in Zechariah 2:8-9. He states that after the Glory of God had moved back into the Temple, the nations would seek to plunder Israel. God would wave His hand over them, however, so that they would be plundered by their slaves, those they were oppressing: Israel. This event would be a confirming seal to them that God had indeed reestablished the Covenant with them.

Of course, it is in Esther that we see a conspiracy to plunder the Jews, which backfires with the result that the Jews plundered their enemies. This event is then ceremonially sealed with the institution of the annual Feast of Purim. The book of Esther is frequently overlooked in the Old Testament, and its meaning has been widely debated. If my suggestion is correct, however, we now have a good idea of its purpose and place in the canon.

With this in mind, we can look back at Ezekiel. Ezekiel 34 states that God will act as Good Shepherd to Israel, and will bring them back into the land. He continues this theme in Ezekiel 36, saying that God will make a new covenant with Israel. The inauguration of this new covenant, which we can call the Restoration Covenant, is described in Zechariah 3, where God removes the filth from Joshua the High Priest and restores the Temple and priesthood. Of course, Ezekiel’s language in Ezekiel 36:25-27 is picked up in the New Testament and applied to the New Covenant, but we need to understand that the first fulfillment of his words was in the Restoration Covenant, which was of course a type of the New Covenant.

Ezekiel continues in Ezekiel 37 with the vision of the valley of dry bones. The Spirit of God would be given in greater measure than ever before (though of course not as great as at Pentecost in Acts 2), and the result would be a restoration of the people. No longer would there be a cultural division between Judah and Ephraim, but all would be together as a new people. (Their new name as a whole would be “Judahite, Jew.”)

At this point, Ezekiel describes the attack of Gog, Prince of Magog, and his confederates. Ezekiel states that people from all the world will attack God’s people, who are pictured dwelling at peace in the land. God’s people will completely defeat them, however, and the spoils will be immense. The result is that all nations will see the victory, and “the house of Israel will know that I am the Lord their God from that day onward” (Ezk. 39:21-23). This is the same idea as we found in Zechariah 2:9, “Then you will know that Yahweh of hosts has sent Me,” which I argued above most likely refers to the events of Esther.

Chronologically this all fits very nicely. The events of Esther took place during the reign of Darius, after the initial rebuilding of the Temple under Joshua and Zerubbabel and shortly before rebuilding of the walls by Nehemiah.

Nehemiah established a social polity among the people and rebuilt the physical walls of Jerusalem. Since Ezekiel 40-48 is concerned with the fullness of the Temple and also with the reconfiguration of the social polity of the land, it is possible to maintain that the central fulfillment of Ezekiel 40-48 is found in the labors of Nehemiah. It should be noted that the prophecy of Ezekiel 40-48 came in the first month of 572 B.C., exactly 70 years prior to Nehemiah’s request to Darius to go to Jerusalem. This fact should not be discounted, for there are several 70-year predictions operating in this period of history, as we saw in our studies in Daniel.

Thus, the interpretive hypothesis I am suggesting (until someone shoots it down) is this: Ezekiel 34-37 describes the first return of the exiles under Zerubbabel, and implies the initial rebuilding of the physical Temple. Ezekiel 38-39 describes the attack of Gog (Haman) and his confederates against the Jews. Finally, Ezekiel 40-48 describes in figurative language the situation as a result of the work of Nehemiah.

Looking at a few details, we see that the victory of the Jews over their enemies in Esther resulted in the deaths of 75,310 people (Esth. 9:10,15,16). This number of deaths is commensurate with the extent of the slaughter pictured in Ezekiel 38-39. The Jews were told that they might plunder those they slew (Esth. 8:11), but they did not take any of the plunder for their personal use (Esth. 9:10,15,16), which surely implies that it was regarded as holy and was sent to adorn the Temple.

Another interesting correspondence lies in the fact that the book of Esther repeatedly calls attention to the “127 provinces” of the Persian Empire, and in connection with the attack on the Jews, speaks of the “provinces which were from India to Cush” (Esth. 8:9). This goes well with the way Ezekiel 38 starts out, for there a number of nations are mentioned from all over the world, all of which were within the boundaries of the Persian Empire (Ezk. 38:1-6). In other words, the explicit idea that the Jews were attacked by people from all the provinces of Persia is in both passages.

Another possible cue is found in the prominent use of the Hebrew word for “multitude” in Ezekiel 39:11, 15, and 16. That word is hamon, which is spelled in Hebrew almost exactly like the name Haman. It was Haman, of course, who engineered the attack on the Jews in Esther. In Hebrew, both words have the same “tri-literal root” (hmn). Only the vowels are different. (Though in hamon, the vowel “o” is indicated by the vowel-letter vav.) According to Ezekiel 39:11 and 15, the place where the army of Gog is buried will be known as the Valley of Hamon-Gog, and according to verse 16, the nearby city will become known as Hamonah. Moreover, the words Agagite and Gog are the same in Hebrew, if we subtract the vowels and vowel-letters. Thus, in Hebrew consonants, Hamon-Gog and Haman the Agagite are identical. It seems to me that if I were a Jew living during the inter-testamental era, I would be struck by these correspondences, and they would cause me to consider whether or not they are related.

Yet another corroboration, to my mind, lies in the fact that Haman was an Amalekite. He was an “Agagite,” a descendant of the Amalekite king Agag who was captured by Saul and hacked to pieces by Samuel (1 Sam. 15; Esth. 3:1). What Esther records is the last great attack upon Israel by Amalek, and the final destruction of Amalek. Now, Numbers 24:20 states that “Amalek was the first of the nations, but his end shall be destruction.” The term “nation” is more closely associated with the Japhethites than with the Hamites or the Shemites. We don’t know which “nation” Amalek was, since it is not listed in Genesis 10, but it would seem to have been a Japhethite one.¹I disagree with Jim on the identity of Amalek. He notes below that Amalek is the name of one of Esau’s grandsons, presumably after this “nation” of Amalek, but I believe that this was in fact the original Amalek, and thus “first” means the firstborn of Jacob, a false brother who would trouble Israel until the end of the Old Covenant era, the Herods being “Idumeans” or Edomites. For more discussion, see Everlasting Arms.

At any rate, what is striking about Ezekiel 38 is that the nations listed as conspiring against Israel are Japhethite and Hamite nations seldom if ever mentioned outside the primordial list in Genesis 10. Magog, Meshech, Tubal, Beth-togarmah, Tarshish, and Gomer are all Japhethite nations from Genesis 10:2-4. Cush, Put, Sheba, and Dedan are Hamite peoples from Genesis 10:6-7. Thus, the notion is of a conspiracy of primordial peoples against the true remnant of the Shemites. This certainly squares well with the fact that Haman was the preeminent representative of Amalek, the first of the nations.

Moreover, Amalek is the name of one of Esau’s grandsons, a mighty chieftain (Gen. 36:16). As Genesis 36 shows, Esau’s sons and grandsons completely merged with the Horites of Mount Seir to become the semi-Canaanite nation of Edom. From Genesis 14:6-7 we learn that the hill country of the original Amalekites was close to the Horites of Mount Seir. By giving his son the name Amalek, Eliphaz, son of Esau, was clearly forging another link. Thereafter, the Amalekites are not only gentiles, but also Edomites. Haman in Esther is not only a spokesman of the gentile opposition to God, but also of the continuing hatred of Esau for Jacob.

The main argument against my hypothesis would be that Ezekiel 38-39 picture an invasion of the land of Israel, whereas the events of Esther happened throughout the Persian Empire. At present, this argument does not have much force with me because of the fact that this entire section of Ezekiel is so highly symbolic in tone anyway. Chapter 37 gives us the vision of the valley of dry bones, after all, and chapters 40-48 are a thoroughly geometrical vision of the Restoration Covenant. Thus, I can see no difficulty in assuming that Ezekiel is picturing the final world-wide attack of Amalek and his cohorts under the imagery of an attack on the land, imagery derived from the book of Judges (cp. Jud. 18:7,10,27 with Ezk. 38:8,11,14).

Moreover, since the land of the Jews was part of the empire of Ahasuerus-Darius, and the attack on the Jews took place throughout the empire, it is clear that the Jews in the land were under assault in Esther. Thus, even if someone wants to press the idea of an invasion of the land of promise, Esther still portrays it. God’s people throughout the empire, including those in the land, were under assault.

A final corroboration of this interpretive hypothesis comes from what we might call the “Amalek Pattern” in the Bible. Note in Genesis 12-15 that Abram moves into the land after escaping Pharaoh (ch. 12), settles down and experiences peace and prosperity (ch. 13), and then faces an invasion of a worldwide alliance of nations (ch. 14). This alliance captures Lot, but Abram rescues him, after which a Gentile priest blesses Abram (ch. 14). Finally, after this, God appears to Abram in a vision and makes covenant with him (ch. 15), guaranteeing him a “house.”

Now look at Moses: After escaping Pharaoh (Ex. 1-14), the people are given food and water in the wilderness (Ex. 16). Then Amalek attacks and kills many Lot-like stragglers (Ex. 17; Dt. 25:17-19). Moses defeats Amalek, after which a Gentile priest (Jethro) blesses the people, and then God appears in the Cloud and makes covenant with them (Ex. 18-24), including the building of a “house” (the Tabernacle).

The same themes show up in the history of David: After escaping Pharaoh Saul (1 Sam. 18-26), David finds a place of rest in the “wilderness” at Ziklag (ch. 27). Then Amalek attacks and steals David’s wives (ch. 30), but David defeats them. Following this, a Gentile priest-king (Hiram of Tyre, who as a Gentile king was also a priest) blesses David (2 Sam. 5:11-12), and then God appears to David in a vision, promising him a “house” (2 Sam. 7).

In this pattern, the attack of Gentile world powers (Gen. 14) is associated with the attack of Amalek (Ex. 17; 1 Sam. 27). As can plainly be seen, the same pattern recurs in the Restoration. After departing from Babylon, the people settle in the land and experience a degree of peace. Then comes the attack of Amalek and Gog & Magog. After this, Gentile priest-kings sponsor the return of Nehemiah to restore the land and the “house.”

While it would be fascinating to follow up this theme in the Gospels, Acts, and possibly Revelation, enough has been said to indicate that it is a recurring pattern, and one that lends some support to the hypothesis that the attack of Gog and Magog is fulfilled in the book of Esther.

An Open Letter To My Former Tribe

by Tim Nichols

I was reared in a conservative evangelical tradition that was heavy on strict grammatical-historical hermeneutics. I have repented of that school of thought in favor of following the examples set by the NT authors themselves.

Look, you know I love you, but there’s no point in mincing words here: you guys suck at reading narrative. I mean, it’s terrible. Either you reduce the story to a disconnected set of little morality tales for Sunday school kids, or you chop it up into however many dispensations or homogenize it all into two covenants (or both). At best, you think it’s there as a means to the end of teaching “doctrine,” by which you mean something like systematic theology. In practice, of course, many of you mostly ignore the narrative in favor of the church epistles, especially in your preaching. To be fair, you’re mostly pretty good at the church epistles. Straight-out didactic literature is your forte.

But look, the narrative is three quarters of the Bible. Paul says that all Scripture is profitable for doctrine, and your hermeneutics courses are all a-flutter with warnings against “getting doctrine from narrative.” This means — it has to mean — that there’s something wrong with your hermeneutics. As long as you insist that your hermeneutics are fine, you’re going to continue to have the same problem, to wit: you don’t know how to read three quarters of the Bible. As soon as you contemplate some sort of hermeneutical repentance, though, you feel as though you’re about to throw open the door to every perversion and silliness that hermeneutical laxity has ever visited upon the Church. How can you proceed? How can you gain the ability to read the other three quarters of the Bible well without falling victim to the many traps and pitfalls that have snared so many of your unwary brethren?

I want to make an observation and propose a way forward. The observation: you’re scared. If your reason for avoiding narrative is that you don’t know how to avoid hermeneutical excesses, and your response to your lack of skill is to run away and hide in a church epistle… stop it. You can’t learn to swim by running from the water. God has not given us a spirit of fear.

Now, for a way forward. It’s simple in concept, sufficiently rich to cover the variety of problems you’ll have to face along the way, and as a bonus, it starts in your old stomping grounds — the church epistles. Even there, however, you’re going to have to face hermeneutical repentance. You’ve missed some pretty obvious stuff. The authors of the church epistles had none of your reluctance about drawing doctrine from narrative. For example, you somehow fail to notice that Paul derives his doctrine of justification by faith in Romans 4 from the narrative accounts of Abraham and David — the very thing you warn your students not to do. Nor is that circumstance unique — the authors of the epistles overwhelmingly draw their doctrine from the biblical narratives. Peter does it. Hebrews certainly does it. James does it. Know why? Because they’re following Jesus — He did it too.

The authors of the epistles may not have left you a hermeneutics manual, but they certainly did leave you with an enormous set of examples. Start with Romans 4, and work your way out from there. What other examples can you identify? How might you follow the example set forth for you?

Of course I realize that there will be differences of opinion, excesses, and all that. Sure. But if you’re not willing to get out there and make some mistakes, you’ll never get anywhere. You’ve gotta learn somehow.

Or you could keep being bad at reading three quarters of the Bible…

Originally published here.

Further reading: The Historical-Grammatical Nanny State.

Is it possible for a book of contemplative theology to be neo noir?

INTRODUCTION to Dark Sayings: Essays for the Eyes of the Heart

In some ways, this collection of essays does resemble a detective novel: there are mysteries to solve, it always seems to be night-time, conventional methods are ignored, and nothing is what it appears to be.

The Bible demonstrates that all good theology is not only a story, it is a movie, and not only a movie, but a movie deliberately designed to perplex, surprise, and unsettle us.

We can easily identify classic film noir by the constant opposition of light and shadow, its oblique camera angles, and its disruptive compositional balance of frames and scenes, the way characters are placed in awkward and unconventional positions within a particular shot, for example. But besides these technical cinematic characteristics, there are a number of themes that characterize film noir, such as the inversion of traditional values and the corresponding moral ambivalence… the feeling of alienation, paranoia, and cynicism; the presence of crime and violence; and the disorientation of the viewer, which is in large part accomplished by the filming techniques mentioned above.¹1 Mark T. Conrad (editor), The Philosophy of Film Noir, 2.

However, while the anxiety, alienation, romance, and dark wit (hopefully) remain, this book reserves noir’s hard-boiled cynicism and nihilism for the foibles of those who rebel against God. For the Christian writer-director, the darkness is only a device employed to bring the reader to the light. The deliberate ambiguities are only temporary cowls that eventually will be stripped away. Like the Bible, which, if we are honest, is a very dark book, these dark sayings, in their fundamental mindset and ultimate trajectory, are unshakably optimistic.

The “shadow” is a psychological term for everything we cannot see in ourselves. Clinical psychologist Jordan Peterson tells us that, in light of the Jungian practice of shadow work, growing in maturity includes developing a consciousness of one’s “inner psychopath.”²Jordan Peterson, 2017 Maps of Meaning 11: The Flood and the Tower and 2017 Personality 08: Carl Jung and the Lion King (lectures). As the testing of Adam teaches us, a truly good person is not one who is harmless, but one who, like Solomon, has learned to bear the sword in the cause of righteousness. Each individual must come to terms with his own Adamic “blind spot” (Matthew 7:3-5), his personal capacity for evil.

A commitment to truth is always a fight, which is why cowards often disguise their cowardice as morality. Shadow work strips away the personas, the veils of hypocrisy which we wear to dissociate ourselves from primitive desires, the “monsters from the Id.” According to Peterson, a persona is “the mask you wear to convince yourself and the world that you’re not a terrible monster so that when you face the mirror you don’t have to run away screaming.”³Jordan Peterson, August 2017 Patreon Q&A.

The problem with Jung and Peterson is that the mirrors of modern psychology are only broken shards, fragments of a moral framework bequeathed to us by our Christian heritage. The Word of God is the only true mirror.

For if anyone is a hearer of the word and not a doer, he is like a man who looks intently at his natural face in a mirror. For he looks at himself and goes away and at once forgets what he was like. But the one who looks into the perfect law, the law of liberty, and perseveres, being no hearer who forgets but a doer who acts, he will be blessed in his doing. (James 1:23-24).

Thus, reading the Bible is itself a form of shadow work, and a good work of theology should be a house of mirrors. The architectural aspect of this process is almost always understated, by academics and laypeople alike. The features of God’s Temple are expressions of His character, but God works in iterations, in fractals.⁴See “The Bible is a Fractal” in Michael Bull, Reading the Bible in 3D. The cruciform shape and interactive elements of the Sanctuary of God inform every sphere of being. The cubic Holy of Holies behind the Temple veil was a golden tesseract,⁵In geometry, the tesseract is the four-dimensional analog of the cube; the tesseract is to the cube as the cube is to the square. Just as the surface of the cube consists of six square faces, the hypersurface of the tesseract consists of eight cubical cells. The tesseract is one of the six convex regular 4-polytopes. a construct of parallel “mirrors” in which every side is exposed, a multi-layered dream, the spring of boundless possibilities, a symbol of the hidden mind of God, an eternal light that was quite literally dressed in an ephemeral darkness. Welcome to The Infinite Room.

So much for the exploration of the arcane. What makes this book neo-noir? It is the fact that the claustrophobic corridors and stairwells, the smoky offices with drawn blinds, and the rain-washed streets of the Dark City of our current theological zeitgeist might suddenly dissolve, leaving you dangling in space above the earth, or deposited in the primeval past or far distant future. The present writer is an imp who deals with shadows internal and external, from the hidden things of the human heart to the hidden things of God. Let him take you from the valley of the shadow of death to the court of heaven, from a dark desert highway to a wing of the Temple, from the unfathomable shades of the ego to the outer reaches of the universe. After all, what could go wrong?

Lend yourself to this holy terror, and he will endeavor — though will not guarantee — to have you delivered safely home before dawn.

Michael Bull
Katoomba, January 2018

I will open my mouth in a parable;
I will utter dark sayings from of old,
things that we have heard and known,
that our fathers have told us.
(Psalm 78:2)

ART: Not to be reproduced, Rene Magritte (1937)

Leithart and the whale.

or Do You Really Want A Real Debate?

Another response to a post on baptism, “Baptists Are Right, Almost,” by my friend Peter Leithart.

I’m not your standard Baptist. My position on baptism is the result of the teachings of James B. Jordan concerning investiture, and subsequent analysis of the structural correspondences between investiture in the Old Testament and baptism in the New within matching literary sequences. I respond to Leithart because he — unlike standard Baptists and standard Paedobaptists — is open to the Scriptures, a thinker, somebody who understands the way I think in general terms, disarmingly gracious, and a friend. He is worth responding to. That said, his ideas are fair game, and anything that seems harsh in what follows here is written with a twinkle in the eye.

Another note: I think much debate concerning baptism occurs in an arena based upon flawed terms. My responses go far deeper than the questions at hand. Why argue a minor point when you can shift the ground under your opponent to a more biblical foundation that makes his argument entirely moot?

Several essays in the book, Believer’s Baptism, observe the inconsistencies in paedobaptist defenses of infant baptism.

As I have written elsewhere, the solution to being inconsistent is not to become more consistently wrong. See The Wrong Question.

In the introduction, editors Thomas Schreiner and Shawn D. Wright focus on the issue of apostasy. If the warning passages in, say, Hebrews are real threats to people within the covenant community, then “some who have the law written on their heart and who have received the forgiveness of sins (Heb 10:16-18) are not truly forgiven.” This position puts “a wedge between those who are elect and those who are forgiven of their sins,” and they suggest that “paedobaptists would be more consistent if they argued that those who are saved can lose their salvation.”

The first problem here is the erroneous concept of “the covenant community,” and it distorts the thinking on both sides of the debate. Since the end of the Circumcision, this no longer exists. Baptism is not the boundary of the covenant but the staff uniform of its administrators. Since it is a rite of ordination for prophetic office (as a witness with the testimony of Jesus), apostasy is the removal of that external office based on the revelation of one’s internal unregenerate state. If we use the analogy of a knighthood, a knight who is exposed as unworthy of his king is no longer fit to be the king’s representative, and thus — hopefully temporarily — loses his office. He is no longer worthy of access to the “round table” of Jesus.

In short, they pose this dilemma: If paedobaptists take the warning passages straightforwardly, they’ll end up Arminian; if they muzzle the warning passages in pseudo-Calvinist special pleading, then why do they continue to baptize babies?

Once again, both sides are fumbling around in the dark because of their misunderstanding of covenant history. What is the context of the warnings in the book of Hebrews? It was written to Jews who were being tempted to return to the shadows of Temple worship and its system of atonement through animal sacrifice and the Laws of Moses. The Temple was still standing, and the “standing” lambs were being offered morning and evening. What they were being warned against was only secondarily eternal judgment. The imminent judgment of Jerusalem as Jericho was a call to persevere and not die the spiritual “wilderness” of first century Judaism, with its Balaamites and fiery Pharisaical serpents. The particular stripe of apostasy spoken of cannot be committed today. The warnings must be correctly interpreted before they can be properly applied.

The Baptists are right. Almost.

They are right to argue that Reformed paedobaptist must have a doctrine of apostasy, and a robust one. Otherwise, they have no business being paedobaptists. They are not quite right because they don’t believe there is such a thing as a robustly Calvinist doctrine of apostasy.

Leithart’s commitment to baptismal regeneration comes from his genuine attempt to apply the descriptions of baptism in the New Testament to paedobaptism. Of course, that just makes him even more wrong than the inconsistent paedobaptists. He’s trying to fit a V8 engine into a Matchbox car, and the resulting (and patently ridiculous) doctrines of paedofaith are the result. He rightly wants a doctrine of baptism in which the rite is efficacious, but the question is this: What is baptism actually for? His Frankenstein of a doctrine, a bapcision that is both flesh and Spirit, conflating and confounding circumcision of flesh with circumcision of heart, is not only something that “saves” without conscious faith, it is a contradiction of the clear teachings of both Old and New Testaments.

Leithart would retort, “Baptism saves you” (1 Peter 3:21). Once again, the context makes the Apostle’s meaning clear, and his audience is very similar to that of the author of Hebrews. The Jews who believed and were baptised were no longer answerable to the demands of the Law. As worshipers, they could now be “blameless” according to the Law — having a good conscience before God — without actually observing the Law. What they were “saved” from — delivered from — is the old order, hence Peter’s reference to the Great Flood, an image of the coming destruction of Jerusalem and its Temple. In the Flood, the old priesthood centred around the Sanctuary in Eden was destroyed forever. This is a context that I learned from Jordan and Leithart, and their commitment to paedobaptism seems to make them blind to it when the texts are used to prop up this false doctrine of bapcision. Garden-variety non-preterist Baptists at least have some excuse in their ignorance, and even in that state they understand that an infant has no conscience yet developed to speak of.

But there is. Calvin’s, for instance.

On Hebrews 6:4 (which Schreiner and Wright cite, oddly, as evidence that “no one can even be a partaker of the Holy Spirit . . . and not belong to the elect”), Calvin says: “he falls away who forsakes the word of God, who extinguishes its light, who deprives himself of the taste of the heavenly gift, who relinquishes the participation of the Spirit.” The apostate turns “from the Gospel of Christ, which they had previously embraced, and from the grace of God.”

The discussion is already off track due to the wholesale failure to take the “transitional” historical context into account. But as is the norm, Reformed theologians resort to the writings of the Reformers rather than Scripture. This would not be so bad if the Reformers themselves were not so confused and self-contradictory in their (mis)understanding of baptism.

What does it mean to “partake” of the Holy Spirit? Although there a many previous “Pentecosts” in the Bible, covenant history is fractal in nature, and the Day of Pentecost was the ultimate shift from external law to internal law, from the stoicheia of childhood to the stoicheia of the Spirit of adulthood. The same pattern is evident where it was established in the testing of Adam. He was to listen, act, and speak. The work of the Spirit was initially external, and through obedience it would become internal. Once filled with the Spirit of God, Adam would legally represent God as a priest-king with a prophetic voice. Adam’s disqualification for this office is why the word “covenant” is never used until the ministry of Noah. “Partaking” and “tasting” the Spirit, and then extinguishing its light, does not mean that a person is an actual believer. The process of conversion in the book of Acts follows the rite of sacrifice in the Old Testament. Once transformed from bloody flesh to fragrant smoke via holy fire, there is no going back. Whether one is actually transformed becomes apparent over time, but the Apostles were willing to take people at their word.

On Hebrews 10:29, Calvin adds, “to do despite to [the Spirit], or to treat him with scorn, by whom we are endowed with so many benefits, is an impiety extremely wicked.” We are to “learn that all who willfully render useless his grace, by which they have been favored, act disdainfully towards the Spirit of God.”

Such quotations can be, and have been, multiplied.

How did God harden Pharaoh’s heart? Through the testimony of Moses, that is, conviction of sin. The purpose of the warnings was to reveal what was already in Pharaoh’s heart. One who has truly received the Spirit of God will heed the warnings of God. That is, the external exhortations of the Law will bear internal fruit. Both faith and unbelief are then revealed in external works through various trials. The warnings separate the sheep from the goats, the Jacobs from the Esaus. Both brothers were circumcised, but only one was circumcised internally. That circumcision is what baptism is about. Such “faith comes by hearing,” four words that demolish Leithart’s baptismal house of cards. Apostasy also comes by hearing, which is why preaching must be compassionate but blunt.

Schreiner and Wright also complain about paedobaptism inconsistency with regard to the Supper. Most paedobaptist churches baptize babies but withhold communion, “but such a divide between baptism and the Lord’s Supper cannot be sustained from the NT,” nor from the OT for that matter.

Rather than reuniting the sacraments as rites of investiture for ethical office — much like knighthood and the round table of King Arthur — Leithart reunites them as a magical circumcision, one which sacralises human ties (familial and tribal) rather than transcending and inhabiting them as the Gospel was intended to. The New Covenant is not about forming but about filling.

Again, the Baptists are right. Almost.

They are wrong because they go on to say that admitting children to the table means admitting “unbelievers” who are going to eat and drink judgment to themselves. Grant the point. My two-year-old may be hardened in unbelief and sin.

The Baptists are right, but only accidentally. Baptism does not correspond to the Abrahamic circumcision but to the Mosaic Covenant Oath, one which only adults took and were accountable for. It was the Egyptian generation that died in the wilderness. By God’s mercy, their children were not slain along with them, but a “new covenant” was made with them in Deuteronomy, just like the second set of tablets at Sinai, and the “new covenant” made with Israel and Judah after the exile. The failure of both sides here is in their understanding of the fractal nature of humanity. If Adam was a child before God, God would make Adam a father on the earth. That is illustrated in the faith of Abraham and his subsequent offspring. Abraham’s faith in God (Oath – priesthood) resulted in fruitfulness in land and womb (Sanctions – kingdom). Leithart’s conflation of the two is as serious — at least in potential — as every usurping of priesthood by kingdom throughout covenant history. Adam despised the Oath and attempted to seize the blessings of God (Sanctions). So did the kings of Israel. This fundamental flaw was the cause of the death of European Christendom. Priesthood is not something that a child can bear. Certainly, Israel was a priestly nation, but that distinction is gone forever. That leads to Leithart’s next point.

But then I suspect the same was true of two-year-old Hebrews at Passover, Pentecost, and Booths, and Yahweh still wanted them among His people at His table. So, this point stands only if we accept the whole Baptist argument. Which we don’t.

Leithart’s failure is also architectural. In contrast to Egypt, Israel was God’s firstborn among the nations, even though it was not the oldest nation. This alludes to Jacob being the younger twin, and Joseph being exalted over his older brothers because of his faithfulness to God. But within Israel, the actual firstborn never approached God personally. God took the Levites in place of the firstborn of Israel (Numbers 8:18). That is, the infants only approached God through legal representatives, those who not only received no land but also ministered to protect the fruit of the womb. The context is Genesis 3, where Adam and Eve could be naked before God and each other (in the Garden) but needed to be invested with authority, robed in righteousness, before entering into the promised Land.

This pattern is made clear even before the establishing of the Levitical priesthood. In Exodus 24, only the elders dined on the mountain with God, Moses representing Israel and the 70 elders representing the Gentiles. Women were excluded because the Sanctuary would not be safe until the serpent was crushed. This is why the phrase “both men and women” carries so much import in the book of Acts. Women cannot be priests but they can be co-regents like Esther, and prophetesses like Anna. The irony here is that Leithart subscribes to “Covenant Renewal Worship” (as do I), a liturgical pattern based upon the sequences which can be traced through the ages of Church history right back to the book of Genesis. Exodus 24 also follows this pattern, and aligning the two makes the grievous error of paedocommunion stand out like a dog’s hind leg. (See Covenant Renewal Worship vs. Paedosacraments.) The children were present in worship but only their legal representatives actually ate with God. All men, women and children in the world are already included in the New Covenant. Baptised believers are “elders” who represent the nations — and all children — before God. That is the reason for the Great Commission. All are now called to repent. What Leithart fails to mention is that Passover, Pentecost and Booths were the tables of men, Israelite men, certainly, but still the tables of men. Israel and its tribes on “dry land” were a microcosm of the nations of the world, after all. Allowing children to dine at God’s table is putting them into government, at least liturgically. That never occurred at any time in Bible history. When did Jesus bear the government upon His shoulders? Not at His circumcision, but at His baptism. The Father was not please in Jesus’ flesh but in His voluntary obedience. That is what baptism is about. That this has to be stated at all boggles the mind.

Centrally, Schreiner and Wright complain about the inconsistency of proclaiming salvation by faith alone and then giving “the sign of that faith (baptism) to those who have not exercised faith (infants).” They agree with Paul Jewett’s alarmingly italicized statement: “To baptize infants apart from faith threatens the evangelical foundations of evangelicalism.”

The Baptists are right. Of course, baptizing infants threatens evangelicalism. Infant baptism is a gauntlet thrown down to evangelicalism, because evangelicalism is Baptist through and through.

If the suggestion is, however, that infant baptism is a threat to Protestant theology, nothing could be more mistaken. Obviously, Protestantism began as a paedobaptist movement. We can toss the charge of inconsistency back to the Baptists: How can you venerate a Protestant tradition that undermines the foundations of the gospel?

Ultimately, in his defence of baptismal regeneration, Leithart has nothing to appeal to but tradition. The obvious answer, one that even a run-of-the-mill Baptist could come up with, is that Leithart himself is not reformed enough. The doctrine of the Reformers concerning salvation and baptism was itself an inherently nonsensical and self-contradictory compromise with Roman teaching, and thus needed further reformation. Leithart is thus as guilty of as much closed-mindedness as the Paedobaptists who separate the sacraments based upon age. The fly in the ointment is paedobaptism itself. It cannot be both a carnal and a spiritual demarcation. Like a stool with only two legs, it will forever fall one way or another, and in either direction it is a fall which exposes it as a human hybrid, a contrived fabrication which is not of God. The sons of men can become Sons of God, but only through the hearing of the Gospel and a response of faith in that Word.

The Baptists are right on all kinds of things. They are right to say that paedobaptists need to confront the problem of apostasy head-on. They are right to say that paedobaptists are inconsistent to baptize babies and refuse to feed them. They are right to say that paedobaptists have not done a great job of explaining the relationship of sacraments and faith.

I’ve said before that the reason why Baptist-paedobaptist arguments go nowhere is because it is a fraternal rivalry. Many paedobaptists, especially in the Reformed churches, are semi-Baptists. It’s a scrimmage, not a real game. Whichever side wins, the Baptist position triumphs.

Perhaps this development in history is the actual work of God. That is not to say that the Baptists are right due to any deep understanding of the Old Testament and its doctrine of investiture. If they are right, they are right only accidentally, through taking the New Testament at face value rather than attempting to undermine it by hybridising circumcision of flesh with circumcision of heart. I have a deep understanding of the Old Testament thanks to Leithart and Jordan, but that has led to the conclusion that the Baptists are indeed right, despite their ignorance.

It’s time for a real debate.

Dr. Leithart, you won’t get a real debate from run-of-the-mill Baptists or Paedobaptists. They are as one-eyed as you on this issue. If you really want a real debate, you know where I am.

*Twinkle*

It is truly breathtaking how deeply connected and coherent all of Scripture is, all of life is, when you can experience it in all of its divinely inspired architectural beauty and construction.

A review by Jared Leonard.

DARK SAYINGS begins by identifying the multi-tiered problems of Western Christianity’s theology, from the safe-house cliques of the congregation on up through to the heights of academia’s ivory tower. Armed with the awareness of just how shallow the last couple of centuries have been, and what that lack of biblical depth has produced, the reader is primed to have their eyes opened to the marvelous beauty and richness contained in even just a single verse of Scripture. Don’t get me wrong here, though; there have been some really great works of theology and practice throughout the decades, but very little of that has found its way into the bones of believers.

Holistic is not a word I would use often, or at all, really, to describe a book that self-identifies as contemplative theology, even if it is painted with “neo noir” strokes, as Mr. Bull colors this collection in the opening words of the introduction. But Dark Sayings is. And I think the author can’t help it any more; it is the (super)natural outworking of consistently applying the interpretive methodology of the Bible Matrix. The matrix permeates his thought and colors his vision in all the right theological and biblical ways. It is truly breathtaking how deeply connected and coherent all of Scripture is, all of life is, when you can experience it in all of its divinely inspired architectural beauty and construction.

Building on the introduction, the essays are broken out into five sections, each with an overarching theme that aligns with Mr. Bull’s previous work in applying the shape of the Bible Matrix. If the matrix is not something you are familiar with, you can still glean a lot from these essays, though some of the connections may seem like a stretch, or tenuous at best. I would encourage you to press through; like the Bible itself, this will be a book that requires multiple readings for full effect. Also, the last five chapters and the closing conversation alone are worth the price and effort of this book.

Future generations are going to be mining Mike’s work for a long, long time. Like Martin Bucer, he may not ever have the name recognition of a John Calvin, or a Philip Melancthon, but the coming “greats” will be indebted to his laying the foundations, of which Dark Sayings is another stone, for the next few centuries of real theological progress.

Dark Sayings: Essay for the Eyes of the Heart is available now.

In this sequel, moral absolutes have succumbed to corporate interests and brutal pragmatism. The film poses uncomfortable questions for a culture whose prosperity is maintained artificially and unsustainably through abortion, exploitation and war, and whose divorce of sex from procreation is slowly but surely drifting into a demographic winter.

(Warning: The following analysis contains spoilers for both Blade Runner films.)

Released in 1982, the original Blade Runner confronted audiences with a stark depiction of a future that was disturbingly plausible and depressingly tangible. The fact that its pacing was unhurried, focussing on ideas more than characters, and was told through a disorienting hybrid of genres, made it a difficult pill to swallow at first viewing.

However, seeds were planted in the imaginations of a fertile few. More than three decades later, it is difficult to think of a movie that has shaped the world we live in and how we view that world to the same degree as Ridley Scott’s box office bomb. His vision is self-consciously postmodern, exposing the transcendence offered by technology as a scam. In this moody, dystopian prophecy, where nothing is original and everything is derived, progress and degeneration can be difficult to tell apart. Even worse, the difference between them becomes merely a matter of opinion, since moral absolutes have succumbed entirely to corporate interests and brutal pragmatism. The code of the street is now the code of humanity: survival at all costs.

Continue reading at ethos.

“The truth wrapped in a riddle or a joke is irresistible. What looks like skylarking is sometimes the fowler’s snare.”

Tweeting Since the Dawn of Time

INTRODUCTION to “Birds of the Air”

Richard Baxter famously exhorted Christians to screw the truth into the minds of their hearers and to thus work Christ into their affections. Baxter’s exhortation is itself a perfect example of the means of such an exhortation. Who can hear these words and not be struck with the image of someone twisting a screwdriver in close proximity to somebody else’s brain?

His use of the word “screw” communicates not only that effectively imparting truth is a process but also that it is painful. The truth will not change us until we actually feel it. Moreover, Baxter’s image suggests that the darkened minds of human beings are as dense, stubborn and unresponsive as blocks of unseasoned wood. Delivering truth most often meets with some resistance.

A further and no less important observation is that a screw is a tiny instrument. Like a claw or a tooth, a screw is simply the spearhead of a larger tool. This makes it not less effective but more so. It concentrates, focuses, magnifies all of the blunt brute strength behind it into a single point. Most great men in history became great because they were compelled by a single truth, one expressed in so few words that it caught like a splinter in the flesh of the mind. Being both small and sharp it could not be ignored and thus allowed them no peace.

Yet there is one more facet of a screw that sets it apart from a simple nail. It has a thread which holds it in place, making it almost as much work to take out as it was to put in. The most effective delivery of truth is not necessarily the simplest. A screw must also be tough.

Bob Jones Sr. tells us that “Simplicity is truth’s most becoming garb.” However, this statement requires some qualification. A better choice of terminology might have been “the facts” rather than the word “truth.” Jones’ intended meaning is that deceivers (disguised as salespeople, teachers, politicians, scientists and theologians) employ complexity to obscure or mask the facts. That is darkness masquerading as an angel of light. But like God, enlightenment also comes wrapped in thick clouds. As Albert Einstein quipped, “God may be subtle but He’s not malicious.”

Paul condemned those who were “ever-learning,” filling their minds with facts but never arriving at a knowledge of the truth. Are facts not true? What is the difference between a fact and a truth? Truth is composed of facts which exist in relation to each other, and thus is not simple. Facts are steps. Truth is a journey.

Oswald Chambers firmly believed in the concept of “seed thoughts” — brief, pithy sayings designed to arrest attention and stimulate thinking. He writes:

Our Lord was never impatient. He simply planted seed thoughts in the disciples’ minds and surrounded them with the atmosphere of His own life. We get impatient and take men by the scruff of the neck and say: “You must believe this and that.” You cannot make a man see moral truth by persuading his intellect. “When He, the Spirit of truth is come, He shall guide you into all truth.”¹Oswald Chambers, Run Today’s Race: A Word from Oswald Chambers for Every Day of the Year, December 9.

In every sphere there are degrees of knowledge. Knowing something because you read about it and knowing it by experience are different levels of the same thing. This is why we struggle to learn from the mistakes of others.

Facts are dead elements. Truth is a living organism. Facts are things which we can collect and store, but the truth is something which possesses us. It cannot be caged and will not be pinned down. The modern scientistic mindset confuses the accumulation of facts with an understanding of the truth. Knowledge is not wisdom, which is why many well-intended government schemes go so horribly wrong.

Truth is transformative, something which causes us to grow and brings us to spiritual maturity. That is why animals can survive on food alone but human beings also require a steady diet of truth. Paul takes it even further, noting that spiritual maturity is a progression from milk to something that requires chewing. Spiritual nourishment is work because work makes us strong.

To change us, a truth must engage us, so it is often imparted in an enigma. The truth wrapped in a riddle or a joke is irresistible. What looks like skylarking is sometimes the fowler’s snare. When God speaks to us in veiled language, symbols, parables and even architecture, we are forced to contemplate, or ruminate, upon what He has said. In some cases, the meaning of certain Scriptures is still being debated, even after many centuries. But what we must realize is that this was always the plan.

“Jesus was at the pointy end of a long line of troublemakers who trafficked in barbs, riddles and shocking object lessons. Instead of doling out rose water they went straight for the gasoline.”

The very first law given by God to humanity was itself a puzzle designed to provoke meditation and bring forth the fruit of wisdom. Jesus’ own ministry, the testimony of the Man who declared Himself to be the light of the world, was anything but a “simple” delivery of the truth.

Our desire to speak the truth plainly is part of the reason why modern preaching mostly fails to engage its hearers. God’s process is “word-and-response” so His true prophets are always provocative. Jesus was at the pointy end of a long line of troublemakers who trafficked in barbs, riddles and shocking object lessons. Instead of doling out rose water they went straight for the gasoline.

Those who indulge in murder and adultery are often the first to insist upon table manners, which is why God sends a Jeremiah to smash the pottery or an Isaiah to preach naked in the street. King Solomon might tell us that there is a time to be polite and a time to give some obstinate official a poke in the eye. Douglas Wilson writes:

In a sinful world, giving offense is one of the central tasks of preaching. When the offending word is brought to bear against those who have shown themselves to be unteachable, they are written off by that offending word. When this happens, or there is a threat of it happening, the natural temptation is to blame the word instead of taking responsibility for the sin that brought the rebuking and satiric word. Employing a scriptural satiric bite is therefore not “rejoicing in iniquity” but rather testifying against hardness of heart.²Douglas Wilson, A Serrated Edge: A Brief Defense of Biblical Satire and Trinitarian Skylarking, 102.

Like King Solomon and the other authors of the book of Proverbs, Jesus also understood the power in pastoral ministry of a well-timed and well-considered sound-bite. Toby Sumpter writes:

I would defend the art of pastoral tweet bombing by pointing to the perfect pastor: Jesus Christ. He’s the Head Pastor of the Church, the Chief Shepherd, and we take our cues from Him. Jesus invented Twitter. Jesus was the first pastor to employ Twitter in His pastoral ministry.

He may not have had a smart phone or even a dumb phone, but Jesus was the master of throwing out short truths that were calculated to poke, prod, and offend.

Here are a few samples from Matthew’s Twitter Feed:

“Follow Me, and let the dead bury their dead.” (Mt. 8:22)

“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy and not sacrifice.’ For I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” (Mt. 9:12-13)

“Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth. I did not come to bring peace but a sword.” (Mt. 10:34)

“I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law.” (Mt. 10:35)

“Take heed and beware of the leaven of the Pharisees.” (Mt. 16:6)

“If you want to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give it to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven, and come follow Me.” (Mt. 19:21)

The point is that Jesus frequently said things in short, pointy ways that not only could be misunderstood, but which frequently were and were meant to be. Jesus didn’t apologize and promise to only write essays, books, and give long sermons that explained everything more carefully. Jesus kept right on saying things that were startling, confusing, and could be easily misunderstood. In fact, Jesus ultimately was condemned for statements that were twisted and taken out of context.³Toby Sumpter, “In Defense of Pastoral Tweet Bombing,” tobyjsumpter.com, April 25, 2012.

Although the aphorisms of Solomon and Jesus share the characteristic of brevity with most of what flies on Twitter, the difference — and power — lies in their ability to pack gravity into a grain of sand. A tweet with more impact than airborne poop takes time to consider and thus time to compose. Peter Leithart writes:

I joined Twitter to keep track of my kids, and so I could bash their short attention spans. Then Pastor Douglas Wilson observed that tweets are like proverbs. You try to capture, in a haiku flash, some of the goodness and beauty of things. Doug was right: Now they’re faster and there’s more of them, and more that are useless, but folks have been tweeting since the dawn of time.⁴Peter Leithart, “Bashing Twitter’s Bashers,” firstthings.com, January 21, 2014.

The Proverbs were no doubt designed to be read aloud either at court or in the congregation, and a moment of silence, a mental breather, like the “musical rest” of the original Sabbath, would be necessary after each to allow time for meditation. I make this speculation because there is a danger in reading Proverbs as though it were a book of prose. Doing so — to turn upside-down Luther’s analogy concerning sinful thoughts — allows birds to fly overhead which were specially created to nest in our hair.

One tweet per page would facilitate such rests in what follows here, but since that would be impractical, I will trust you to give each its intended Sabbath. Hopefully they are stimulating or provocative enough to give you pause all on their own.

What sort of question is the question of paedocommunion?

Peter Leithart just reposted the first part of a series on paedocommunion. Since many people (most of them far more godly, educated and well-read than I am) have expressed how helpful they have found my posts on baptism, I figured I would offer some responses. Leithart is passionate about baptism, and expresses his conviction that the stakes are high. I agree with him about the stakes, which is why I oppose his errant position. In biblical theology, there is a place for everything and everything should be in its place. The question of paedocommunion in Reformed circles is the sacramental equivalent of those who promote child marriage arguing over the age at which their (perversion of) marriage can be physically consummated. That is, it is the wrong question.

Should young children receive the Lord’s Supper? Should we practice paedo-communion?

Before we address the question of paedocommunion, we must specify both what the question is and what sort of question it is. First, what is the question of paedocommunion? It is not in essence a question about the age of admission to the Lord’s table. Some who do not adopt the paedocommunion position would admit toddlers as young as a year-and-a-half. If, hypothetically, some means were invented to gauge the level of “discernment” in infants, and children who registered a “6” were admitted to the table, that practice still would not constitute paedocommunion. Nor is it a question about force-feeding bread and wine to newborns; though some churches give the elements to newly baptized infants, no Reformed advocate of paedocommunion, to my knowledge, has argued for this practice. Most Reformed theologians are content to wait until the child is able to eat solid food before he begins to participate in the Supper.

What sort of question is it? It is the second question, the question you ask when you got question 1 wrong. This entire debate (as James Jordan admits in his talks on paedocommunion, episodes 43, 45 46 and 49 of the Theopolis Podcast) rests upon the prior assumption of paedobaptism as a sign of “inclusion” in “the Covenant.” Paedocommunion is indeed the logical conclusion if you are convinced of paedobaptism. But since drinking wine is a sign of adulthood, a biblical symbol of judicial maturity (as Jordan rightly observes), giving wine to infants is also a large sign painted in deep red that reads WRONG WAY. GO BACK. Thus, paedocommunion is not only the logical conclusion of paedobaptism, it is also the reductio ad absurdum, the point at which the outcome of your ideology is running against the grain of actual human beings, and thus should be questioned at its very origin. Any discussion of paedocommunion is an intramural disagreement between two people who took a wrong turn centuries back but are unwilling to retrace their steps to discover the source of the conflict.

Leithart asserts that gauging the level of “discernment” in children is wrong, since their membership of the Body of Christ is, at its foundation, completely “objective.” But really, how is gauging their level of mastication and digestion any different? Why not force feed bread and wine to infants? If we can wait until the child is able to eat solid food, surely that is some indication of the nature of the greater debate concerning wine and its symbolic relationship with judicial maturity in the Bible. Is giving bread and wine to small children that they might “participate” really any different conceptually to puréeing the sacramental elements and putting them into a baby’s bottle? If newborns do not partake, are they still part of “the baptised body”? If they are, then communion is not what defines participation in worship. The same can be said of miscarried infants, who are not baptised, yet somehow assumed to be part of that same “body” by mere heredity. If the sacraments are indeed efficacious in the ways that paedocommunionists insist, then they cannot have it both ways.

The specific practical question is, Does baptism initiate the baptized to the Lord’s table, so that all who are baptized have a right to the meal? Paedocommunion advocates, for all their differences, will answer in the affirmative. Nothing more than the rite of water baptism is required for a person to have access to the Lord’s table. Opponents of paedocommunion will answer in the negative. Something more is required—some level of understanding, some degree of spiritual discernment, some sort of conversion experience, and some means for the church to assess these attainments.

Paedobaptists insist that their “Covenant membership” can be entirely objective, but those against paedocommunion at least have enough sense to realise that the table is about spiritual discernment, some level of understanding about God, and a consciousness of accountability for sin. What is required is repentance and faith, both for baptism, and then a renewal of repentance and faith at weekly communion. The problem is that paedobaptists conflate circumcision of heart with circumcision of flesh, something which even the Old Testament does not do. Circumcision for male infants did not require anything more than being born into a Jewish family, or being part of a family which had joined Israel. But that Jew-Gentile distinction no longer exists.

Sadly, neither those who are for nor those who are against paedocommunion realise that their doctrine of a “binary” Covenant membership is Abrahamic, which makes their “objective” baptism redundant anyway.¹See The Myth of Covenant Membership. Since the ascension of Christ, everyone is already under obligation to Him, and that includes all infants right across the world. That is the “objective” element of the New Covenant, and it exposes the argument for “inclusion” for what it is: a reductive reversal of the global nature of the New Covenant back to a tribal demarcation like circumcision. For Leithart to bang on against “something more being required” means that he still sees baptism as a parochial fence around an Abrahamic (Judaistic) people of flesh. But baptism (even for the nation of Israel while it was temporarily set apart from other nations), was and is a rite of ordination, the conferring of an office, which is necessarily both objective and subjective: baptism is done to the baptizand with full consent, just like the reception of any official capacity. For any office, something more is indeed required. That is the whole point. And if nothing is required for an individual baptism except being born into the right family, Leithart is living in the wrong Covenant.

Second, and more fundamentally, what sort of question is this? If it is merely a question about the admission requirements to the church’s ritual meal, then the question may be answered by straightforwardly applying a rule. If we narrowly focus on the question of who partakes when, we could admit children without adjusting any other doctrines or practices of the church. If it is only a matter of adding a few names to the guest list, then why is paedocommunion so strindently opposed by some within the Reformed world?

The issue here is Leithart’s “umbrella” terminology, the church’s “ritual meal.” Paedocommunionists rightly point out that all the Israelites participated in the Passover meal, but that meal was related to the separation of Israel from the nations as a people. The division between Hebrews and Egyptians in the first part of Exodus was the “national” outcome of the division between Hagar and Sarah, and their offspring. Israel was baptised into Moses, not into Abraham, and this is because there is a difference between circumcision of flesh (which no longer exists) and circumcision of heart (which was always independent of the circumcision, since Gentiles could believe and yet remain Gentiles). The ritual meals introduced under the Levitical Law concerned not the tables in the houses (or tents) or Israel, but the table of God, a table where only legal representatives dined. The clearest example is the order of events in Exodus 24. Since the circumcision is gone, then the Passover meal was fulfilled once and for all in the death of Christ. It has no Christian equivalent. Why does Leithart overlook this crucial difference? Because paedobaptists see only what they expect to see.

Moreover, this failure to discern the difference between the tables of men and the table of God does indeed require the adjustment of many other doctrines and practices of the church. The practice of paedocommunion is opposed because many within the Reformed world are not willing – as Leithart is – to redefine “faith.” Leithart quotes all of the gutsy texts about baptism which give other paedobaptists the jitters, and rightly so, but somehow does not realise that his position is more consistent only because it is more consistently wrong than they are. If the sacraments were two tires on a bicycle, Leithart is arguing that since the front tire (baptism) is flat, so should the back tire be. The reason many Reformed are against paedocommunion is simply because the descriptions of the table of God in the New Testament cannot be as easily conflated with circumcision.

Paedocommunion is not only about admission requirements narrowly considered, but, like paedobaptism, is linked with a whole range of theological and liturgical issues. It is not only about the nature of the Supper, but also about the church, baptism, and, most broadly, the character of the salvation that Christ has achieved in the world. The gospel is not directly at stake in the paedocommunion debate. Opponents of paedocommunion honestly and sincerely proclaim the gospel of grace, and I am grateful to God that they do. Still, the ecclesial and theological shape that the gospel takes correlates significantly with positions on paedocommunion, and the coherence between the gospel and the church’s practice is at the heart of this debate. The stakes are not so high as they were when Luther protested indulgences and the myriad idolatries of the late medieval church. But the stakes are high, very high.

There is a lot to respond to here, so I will do it briefly. On theological issues, paedobaptism requires the redefinition in some way of just about every major Christian doctrine. That is a warning sign. On liturgy, I have already mentioned Exodus 24, and am still waiting for an explanation from the proponents of Covenant Renewal Worship on the discrepancies between their practice of paedocommunion and the fact that only legal representatives ate the meal on the mountain. This shows that they are actually beginning with the tradition of paedobaptism as their authority, and not the Scriptures.²See Covenant Renewal Worship vs. Paedosacraments. Concerning the nature of the salvation that Christ has achieved in the world, does it consist of promises limited to a subset of humanity as it did under the Abrahamic Covenant? Or are the promises for all people and all their children, or are most of the infants of the world – including those who are miscarried or aborted or die in infancy – excluded from any possible mercy? Is salvation received through heredity, or through hearing the Gospel and believing it? What Leithart perceives as inclusion is actually exclusion, because his understanding of the fulfilment of the sacred architecture of the Old Testament is stillborn: baptism is not the boundary of the Covenant. Baptism is the vow, the rite of investiture, of its earthly administrators.

Dr Leithart then poses some excellent questions, ones which his non-paedocommunion fellow paedobaptists cannot answer terribly well. But I can answer them because I am not trapped in an Old Covenant paradigm. I am not stuck in the Garden of pietism as most baptists are (Priesthood), or in the Land of physical offspring like paedobaptists are (Kingdom), but concerned with testimony to the World, the meaning of the office conferred in biblical baptism: Prophecy.

At the risk of oversimplification (and provocation), I will briefly pose the options on these wider issues:

• Is the Supper an ordinance of the church (paedocommunion), or is it an ordinance for some segment of the church (antipaedocommunion)?
  

The Church is not a carnal demarcation as was Israel. That demarcation was destroyed by Christ at the cross. However, although the Abrahamic division is gone, the Mosaic requirement of circumcision of heart remains. That is why Israel was not baptised into Abraham, and why the Bible never speaks of the Law of Abraham. Israel grew to maturity not only as a nation from a tribe, but also judicially. The ministry begun in Moses was expanded through the investiture of the priesthood and of other judges. That means some segment of Israel participated in certain rites and meals which the rest of Israel did not. But those legal representatives participated on behalf of the others. The priests and the sacrifices were washed with water from the Laver that they might have Sanctuary access as “heads” on behalf of the “body.” One could pose the same question to Leithart concerning his own ordination. Why do “Christian” infants not participate in that? Because it is an office. The Church is the same kind of body – a prophetic one – as was the school of the prophets within Israel. In architectural terms, this is the difference between the Bronze Altar (land and offspring, earth and blood) and the Incense Altar (eldership and fragrant obedience). Covenant history moved from death to resurrection, from a carnal body outside the tent to a prophetic body inside the tent. Once again, see Exodus 24, where the elders of Israel partook in a meal on behalf of all Israel, just like the knights of King Arthur ate at his table as protectors of the realm. All the citizens who were represented by these holy warriors partook of Arthur’s care in them via their voluntary submission: they put their necks under the royal sword that they might bear that royal sword. Who was the first man permitted to bear the sword on God’s behalf? Noah. Baptism is investiture with the prophetic authority of Noah over the nations.³See Exposure to the Elements.

• Is the church the family of God simpliciter (paedocommunion), or is the church divided between those who are full members of the family and those who are partial members or strangers (antipaedocommunion)?

This question expresses the heinous conflation of the sons of men with the Sons of God, and the fatherhood of men (such as Abraham) with the fatherhood of God. Earthly parents are to image God to their children. That is why God gave us Abraham. Jesus clearly perceived that there was a greater, unseen Father when He reached the age of 12. Joseph had done his job faithfully. At Jesus’ baptism, the process was complete, and the Father in heaven revealed Himself. Covenant history moved from earthly fathers to the heavenly Father, and so did the Covenant sign. The sacraments are for the Sons of God, the priest-kings who have submitted to God and now act on His behalf. The “Abrahamic” facet of the New Covenant is the faith of Abraham.

• Did Jesus die and rise again to form a new Israel (paedocommunion), or did He die and rise again to form a community with a quite different make-up from Israel (antipaedocommunion)?

In sacrificial terms, the “body” of flesh (as “one”) was transformed into a “body” of fragrant smoke (as “many”) by the fire of Pentecost. As mentioned, the Church functions within all nations as the priesthood and the school of the prophets functioned within Israel: as legal representatives.

• Did Jesus die and rise again to form the new human race (paedocommunion), or did He die and rise again to form a fellowship of the spiritually mature (antipaedocommunion)?

God works in fractals. If Adam responded to the Father in heaven as a child, then God would make Adam a father on the earth. The human race still exists as it always did, and the fellowship of the spiritually mature with God still exists as it always did. What has changed is the maturity and access of “Israel,” and this is given to us in sacred architecture. The demarcations within old Israel are now the demarcations of the new Israel.

• Does baptism admit the baptized into the covenant or symbolize his prior inclusion in the covenant (paedocommunion), or does baptism merely express a hope that the baptized one day will enter the covenant in some other fashion (antipaedocommunion)?

On this one, the definition of “Covenant” by both paedobaptists and baptists, is wanting. The New Covenant has no boundaries. Baptism is ordination into the New Covenant priesthood of all believers. Nobody is excluded from the New Covenant and its obligations, so paedobaptism is redundant.

• Does the covenant have an inherently historical/institutional character (paedocommunion), or is it an invisible reality (antipaedocommunion)?

I think the answer to this one is that the Church is not discerned through what is visible (flesh: Priesthood) or invisible (Spirit: Kingdom) but through what is audible (witness: Prophecy). At Pentecost, holy fire fell upon human flesh and the result was legal testimony. That is what baptism is about, so the answer is that the true priest-kings will be known by their testimony. That is the Church of God.

• Does grace restore nature (paedocommunion), or does grace cancel our nature or elevate beyond nature (antipaedocommunion)?

This is interesting. Is childhood redeemed by Christ? Certainly, but through mediators, that is godly parents. In The Baptised Body, Leithart asks if baptists talk to their babies. Certainly. And all babies – even non-Christian ones – respond to their parents. But as David points out for us in Psalm 22, God teaches us about the invisible through what is visible. There is a shift from being under guardians and parents to becoming a guardian and a parent. That shift, that rite of passage, is baptism. This conflation of physical childhood under parents with spiritual childhood under God is the reason why paedocommunionist churches are not simply a metaphorical “nursery of culture,” but actual nurseries. One would think that those who are so versed in typology would be able to discern the difference between type and antitype in this instance. Their prejudice concerning paedobaptism means they are unable to rightly discern the meaning of texts such as Psalm 22:9-10. Another example is the disciples bringing infants to Jesus (Matthew 19:14). Who was the baptised one in that account? It was Jesus. He had submitted to God (priesthood) and was thus a king who could be trusted with those in His care, unlike the Herods who committed adultery, slew infants, and rejected John’s baptism. Paedobaptists miss the whole point of the passage, and even see it as evidence to support their case!

• Does faith require conscious and articulable belief (antipaedocommunion) or is faith something of which infants are capable (paedocommunion)?

Leithart conflates trust in earthly parents with trust in God, but the movement is from natural (earthy) to spiritual (heavenly), from childhood (seeing the visible) to adulthood (discerning the invisible). When it comes to deciding what age is suitable for baptism, we are given no biblical examples of children who have grown up in a Christian family, but we are given Timothy. Based on the typology of fatherhood on earth and in heaven, and the position of the Red Sea baptism in Israel’s history, it would seem that baptism is a rite of passage for one who is ready to answer directly to the leadership of the Church, and not through their parents or other guardians. It is the beginning of personal testimony, and thus personal accountability. Baptism confers office, some level of authority, and also vulnerability to personal excommunication.

Like many theological issues, paedocommunion also poses the question of the relative weight of Scripture and tradition. The question is not what the Reformed tradition has taught on this issue; I concede that very few Reformed theologians have advocated paedocommunion. Nor is the question about Jewish custom, which opponents of paedocommunion often cite. (Why should Christians care what the Talmud says?) The issue is what Scripture teaches, and if we find that our tradition is out of accord with Scripture, then we must simply obey God rather than men, even if they are our honored fathers in the faith.

Amen, brother. Show me infant baptism in the Bible, and I will obey. Paedosacraments are nothing more than tradition, an errant extrapolation based (very badly) on the features of an obsolete Covenant. Why should anyone care what the Reformers (and what they say about baptism has to be the most internally contradictory load of propaganda I have ever read) have to say on the matter?

In the following parts of this essay, I focus on the ecclesiological issues raised by paedocommunion, which are simultaneously questions about the nature of the covenant, about the continuity of Old and New, about salvation, and about the gospel. Throughout, I am guided by an underlying assumption that the sacraments manifest the nature of the church. For centuries, sacramental theology in the Reformed and in other traditions has often focused narrowly on the effect of sacraments on individual recipients, and as a result, both the theology and practice of the sacraments have been horribly distorted. We should, in addition and even primarily, consider sacraments in an ecclesial context. The question should not only be what a particular rite does to me, but also what this ritual tells me about the community that celebrates it.

Certainly. But paedobaptism is obviously a tribal rite – a fact which is not as apparent to those within the tribe. To those without, joining the Church becomes a matter of joining the community of blood first, that one might then have greater access to God. Nothing could be further from the truth when it comes to the New Covenant. The message which a credobaptism by immersion proclaims loud and clear is that anyone can repent and believe, and then minister to one’s own tribe of blood out of that direct access to God. The Abrahamic Covenant was a social demarcation with an ethical telos. The New Covenant is an ethical demarcation (repentance and faith first) with a social telos, witness to those around us. I have shared this a number of times with Dr Leithart. We are no longer looking to the Holy of Holies. We are emerging from the empty tomb with the message that the Tablets of Moses have at last been satisfied.

According to Paul’s teaching, the Lord’s Supper embodies the nature of the church as a unified community. Because we partake of one loaf, we are one body (1 Corinthians 10:16), and because partaking of the bread and cup is a communion in Christ, it commits us to avoiding communion with demons and idols. The Lord’s Supper ritually declares that the church is one, and that this united community is separated from the world. This is why, according to Paul, the Corinthians were not actually performing the Lord’s Supper (1 Cointhians. 11:20).

Certainly, but we are one in Spirit, not in flesh. The Lord’s Supper is for those who have the mind of Christ as His “friends” and confidants, just like the disciples. It is for those who – as guardians, ambassadors, administrators and legal witnesses – go out into the world as living sacrifices, living epistles, and if necessary, blood oblations, repeating the life of Christ before the world. Christian community is the result of those representatives who submit to Christ in baptism and dine at His table, not vice versa.

From Paul’s perspective, the Supper and its practice provide a criterion for measuring and judging the church’s faithfulness to her calling and her Lord, and, conversely, the New Testament’s teaching concerning the church provides a criterion for assessing our sacramental life. The Supper is a ritual expression of our confession that the church is One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic. We should ask both, “Does the church’s life measure up with what we say about ourselves at the table?” and “Is what we confess about the church manifest at the table?”

Once again, ethical before social. Baptism and the Lord’s table are unity via voluntary death. This is not the carnal “unity” of the Circumcision. This is the unity of those who have repented, believed, and received the Spirit of God as Jesus and the disciples did. The substitutionary offering of Jesus was extended in the substitutionary offering of His followers, those who “filled up” His sufferings as a testimony. The sacraments are all about legal testimony, beginning with a public profession of faith.

Paul’s sacramental reasoning can be extended in many directions. We know, for instance, that the church is a body in which divisions of Jew and Gentile, slave and free, male and female have been dissolved (Galatians 3:28), and Paul severely rebuked Peter when his table fellowship failed to line up with this ecclesial reality (Galatians 2:11–21). A church that refuses bread and wine to blacks, or to whites, or to Asians, is lying about both the church and the Supper. More pointedly: Paul says that the church is a community where the weakest and most unseemly are welcomed (1 Corinthians 12:22–26). Does the Baptist refusal to baptize infants give ritual expression to that kind of church, or does it instead imply that the church welcomes only the smart and the strong?

Leithart’s point here is valid, but what he fails to realise is that despite his claims to the contrary, paedosacraments simply call up the Jew/Gentile division from the grave of Jesus. Abram was a Gentile when God called him. A Church bounded by paedosacraments is nothing but an unworkable hybrid with Judaism, which is why there is conflict between the divided sacraments of Leithart’s opponents, and why there is conflict between Leithart and his opponents. It is the conflict, the enmity, between a demarcation of flesh and a demarcation of Spirit. They lust against each other.

Again, Leithart totally misses the point of baptism as a rite of investiture for priest-kings, for guardians, for witnesses. Everyone is already under the care of Jesus, but through the ministry of saints, the baptized. God works through mediators. That is what Sanctuary access is about.

At the same time, the sacraments must express what the church proclaims in the gospel. This might be approached from various directions. That Jesus broke down the dividing wall between Jews and Gentiles is part of the gospel, and so the Supper expresses the gospel when it welcomes Christians from every tribe and tongue and nation. The gospel announces that God has initiated a new creation in and through Jesus, and our practices and theology of the Supper must express the scope of that announcement. The gospel is about the grace of God to sinners who have no ability to crawl their way back to Him, and the way we think about and perform the Supper must be consistent with that. According to Luther, the Supper is the gospel, for in it our heavenly Father offers His Son to us through the Spirit for our life; the Supper is first and last God’s gift, God’s gift of Himself, to His people. But saying that and enacting that in our table fellowship are two different things.

Luther was wrong. The sacraments are not something that make one a Christian, although that misapprehension is understandable in the old Christendom which was yet to break the conceptual bounds of the oikoumene. But that is gone, and a social or civic baptism cannot work outside of those Old Covenant grave clothes. The sacraments are something that Christians voluntarily do. The Spirit of God turned the world upside down, and baptism and table are not about God offering His Son so us. They are about us voluntarily offering ourselves to God, and us offering His Son to the world. Leithart’s focus here is entirely parochial. The field is not the Church. The field is the world. The sacraments are not about cultivation but representation.⁴See Cultivation and Representation.

In short, the Supper and its practice provide a criterion for measuring and judging the church’s faithfulness to the gospel, and, conversely, the New Testament’s teaching concerning the gospel provides a criterion for assessing our sacramental life. Jesus frequently described His preaching as an invitation to a feast, a feast that He Himself celebrated with tax gatherers and sinners throughout His ministry and that He continues to celebrate with sinners in the Eucharist. The gospel thus provides a criterion for judging our admission rules for the table: Is the invitation to the table as wide as the invitation to repent and believe?

Yes, but once again Leithart conflates obligation with response in his definition of “Covenant membership.” Actual repentance and faith is required from those who attend as the Bride.

We must think about baptism and the Supper in these (overlapping, if not identical) ecclesial and evangelical contexts if we want to grasp what is at stake in the paedocommunion debate. The question is not only who’s in and who’s out, but rather what our decisions about who’s in and who’s out say about the church we are and the gospel we proclaim. What kind of community are we claiming to be if we invite children to the Lord’s table, or, as is more commonly the case, what are we saying about the church when we exclude them? What do our ritual statements about the church say about the church’s relation to Israel and the character of salvation? Put our theologies and our sermons to the side for a moment: What gospel does our meal preach?

Paedosacraments “proclaim” that the Church is tribal, that the promises are for a select group of people and their children, and that membership of the body of Christ is about cultivation (coming to faith) rather than representation (witnessing to that faith). Pentecost turned everything around, but Leithart is still looking to the womb rather than coming out of the tomb.