It's not really close to being done, but at least part of the reason I've been posting less here lately has been due to work on a New Testament time line. The work is pretty incomplete, but since I've not had much time to work on it in the past few weeks, I have decided to publish it anyway. I'll hopefully have some time to add on to it in the future with additional commentary, links, et c.
Part of the delay is that I've finally made a serious push to read through Wright's The Resurrection of the Son of God, a substantial, well-researched tome. I'm sure the bibliography could keep me busy for the rest of my life.
My main motivation with the time line was to see how the book of Acts fits in and corroborates historical data points. It's fair to say that most history of the time is written to different standards than today, but Luke stands out among the better historians of the ancient world (Xenophon, Thucydides, Tacitus, Suetonius, Josephus, et al.), even though his works are comparatively shorter. I also wanted to collect basic discussions of the dates of the NT books, their provenance, and arguments.
My notes are woefully incomplete; I beg the reader's pardon.
Showing posts with label new testament. Show all posts
Showing posts with label new testament. Show all posts
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Philemon
I was pleasantly surprised last night that we were in Philemon in church—not going every Wednesday gives you that added bit of uncertainty, I guess. While the sermon itself tended far more to law than grace, I wanted to pick up a few bullet-points of interest to me:
- About the time of the writing (probably 60–62 AD), Lucius Pedanius Secundus was murdered by a slave. Roman law at the time required that all of his slaves be executed, and Nero carried out the sentence on 400. That Onesimus was also under a death sentence for running away from his master adds a certain sense of urgency to this letter.
- One wonders what sort of jailer Christ is (v1). Paul is his prisoner; do we suppose that Jesus Christ is so poor a jailer as to let him go? Rome does not hold Paul captive: Jesus does.
- There are marks of grace all over the letter. Paul's plea in vv17ff is so highly reminiscent of the pleas that Christ must make for us: "Put it on my account" he writes.
- How much, incidentally, is this like the Good Samaritan, who provides coin for the recovery of the man near death, but also promises to pay any other debt he incurs when he returns. A comforting thought, this, that Christ resurrects us and promises to pay the debts our sin nature continues to incur.
- The mention of Mark in verse 24 fits with Colossians 4:10, where he is admitted to fellowship despite the argument between Paul and Barnabas (Acts 15:39). There is grace here: Mark's errors are not reviewed or open—he is simply admitted to fellowship.
- Contra Mark is Demas, who at the time of this writing is in good standing but appears by the end of Paul's life (perhaps 63 AD if we accept Pauline authorship of 2d Timothy) to have forsaken him (2Ti 4:10).
- Onesimus' name means "useful," and so there is a lot of wordplay here in v11 and v20 also.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
On the Reliability of the New Testament
Rey pointed me to a set of interesting MP3s. There are some good things here; it's worthwhile to listen to.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The Good Samaritan
We hit the parable of the Good Samaritan today in Luke, and it occasioned a few thoughts, some new, some old.
The scribe asks Jesus (tempts him; the Greek indicates he was testing him to cause him to fail) what he should do in order to inherit eternal life. In response, Christ asks him what he finds in the Law; the answer, rightly given, is "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself" (Lu 10.27).
What is terrific about this response is that the lawyer realizes that he has condemned himself—he has admitted that he has failed and will not inherit eternal life. How do we know? "But he {that is, the lawyer}, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, 'And who is my neighbor?'" (Lu 10.29).
Two things might be said here. First, that the lawyer wouldn't desire if to justify himself had he not just condemned himself. Second, he has skipped past loving the LORD with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength and gone straight to loving his neighbor. I surmise from the white spaces that he does this because he recognizes the absolute futility of trying to live up to such a command. The heart, soul, strength, and mind represent a totality of his being: his emotional, spiritual, physical, and mental exercise.
In passing by the first command to the second, he also reveals the eventual course of all legalistic practice: the redefinition of the command or of the sin in order to exonerate oneself. The sinless perfection crowd generally does two things: they redefine sin, and that failing (or sometimes even succeeding) they redefine perfection. The consequence is a devastation of grace and the Cross—the sins that Jesus Christ died for are sin no more, and the purpose (result) of his death is diminished.
The gospel is bound up in a proper definition of sin—if we cannot see our sinfulness for what it is, we will never appreciate the superlative nature of the death, burial, and resurrection of our Lord.
In the parable itself, it seems that Jesus echoes the ineffectiveness of the Law to do man any good. Again, I'm reading a bit of the white space here, but the Levite and the priest who pass by may have done so because it would have made them unclean according to the law (Nu 19.11ff; cf Ez 44.25, Nu 6.6ff). (Of course, the law would penalize them for knowingly ignoring a man's distress, so the interpretation here really depends on how badly the man was beaten.)
The Samaritan, estranged from the fellowship of Israel, is "permitted" to aid the man because in a sense he is already judged under the Jewish law. I think in some respects this mirrors the way that Jesus took our own burdens; he was condemned for us, and his condemnation is what restores us from death.
I see him also in the Samaritan's pledge to the innkeeper: "Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back" (Lu 10.35). There is such comfort in knowing that Jesus Christ did not just provide for a part of our sin, but the whole of it. He does not pay for a part of the recovery, but all of it.
I know this is already a bit long, but there is a parallel here to the story of the rich young ruler (Lu 18.18ff). The question is the same (in fact, it's identical in the Greek, as near as I can tell). As with the lawyer, Jesus causes the young man to understand that while he has adhered to the commandments (if we take him at his word, v21), he has nonetheless still failed to keep the law (v22).
In answering these questions, Jesus leaves no wiggle room: we cannot achieve what is demanded in the law. Even in asking the question we condemn ourselves.
A fitting conclusion fails me at this point, as it does in many of my writings. I was not expecting to hear this today (I obviously didn't read ahead), but I'm glad I did. While my upbringing was not legalistic, and I was taught well (I think) about grace, it is the experience of it that has made me appreciate passages like these more.
Grace is great until you recognize your need for it—and that is precisely when we (I) turn to "What must I do," instinctively trying to make amends on our own rather than through the cross. It is good news indeed that we cannot justify ourselves.
The scribe asks Jesus (tempts him; the Greek indicates he was testing him to cause him to fail) what he should do in order to inherit eternal life. In response, Christ asks him what he finds in the Law; the answer, rightly given, is "You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind, and your neighbor as yourself" (Lu 10.27).
What is terrific about this response is that the lawyer realizes that he has condemned himself—he has admitted that he has failed and will not inherit eternal life. How do we know? "But he {that is, the lawyer}, desiring to justify himself, said to Jesus, 'And who is my neighbor?'" (Lu 10.29).
Two things might be said here. First, that the lawyer wouldn't desire if to justify himself had he not just condemned himself. Second, he has skipped past loving the LORD with all his heart, soul, mind, and strength and gone straight to loving his neighbor. I surmise from the white spaces that he does this because he recognizes the absolute futility of trying to live up to such a command. The heart, soul, strength, and mind represent a totality of his being: his emotional, spiritual, physical, and mental exercise.
In passing by the first command to the second, he also reveals the eventual course of all legalistic practice: the redefinition of the command or of the sin in order to exonerate oneself. The sinless perfection crowd generally does two things: they redefine sin, and that failing (or sometimes even succeeding) they redefine perfection. The consequence is a devastation of grace and the Cross—the sins that Jesus Christ died for are sin no more, and the purpose (result) of his death is diminished.
The gospel is bound up in a proper definition of sin—if we cannot see our sinfulness for what it is, we will never appreciate the superlative nature of the death, burial, and resurrection of our Lord.
In the parable itself, it seems that Jesus echoes the ineffectiveness of the Law to do man any good. Again, I'm reading a bit of the white space here, but the Levite and the priest who pass by may have done so because it would have made them unclean according to the law (Nu 19.11ff; cf Ez 44.25, Nu 6.6ff). (Of course, the law would penalize them for knowingly ignoring a man's distress, so the interpretation here really depends on how badly the man was beaten.)
The Samaritan, estranged from the fellowship of Israel, is "permitted" to aid the man because in a sense he is already judged under the Jewish law. I think in some respects this mirrors the way that Jesus took our own burdens; he was condemned for us, and his condemnation is what restores us from death.
I see him also in the Samaritan's pledge to the innkeeper: "Take care of him, and whatever more you spend, I will repay you when I come back" (Lu 10.35). There is such comfort in knowing that Jesus Christ did not just provide for a part of our sin, but the whole of it. He does not pay for a part of the recovery, but all of it.
I know this is already a bit long, but there is a parallel here to the story of the rich young ruler (Lu 18.18ff). The question is the same (in fact, it's identical in the Greek, as near as I can tell). As with the lawyer, Jesus causes the young man to understand that while he has adhered to the commandments (if we take him at his word, v21), he has nonetheless still failed to keep the law (v22).
In answering these questions, Jesus leaves no wiggle room: we cannot achieve what is demanded in the law. Even in asking the question we condemn ourselves.
A fitting conclusion fails me at this point, as it does in many of my writings. I was not expecting to hear this today (I obviously didn't read ahead), but I'm glad I did. While my upbringing was not legalistic, and I was taught well (I think) about grace, it is the experience of it that has made me appreciate passages like these more.
Grace is great until you recognize your need for it—and that is precisely when we (I) turn to "What must I do," instinctively trying to make amends on our own rather than through the cross. It is good news indeed that we cannot justify ourselves.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Short thoughts on Titus
So the first attempt at posting this failed, due to a vagary of the computer I'm using to write these. Hopefully the second effort works.
The senior pastor was on vacation today, so we were treated to some study in Titus. We spent a fair amount of time on the somewhat unique opening (to my knowledge, this is the only Pauline epistle in which he calls himself a bond-servant of Jesus, with the possible exception of another co-authored with Silvanus).
I was mostly intrigued by the use of the phrase "for the faith of God's elect" (as translated by the NAS and NIV). The word "for" here is KATA in the Greek and is usually rendered "according to" or "against" or "down" depending on the case of the object.
I think the translation is due partly to the content of the letter: certainly Paul's instructions to Titus would have an effect on the faith of those God chose. But I wonder if we might think about the faith here not as belief so much as doctrine, that is, the faith God delivered to the saints. In this way, we can read KATA as we usually do: "according to the doctrine delivered to God's elect...."
A consistent theme in our study this morning was soundness, in particular soundness of faith and of doctrine. Sound doctrine produces sound faith. This shouldn't be surprising, but considering how many churches have abandoned doctrine entirely, it is worth emphasizing.
I'm not a pastor, nor will I ever be one, in all likelihood, but it seems obvious to me that part of the duty of a pastor is to educate his congregants in sound doctrine. Having watched a small amount of Osteen's interview on 60 Minutes, it makes me wonder if he has ever considered the book (he apparently doesn't feel that teaching doctrine is his gift).
In any case, it was a good and interseting study, and one I hope to pick up again soon.
The senior pastor was on vacation today, so we were treated to some study in Titus. We spent a fair amount of time on the somewhat unique opening (to my knowledge, this is the only Pauline epistle in which he calls himself a bond-servant of Jesus, with the possible exception of another co-authored with Silvanus).
I was mostly intrigued by the use of the phrase "for the faith of God's elect" (as translated by the NAS and NIV). The word "for" here is KATA in the Greek and is usually rendered "according to" or "against" or "down" depending on the case of the object.
I think the translation is due partly to the content of the letter: certainly Paul's instructions to Titus would have an effect on the faith of those God chose. But I wonder if we might think about the faith here not as belief so much as doctrine, that is, the faith God delivered to the saints. In this way, we can read KATA as we usually do: "according to the doctrine delivered to God's elect...."
A consistent theme in our study this morning was soundness, in particular soundness of faith and of doctrine. Sound doctrine produces sound faith. This shouldn't be surprising, but considering how many churches have abandoned doctrine entirely, it is worth emphasizing.
I'm not a pastor, nor will I ever be one, in all likelihood, but it seems obvious to me that part of the duty of a pastor is to educate his congregants in sound doctrine. Having watched a small amount of Osteen's interview on 60 Minutes, it makes me wonder if he has ever considered the book (he apparently doesn't feel that teaching doctrine is his gift).
In any case, it was a good and interseting study, and one I hope to pick up again soon.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
More on faith
Having progressed from Matthew into Mark, I again find myself wrestling with the same issues regarding faith as in the last posting. The text this time is Mark 6.5, in which we read that Jesus was not able to do many miracles in his home town.
I don't know whether it's a simple case of reading too far into the text, but the reason appears to be related to their unbelief (Mk 6.6). While certainly faith is involved in miracles (Mark five contains the stories of Jairus' daughter—who exercised no faith to be raised—and the woman with a hemorrhage, who did exercise faith to be healed), it's hard for me to ever see fragile and infantile human faith as the way to rub the cosmic genie bottle to get your three wishes.
I'm writing on borrowed time, so I had best leave on that note—but it seems worthwhile to mention that wisdom is also consider the source of the miracles (6.2). The people assume that authority and wisdom and miracles are commingled, which might be a worthwhile avenue to explore.
I don't know whether it's a simple case of reading too far into the text, but the reason appears to be related to their unbelief (Mk 6.6). While certainly faith is involved in miracles (Mark five contains the stories of Jairus' daughter—who exercised no faith to be raised—and the woman with a hemorrhage, who did exercise faith to be healed), it's hard for me to ever see fragile and infantile human faith as the way to rub the cosmic genie bottle to get your three wishes.
I'm writing on borrowed time, so I had best leave on that note—but it seems worthwhile to mention that wisdom is also consider the source of the miracles (6.2). The people assume that authority and wisdom and miracles are commingled, which might be a worthwhile avenue to explore.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
John 6
In Bible study lately, we've been working in John. The theme of the book is found in John 20.30,31:
The last two weeks have seen us ploughing through chapter six, which records the feeding of the 5000 and the subsequent fallout.
To most readers, this is probably a fairly well-known story, so I'll skip the synopsis to what follows after the miracle.
The narrative is that Jesus and his disciples leave for Capernaum across the sea of Galilee after the feeding. The next day, the people he fed couldn't find him conveniently and sought him out. The latter half of John six documents the conversation the people have with Christ.
As seems to be a habit, Jesus rarely answers their questions directly. The questions here are directly fleshly in nature. The first is, "When did you come to Capernaum," which Jesus rightly interprets as, "We're hungry. Why did you leave in the middle of the night without making some breakfast first?"
He counsels them thus: "Do not labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal." The word for "labor" here is related to the one we see in the next verse, when the people ask, "What must we do to work the works of God?" We might paraphrase, "Uhhhhh, it doesn't sound like you're going to make us breakfast out of thin air. Will you teach us how to do it ourselves?"
Once again, Jesus directs their thinking to the Spirit: "This is the work of God, that you believe on him whom he has sent."
This doesn't satisfy, so they ask again, "What sign will you show us? Moses gave us bread from heaven." They are, in other words, politely nudging him again to their fleshly need—breakfast.
After a bit more thrust and parry, Jesus finally tells them that he is the bread from heaven, that it is his body that will satisfy. He gave them earthly bread to expose their spiritual need for his body, the heavenly bread.
There are a lot of facets to the miracle: the abundance left over, the fulfillment of the type of manna in the desert, the subtle references to Christ as the Word, the followup to the living water (John 4). It's a little much to go into, but at least we can look at it with fresh eyes.
And I would be remiss not to mention how it looks forward to the Last Supper. In the book of Mark, we read of three times that Jesus breaks bread: once for the four thousand, once for the five, and once for his disciples. It is in the last that we see him breaking his body; what a revelation that it indeed is enough.
30 Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of the disciples, which are not written in this book; 31 but these are written so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that by believing you may have life in his name.
The last two weeks have seen us ploughing through chapter six, which records the feeding of the 5000 and the subsequent fallout.
To most readers, this is probably a fairly well-known story, so I'll skip the synopsis to what follows after the miracle.
The narrative is that Jesus and his disciples leave for Capernaum across the sea of Galilee after the feeding. The next day, the people he fed couldn't find him conveniently and sought him out. The latter half of John six documents the conversation the people have with Christ.
As seems to be a habit, Jesus rarely answers their questions directly. The questions here are directly fleshly in nature. The first is, "When did you come to Capernaum," which Jesus rightly interprets as, "We're hungry. Why did you leave in the middle of the night without making some breakfast first?"
He counsels them thus: "Do not labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal." The word for "labor" here is related to the one we see in the next verse, when the people ask, "What must we do to work the works of God?" We might paraphrase, "Uhhhhh, it doesn't sound like you're going to make us breakfast out of thin air. Will you teach us how to do it ourselves?"
Once again, Jesus directs their thinking to the Spirit: "This is the work of God, that you believe on him whom he has sent."
This doesn't satisfy, so they ask again, "What sign will you show us? Moses gave us bread from heaven." They are, in other words, politely nudging him again to their fleshly need—breakfast.
After a bit more thrust and parry, Jesus finally tells them that he is the bread from heaven, that it is his body that will satisfy. He gave them earthly bread to expose their spiritual need for his body, the heavenly bread.
There are a lot of facets to the miracle: the abundance left over, the fulfillment of the type of manna in the desert, the subtle references to Christ as the Word, the followup to the living water (John 4). It's a little much to go into, but at least we can look at it with fresh eyes.
And I would be remiss not to mention how it looks forward to the Last Supper. In the book of Mark, we read of three times that Jesus breaks bread: once for the four thousand, once for the five, and once for his disciples. It is in the last that we see him breaking his body; what a revelation that it indeed is enough.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sleeping
I am still reading in 1 Thessalonians, and I thought I would share a few thoughts that I had while looking at chapter five. I haven't got my Bible in front of me, and this is being written during a lull at work, so I hope this will be (perhaps uncharacteristically) short.
There are two words for "sleep" in Greek, and both are used in 1 Thessalonians. One is used in contrast to being watchful (i.e., wakeful, or awake and paying attention), and the other is used in contrast to being alive.
In chapter four, the apostles assure the church that the resurrection is not already past, and that those who have "fallen asleep" in the Lord will be raised again. This is the word KOIMAW, from which is derived our word cemetery. (It was Christians who first referred to the graveyard as a bedroom.)
The other word used is KAQUEDW, and we see it later in chapter five, in the phrase "whether we wake or sleep, we shall live together with him."
I wonder if perhaps there is a subtle distinction made here. The context of chapter five isn't death, but rather watching for the Lord's return. It seems to me in keeping with that context to look at the aforementioned verse as really speaking to our unfaithfulness, not to our death.
It's something I will spend some time pondering, and perhaps I'll add on to this post later.
Incidentally, there is some discussion of the words used on the B-Greek mailing list (information at link).
There are two words for "sleep" in Greek, and both are used in 1 Thessalonians. One is used in contrast to being watchful (i.e., wakeful, or awake and paying attention), and the other is used in contrast to being alive.
In chapter four, the apostles assure the church that the resurrection is not already past, and that those who have "fallen asleep" in the Lord will be raised again. This is the word KOIMAW, from which is derived our word cemetery. (It was Christians who first referred to the graveyard as a bedroom.)
The other word used is KAQUEDW, and we see it later in chapter five, in the phrase "whether we wake or sleep, we shall live together with him."
I wonder if perhaps there is a subtle distinction made here. The context of chapter five isn't death, but rather watching for the Lord's return. It seems to me in keeping with that context to look at the aforementioned verse as really speaking to our unfaithfulness, not to our death.
It's something I will spend some time pondering, and perhaps I'll add on to this post later.
Incidentally, there is some discussion of the words used on the B-Greek mailing list (information at link).
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Progressive Sanctification
The term "progressive sanctification" is one that I'm really not all that fond of at all. I believe quite strongly in the finished work of Christ, and a part of this is certainly sanctification; see, for example, Hebrews 10.10 ("by the which will we have been sanctified forever"). I find the idea that God did as much as he could do, and now the rest is up to you, frankly quite ridiculous.
I don't want to give the impression in writing those words that I don't have strong opinions about human responsibility. But I have equally strong opinions about how that should be emphasized. The gospel is a gospel of reality, not of possibility. All too often, those who tout progressive sanctification preach the (false) gospel of possibility, not the gospel of reality, and so they teach that God didn't actually make us holy. (I'm not quite sure what they do with Hebrews 10.)
So the verses I've read in 1 Thessalonians 4 recently produced some consternation:
The reason this bothers me a little bit is because I fail at this all the time. Grammatically speaking, I don't see how we can escape the pretty straightforward meaning of these verses: God's will is my sanctification, and that includes me doing and not doing certain things.
We're aided not a little bit here in the realization that (like every other passage regarding sanctification) we're being exhorted to live like who we are:
Don't miss the different prepositions here; the first is EPI and the second EN. While building theology on prepositions is a shaky prospect at best,1 I think it's important to realize that EPI is a preposition of motion,2 and EN a preposition of state. So I think what we're seeing here is that God did not call us to live lives of impurity, but he called us after he sanctified us.
So to an extent, this kind of answers my initial discomfort about whether or not this is a good text for progressive sanctification. It isn't telling us to become more holy as much as it's telling us to live out externally what has already happened internally.
This also happens to answer the other problem I have had with this passage. There is no impediment to God's will: what he wills and what happens, as far as I can tell, are one and the same. I guess I have a hard time reaching the conclusion that God's will may be my sanctification, but it might not happen because of what a terrible sinner I am.
I think verse eight sheds some light on this:
I do not believe it's an accident that God's Spirit is "holy" and that we are "holy". The "progressive" part of our sanctification is the outworking of the Holy Spirit. And so God's will is accomplished in our lives through his Spirit.
Though I generally try to avoid studying the New Testament on my own time, this has been pretty fruitful. (The reason I avoid it is because I know a lot more Greek than Hebrew—I don't know much Greek at all, incidentally—and so the going is slow and I get bogged down in the details.)
[1] Some support immersion-only baptism on the premise that Jesus came out of the water, neglecting historical data that while immersion is the preferred mode of baptism, it has been done in many ways since the early church; Eusebius comments on this.
[2] This is actually a bit of an oversimplification; there is a good discussion of Greek prepositions from the Companion Bible available online.
I don't want to give the impression in writing those words that I don't have strong opinions about human responsibility. But I have equally strong opinions about how that should be emphasized. The gospel is a gospel of reality, not of possibility. All too often, those who tout progressive sanctification preach the (false) gospel of possibility, not the gospel of reality, and so they teach that God didn't actually make us holy. (I'm not quite sure what they do with Hebrews 10.)
So the verses I've read in 1 Thessalonians 4 recently produced some consternation:
This is God's will, your sanctification: that you abstain from fornication; that each of you know how to possess his own vessel in sanctification and honor...
The reason this bothers me a little bit is because I fail at this all the time. Grammatically speaking, I don't see how we can escape the pretty straightforward meaning of these verses: God's will is my sanctification, and that includes me doing and not doing certain things.
We're aided not a little bit here in the realization that (like every other passage regarding sanctification) we're being exhorted to live like who we are:
For God has not called us to impurity, but in sanctification.
Don't miss the different prepositions here; the first is EPI and the second EN. While building theology on prepositions is a shaky prospect at best,1 I think it's important to realize that EPI is a preposition of motion,2 and EN a preposition of state. So I think what we're seeing here is that God did not call us to live lives of impurity, but he called us after he sanctified us.
So to an extent, this kind of answers my initial discomfort about whether or not this is a good text for progressive sanctification. It isn't telling us to become more holy as much as it's telling us to live out externally what has already happened internally.
This also happens to answer the other problem I have had with this passage. There is no impediment to God's will: what he wills and what happens, as far as I can tell, are one and the same. I guess I have a hard time reaching the conclusion that God's will may be my sanctification, but it might not happen because of what a terrible sinner I am.
I think verse eight sheds some light on this:
So, he who rejects this is not rejecting man but the God who gives His Holy Spirit to you.
I do not believe it's an accident that God's Spirit is "holy" and that we are "holy". The "progressive" part of our sanctification is the outworking of the Holy Spirit. And so God's will is accomplished in our lives through his Spirit.
Though I generally try to avoid studying the New Testament on my own time, this has been pretty fruitful. (The reason I avoid it is because I know a lot more Greek than Hebrew—I don't know much Greek at all, incidentally—and so the going is slow and I get bogged down in the details.)
[1] Some support immersion-only baptism on the premise that Jesus came out of the water, neglecting historical data that while immersion is the preferred mode of baptism, it has been done in many ways since the early church; Eusebius comments on this.
[2] This is actually a bit of an oversimplification; there is a good discussion of Greek prepositions from the Companion Bible available online.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
Philemon
I was reading a newsgroup this morning when I came upon a posting that linked to an article on Philemon, which happens to be my favorite New Testament book. I realize we're not supposed to have favorites, and that Philemon all by itself would certainly be insufficient for much of anything. But taken in concert with the revelation we have in the rest of the NT, Philemon really provides us with such a poignant picture of our relationship with God that it has quickly become my most beloved epistle. And I have a comparatively short attention span, so the length of the letter is just perfect.
The historical context is fairly well-known: Paul is writing a letter to his friend and brother in the faith, Philemon, on behalf of Philemon's slave Onesimus. Onesimus ran away from his master, and we are given to understand that in so doing he probably deprived his master not only of his services, but also some goods (verse 18). In that time, animals had more rights than slaves; a man might be imprisoned for beating his horse, but he could do whatever he wished with a slave.1 Running away from your master would likely be considered an offense punishable by death.
We know from historical records that at the time the letter was probably written, a slave uprising in Rome (where Paul was prisoner) led to the death of a prefect. The penalty exacted was death for all of the slaves of the household (of which Secundus reportedly had 400).2
It is in this situation that we find Onesimus, a runaway slave in Rome around the time that 400 slaves are executed. He, too, is under the sentence of death.
I take some time to establish this historical background for two reasons: first, because it interests me, and second, because it represents so well the situation in which we find ourselves vis-á-vis God: running away and under condemnation.
Like Onesimus, we are fleeing, conscious of our guilt. And like Onesimus, we are sovereignly brought to a relationship with the Savior (v15). Paul here acts as a type of Christ, and suddenly the words that he writes become dramatically more meaningful:
(vv 17-19a) In the same way, when Christ returns us to God, he says to the Father, "Receive him as though he were me." He says, "Whatever he owes you, I will pay." And that is such a comfort; in my worse hours, I am often reminded of these verses, which send me running back to the Father.
The Greek here is actually very strong, because Paul uses a first class condition. We might rather translate the phrase, "Since you count me as your partner, ...." Paul does not use rhetoric here, or make a command; he is rather assuming that Philemon indeed is his partner in the faith, and that he will therefore treat Onesimus like he would treat Paul.
The corollary is indeed a revelation of grace. God the Son requests God the Father to receive us, not on the basis of our own merits or abilities, but rather because of his relationship with the Father.
There's more there, of course, but the kernel of the letter is found in those three verses. This is where the gospel may be found, and what good news it is! Our Savior does not condemn or accuse; he assumes the penalty.3
[1] Details are abundant on the web; see here and here for examples.
[2] See Tacitus' Annals, 14.42-45, quoted here.
[3] As a post script, if you compare what I think about Philemon and what the Journal of Biblical Accuracy thinks about Philemon, I think you'll find them at least marginally different. While I would consider their reading true to the letter, I don't know that I would consider it true to the spirit. My intention is not to be critical toward the JBA, but rather to show an example of where reading with an anthropocentric view of Scripture causes us to completely miss the point.
The historical context is fairly well-known: Paul is writing a letter to his friend and brother in the faith, Philemon, on behalf of Philemon's slave Onesimus. Onesimus ran away from his master, and we are given to understand that in so doing he probably deprived his master not only of his services, but also some goods (verse 18). In that time, animals had more rights than slaves; a man might be imprisoned for beating his horse, but he could do whatever he wished with a slave.1 Running away from your master would likely be considered an offense punishable by death.
We know from historical records that at the time the letter was probably written, a slave uprising in Rome (where Paul was prisoner) led to the death of a prefect. The penalty exacted was death for all of the slaves of the household (of which Secundus reportedly had 400).2
It is in this situation that we find Onesimus, a runaway slave in Rome around the time that 400 slaves are executed. He, too, is under the sentence of death.
I take some time to establish this historical background for two reasons: first, because it interests me, and second, because it represents so well the situation in which we find ourselves vis-á-vis God: running away and under condemnation.
Like Onesimus, we are fleeing, conscious of our guilt. And like Onesimus, we are sovereignly brought to a relationship with the Savior (v15). Paul here acts as a type of Christ, and suddenly the words that he writes become dramatically more meaningful:
If thou count me therefore a partner, receive him as myself. If he hath wronged thee, or oweth thee ought, put that on mine account; I Paul have written it with mine own hand, I will repay it:
(vv 17-19a) In the same way, when Christ returns us to God, he says to the Father, "Receive him as though he were me." He says, "Whatever he owes you, I will pay." And that is such a comfort; in my worse hours, I am often reminded of these verses, which send me running back to the Father.
The Greek here is actually very strong, because Paul uses a first class condition. We might rather translate the phrase, "Since you count me as your partner, ...." Paul does not use rhetoric here, or make a command; he is rather assuming that Philemon indeed is his partner in the faith, and that he will therefore treat Onesimus like he would treat Paul.
The corollary is indeed a revelation of grace. God the Son requests God the Father to receive us, not on the basis of our own merits or abilities, but rather because of his relationship with the Father.
There's more there, of course, but the kernel of the letter is found in those three verses. This is where the gospel may be found, and what good news it is! Our Savior does not condemn or accuse; he assumes the penalty.3
[1] Details are abundant on the web; see here and here for examples.
[2] See Tacitus' Annals, 14.42-45, quoted here.
[3] As a post script, if you compare what I think about Philemon and what the Journal of Biblical Accuracy thinks about Philemon, I think you'll find them at least marginally different. While I would consider their reading true to the letter, I don't know that I would consider it true to the spirit. My intention is not to be critical toward the JBA, but rather to show an example of where reading with an anthropocentric view of Scripture causes us to completely miss the point.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
2nd and 3d John Musings
We've recently covered second and third John in church—while they style it as "verse by verse" it's really more "chapter by chapter" there.
Probably part of this is inspired by other readings, but I was struck at the closings of these epistles:
I'm not very old, even if my skeleton sometimes tells me otherwise, and so I expect that as I age I'll have a somewhat deeper perspective than I do now. I also want to tread somewhat lightly here. My initial baptism into reformation theology, if you will, was accompanied by a deep reverence for the Scripture; I would often refer to it as "Jesus on the shelf."
Lest anyone get the wrong idea, I still maintain that reverence, and I still hold fast to sola scriptura. But I found as I studied the Scripture for the Scriptures' sake, I stopped looking at the subject of the revelation—Jesus Christ. As I read in a book recently, it is as though we are studying a score of music without actually listening to the piece itself. The Scriptures have meaning because they reveal Jesus Christ; he is the Word, the fullness of the revelation of God.
And so when I read the conclusions to 2nd and 3d John, it seems almost to me as though Word Himself is saying to us, "There's more that I can tell you, more to write down; but I would rather explain it to you in person, face to face, so that your joy may be full."
We do see through a glass darkly; but the time is coming, and I pray soon, when we shall see him face to face and know him as we are fully known.
Probably part of this is inspired by other readings, but I was struck at the closings of these epistles:
Though I have many things to write to you, I do not want to do so with paper and ink; but I hope to come to you and speak face to face, so that your joy may be made full.
I'm not very old, even if my skeleton sometimes tells me otherwise, and so I expect that as I age I'll have a somewhat deeper perspective than I do now. I also want to tread somewhat lightly here. My initial baptism into reformation theology, if you will, was accompanied by a deep reverence for the Scripture; I would often refer to it as "Jesus on the shelf."
Lest anyone get the wrong idea, I still maintain that reverence, and I still hold fast to sola scriptura. But I found as I studied the Scripture for the Scriptures' sake, I stopped looking at the subject of the revelation—Jesus Christ. As I read in a book recently, it is as though we are studying a score of music without actually listening to the piece itself. The Scriptures have meaning because they reveal Jesus Christ; he is the Word, the fullness of the revelation of God.
And so when I read the conclusions to 2nd and 3d John, it seems almost to me as though Word Himself is saying to us, "There's more that I can tell you, more to write down; but I would rather explain it to you in person, face to face, so that your joy may be full."
We do see through a glass darkly; but the time is coming, and I pray soon, when we shall see him face to face and know him as we are fully known.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
1 John Roundup
We have recently concluded the book of 1 John in church, and the Bible Study I attend should finish it this week, Lord willing.
1 John is an interesting book for a lot of reasons. It contains probably the simplest Greek of any New Testament book, evincing none of the polish of Dr Luke or Paul, but rather uses short and simple phrases. The book describes a number of tensions, usually resolved by treating the participles in chapter three as we treat the English progressive tense.
It is generally interpreted, I think, as a response to libertine Gnostic influence in the church, especially due to repeated emphasis that Christ came in the flesh. As a rule, I am generally wary of hermeneutics that rely overmuch on historical positioning, since I think they lend themselves to abuse,1 but in this case I am somewhat more supportive. First, because 1 John, despite its grammar and vocabulary, is a difficult book. Second, because it helps to unify things nicely.
There were evidently a wide variety of Gnostic groups, but they generally shared a common soteriology (salvation by knowledge) and, as I see it, a denial of physical reality. The flesh is seen either as evil of itself, or as a cosmic mistake of sorts, and so the idea of the humanity of Christ was, to a Gnostic, reprehensible. To the Christian, of course, Christ is more human than his followers.
The libertine Gnostics (there were plenty who were ascetic) evidently felt that due to the flesh's inferiority, fleshly actions were inconsequential—somehow less real than the spiritual. So it was acceptable, for example, to live licentiously because the spiritual world was untouched by the physical.
The Gnostics found in Christianity the logos that they desired; Christ was sent to enlighten and reveal divine knowledge. The notions of enlightenment and reason (whence, I suppose, comes knowledge) are pertinent especially because the Gnostics used similar terms with dramatically different meanings.
John begins the letter very explicitly arguing for the physical nature of the incarnation. The gospels, especially Luke and John, record that he appears physically after his resurrection. He was tangible—the wounds remained, and the disciples could probe them. He ate food, and made careful effort to demonstrate he was not a phantasm or spirit, but a flesh-and-blood human being.
He carries the theme of the incarnation throughout. We see it interspersed often with the strong moral overtones of the book: the repeated emphasis from John is that we are to love one another. At the outset, we see that the book concerns fellowship, both with God (through, e.g., confession), and with each other (through, e.g., love).
It is important to see the anti-gnostic perspective in the verse, "If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, ... his blood cleanses us from all sin" (1Jn 1.7). We err, I think, if we suppose that "walking in the light" means "not sinning"; if we didn't sin, then we would not need cleansing. To the sort of gnostic John preached against, one who was enlightened knew that there was no sin—naturally the sort of reaction we would get in this case is, "But I don't sin!" or "Sin is made up!" But 1.8 follows, which plants us firmly in the reality that sin exists.
The topic of love is not disconnected from this. If we forsake the reality of sin, we lose our understanding of love. Why? Because Christ was manifested to take away our sin. Our understanding of love is depends on how we perceive his sacrifice, and since the gnostics disclaimed the reality of the flesh and thereby the reality of sin, they could not love. We see it distorted into lust by the libertines and condemned by the ascetics. One of the most powerful revelations of God's love for us is given in 1Co 13.
I think we may also find here an oblique statement about the spiritual corporeality present in Christianity. We perceive, and rightly, the corruption of our flesh, both material (we start to die the moment we're born) and spiritual (it is bound by sin). But we are not allowed to believe that this is the purpose and end of the flesh; rather, we are told that we will be raised in incorruption (1Co 15).
This is, I think, why Christ is called the firstfruits. As he was raised, so shall we: in bodies that do not decay. We shall be like him, in that we have no sinful nature. We'll finally be free.
The Gnostics, I think, treated the flesh as inherently corrupted. This leads us in two different paths, both expressed in Gnosticism: licentiousness and aceticism—lives of wantonness and deprivation. This is not what we look forward to.
[1] In particular, I worry that we may be inclined to treat the Scriptures as time-bound when implementing an historical hermeneutic. Some are inclined to look at the moral commands of Scripture as culturally irrelevant, as evidenced by a number of groups that wish to remove bans on homosexuality or to ordain women. Not surprisingly, I find that those who are loose in their theology also tend to be loose in their morality (in the sense that they have a much-reduced perspective of sin; I am not saying that people with loose theology perforce live licentiously).
1 John is an interesting book for a lot of reasons. It contains probably the simplest Greek of any New Testament book, evincing none of the polish of Dr Luke or Paul, but rather uses short and simple phrases. The book describes a number of tensions, usually resolved by treating the participles in chapter three as we treat the English progressive tense.
It is generally interpreted, I think, as a response to libertine Gnostic influence in the church, especially due to repeated emphasis that Christ came in the flesh. As a rule, I am generally wary of hermeneutics that rely overmuch on historical positioning, since I think they lend themselves to abuse,1 but in this case I am somewhat more supportive. First, because 1 John, despite its grammar and vocabulary, is a difficult book. Second, because it helps to unify things nicely.
There were evidently a wide variety of Gnostic groups, but they generally shared a common soteriology (salvation by knowledge) and, as I see it, a denial of physical reality. The flesh is seen either as evil of itself, or as a cosmic mistake of sorts, and so the idea of the humanity of Christ was, to a Gnostic, reprehensible. To the Christian, of course, Christ is more human than his followers.
The libertine Gnostics (there were plenty who were ascetic) evidently felt that due to the flesh's inferiority, fleshly actions were inconsequential—somehow less real than the spiritual. So it was acceptable, for example, to live licentiously because the spiritual world was untouched by the physical.
The Gnostics found in Christianity the logos that they desired; Christ was sent to enlighten and reveal divine knowledge. The notions of enlightenment and reason (whence, I suppose, comes knowledge) are pertinent especially because the Gnostics used similar terms with dramatically different meanings.
John begins the letter very explicitly arguing for the physical nature of the incarnation. The gospels, especially Luke and John, record that he appears physically after his resurrection. He was tangible—the wounds remained, and the disciples could probe them. He ate food, and made careful effort to demonstrate he was not a phantasm or spirit, but a flesh-and-blood human being.
He carries the theme of the incarnation throughout. We see it interspersed often with the strong moral overtones of the book: the repeated emphasis from John is that we are to love one another. At the outset, we see that the book concerns fellowship, both with God (through, e.g., confession), and with each other (through, e.g., love).
It is important to see the anti-gnostic perspective in the verse, "If we walk in the light, as he is in the light, ... his blood cleanses us from all sin" (1Jn 1.7). We err, I think, if we suppose that "walking in the light" means "not sinning"; if we didn't sin, then we would not need cleansing. To the sort of gnostic John preached against, one who was enlightened knew that there was no sin—naturally the sort of reaction we would get in this case is, "But I don't sin!" or "Sin is made up!" But 1.8 follows, which plants us firmly in the reality that sin exists.
The topic of love is not disconnected from this. If we forsake the reality of sin, we lose our understanding of love. Why? Because Christ was manifested to take away our sin. Our understanding of love is depends on how we perceive his sacrifice, and since the gnostics disclaimed the reality of the flesh and thereby the reality of sin, they could not love. We see it distorted into lust by the libertines and condemned by the ascetics. One of the most powerful revelations of God's love for us is given in 1Co 13.
I think we may also find here an oblique statement about the spiritual corporeality present in Christianity. We perceive, and rightly, the corruption of our flesh, both material (we start to die the moment we're born) and spiritual (it is bound by sin). But we are not allowed to believe that this is the purpose and end of the flesh; rather, we are told that we will be raised in incorruption (1Co 15).
This is, I think, why Christ is called the firstfruits. As he was raised, so shall we: in bodies that do not decay. We shall be like him, in that we have no sinful nature. We'll finally be free.
The Gnostics, I think, treated the flesh as inherently corrupted. This leads us in two different paths, both expressed in Gnosticism: licentiousness and aceticism—lives of wantonness and deprivation. This is not what we look forward to.
[1] In particular, I worry that we may be inclined to treat the Scriptures as time-bound when implementing an historical hermeneutic. Some are inclined to look at the moral commands of Scripture as culturally irrelevant, as evidenced by a number of groups that wish to remove bans on homosexuality or to ordain women. Not surprisingly, I find that those who are loose in their theology also tend to be loose in their morality (in the sense that they have a much-reduced perspective of sin; I am not saying that people with loose theology perforce live licentiously).
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Tensions in 1st John
At Bible Study last night, we were looking at first John, as we have been in church, and it struck me that there are tensions throughout the book. For example, the tension in John 3 is that those born of God cannot sin (verse 9), but our experience is that we sin, and quite a bit.
It really begins in chapter 1, where we read that if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and in chapter 2, where we read that if we say we know God and don't keep his commandments, we are liars.
We're in a heap if we equate keeping God's commandments with "not sinning."1 Doesn't that mean that saying "I know him" is the same as "I have no sin"? Aren't these two statements mutually contradictory?
We get another sense of this in 1.7, where we read that if we walk in the light, his blood is cleansing us from all sin. If "walking in the light" means "not sinning," then where is the sin to be cleansed? Doesn't the verse imply that walking in the light includes sin?
How do we approach 3.9, which says that those who are born of God cannot sin?2
I'm not sure that I have the answers to any of these questions (in fact, I'm more sure that I don't), but what interested me some yesterday in the study is the historical context of the book.3 As I understand it, the book is considered a treatment of Gnosticism (Wikipedia article / Catholic Encyclopedia).
Gnosticism is a bit complicated, and I am no expert. As I understand it, the Gnostics generally treated the world as understable through two avenues: a "fleshy" one and a "spiritual" one. This is not entirely out of line with Christian though (see Ga 5, Ro 7, and others). As I've been taught, the Gnostics essentially denied the reality of the flesh and exalted (in their minds) the spiritual realm. This provoked rather licentious living (as mentioned in the "Antinomian School" of the CE article linked above) while simultaneously denying the reality of sin.
And I think perhaps that what we're seeing here is that sin is real, that the flesh is real, and that there is connection between the two more corporeal than we might think at first. (We read of glorified bodies in 1 Co 15, but not glorified spirits.) And so walking in the light (an important concept, I think, for the Gnostics) co-exists with sinning (which the Gnostics disallowed). Our fellowship with God is based on the admission of guilt (1.9), which implies the reality of sin.
And so I wonder if perhaps part of the tension in John is really that it's an explanation of how the spirit and flesh co-exist. In Galatians we read that the flesh fights against the spirit, and that it prevents us from doing what we want to do. In Romans seven, Paul laments that he doesn't even practise (PRASSW) the good he would like to do, but he completely does (POIEW) the evil that he wouldn't.4
Perhaps what we see in 1 John is a description of the spirit (the righteous, incorruptible part of our nature) and the flesh (the unrighteous, corrupted, and dying part). It has given me a lot ot think about, and hopefully will help crystallize some of my thoughts tomorrow when we finish the second chapter.
[1] I'm certainly not persuaded this is the connotation of "to keep" here—the word is more complicated than that—but there's a certain moralistic tone here that can't be denied. Doing the Right Thing is a part of this.
[2] I personally find the grammatical justification for "cannot continually sin" a little weak. I understand why the NIV translates 1 John 3 the way it does—and I'm pretty sure almost everyone else follows suit—but it's difficult to push POIEW into such a translation, and it really makes for some singular translation practices.
[3] I'm not a huge fan of the historical method of exegesis, primarily because it teaches people that we can make some cultural or historic adjustments to doctrine. E.g., there are people I've met who take the Corinthian prohibition against sexual contact as somehow limited to that single church, to that single culture, or that single time period. The same sort of thing happens with any number of sins (most of which I've committed, for whatever it's worth) that are culturally more acceptable today.
[4] One of the reasons it's very difficult follow the translation as mentioned in [2] is that the word POIEW is one that indicates completeness, not habit. We get our word "poem" from POIEW; one does not half-write a poem.
It really begins in chapter 1, where we read that if we say we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and in chapter 2, where we read that if we say we know God and don't keep his commandments, we are liars.
We're in a heap if we equate keeping God's commandments with "not sinning."1 Doesn't that mean that saying "I know him" is the same as "I have no sin"? Aren't these two statements mutually contradictory?
We get another sense of this in 1.7, where we read that if we walk in the light, his blood is cleansing us from all sin. If "walking in the light" means "not sinning," then where is the sin to be cleansed? Doesn't the verse imply that walking in the light includes sin?
How do we approach 3.9, which says that those who are born of God cannot sin?2
I'm not sure that I have the answers to any of these questions (in fact, I'm more sure that I don't), but what interested me some yesterday in the study is the historical context of the book.3 As I understand it, the book is considered a treatment of Gnosticism (Wikipedia article / Catholic Encyclopedia).
Gnosticism is a bit complicated, and I am no expert. As I understand it, the Gnostics generally treated the world as understable through two avenues: a "fleshy" one and a "spiritual" one. This is not entirely out of line with Christian though (see Ga 5, Ro 7, and others). As I've been taught, the Gnostics essentially denied the reality of the flesh and exalted (in their minds) the spiritual realm. This provoked rather licentious living (as mentioned in the "Antinomian School" of the CE article linked above) while simultaneously denying the reality of sin.
And I think perhaps that what we're seeing here is that sin is real, that the flesh is real, and that there is connection between the two more corporeal than we might think at first. (We read of glorified bodies in 1 Co 15, but not glorified spirits.) And so walking in the light (an important concept, I think, for the Gnostics) co-exists with sinning (which the Gnostics disallowed). Our fellowship with God is based on the admission of guilt (1.9), which implies the reality of sin.
And so I wonder if perhaps part of the tension in John is really that it's an explanation of how the spirit and flesh co-exist. In Galatians we read that the flesh fights against the spirit, and that it prevents us from doing what we want to do. In Romans seven, Paul laments that he doesn't even practise (PRASSW) the good he would like to do, but he completely does (POIEW) the evil that he wouldn't.4
Perhaps what we see in 1 John is a description of the spirit (the righteous, incorruptible part of our nature) and the flesh (the unrighteous, corrupted, and dying part). It has given me a lot ot think about, and hopefully will help crystallize some of my thoughts tomorrow when we finish the second chapter.
[1] I'm certainly not persuaded this is the connotation of "to keep" here—the word is more complicated than that—but there's a certain moralistic tone here that can't be denied. Doing the Right Thing is a part of this.
[2] I personally find the grammatical justification for "cannot continually sin" a little weak. I understand why the NIV translates 1 John 3 the way it does—and I'm pretty sure almost everyone else follows suit—but it's difficult to push POIEW into such a translation, and it really makes for some singular translation practices.
[3] I'm not a huge fan of the historical method of exegesis, primarily because it teaches people that we can make some cultural or historic adjustments to doctrine. E.g., there are people I've met who take the Corinthian prohibition against sexual contact as somehow limited to that single church, to that single culture, or that single time period. The same sort of thing happens with any number of sins (most of which I've committed, for whatever it's worth) that are culturally more acceptable today.
[4] One of the reasons it's very difficult follow the translation as mentioned in [2] is that the word POIEW is one that indicates completeness, not habit. We get our word "poem" from POIEW; one does not half-write a poem.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
John 1.11-13
John 1.12 is well known in the soul-winner's handbook:
Ignoring for a moment that they usually quote it without the rest of the sentence (or even the rest of the thought, as happens most often with Romans 3.23), the verse seems a powerful statement in some respects to the Reformed position.
Post-reformation decision theology states, "If you believe, then you're born again," and John 1.12 is often trotted out as a proof text. Both the Reformers and the Catholics would disagree, however—regeneration (the new birth) precedes belief.1 (Naturally the two groups go in a somewhat different direction thereafter.)
So today someone mentioned John 1.12 as a proof that the Calvinistic persuasion that one must be regenerated before believing was wrong.
But I think that if we look a bit more carefully, we'll find a somewhat different picture painted here:
Something should immediately bother us here: God's giving people who are born of God (verse 13) the right to become children of God (verse 12). Doesn't this seem a little obvious?
We might attempt to get around this by saying, "Well, everyone is God's child," which is sometimes done. Being a child of God is, in other words, basically just contingent on being physically born. But we know that this doesn't square with the rest of the verse, which gives us the idea that the birth isn't physical.
A perhaps better approach is to treat the phrase "children of God" as a title. We're still stuck with the obviousness of the statement, but we avoid any glaring issues with the spiritual nature of verse 13.
The key in this approach is verse 11, where we read that Jesus came to his own people and was rejected by them. His own people were Jews. Recall that the Israelites were always God's children, and they were considered his children by being born a Jew. (There were, of course, means of naturalization, e.g., circumcision.) They considered themselves children of God by virtue of their physical heritage. We see this in John 8:
The Jews, in other words, considered God to be their father because Abraham was their father. They excluded Gentiles because of genetics.
This, I think, is the message of John 1.12. Those who did receive Christ were given the same rights and standing as God's children that formerly belonged exclusively to the Jew. This was not based in physical birth, but in spiritual birth. Those who received Christ were born of God and were invested with the right that belonged to the Jews, who rejected Christ (v 11).
The verse does not say that if we believe, we're born again. It speaks to the unity of the body of Christ (cf Ga 3.28). It is clear that man is not born spiritually of his own will, but rather of God. There is no synergy in the new birth.
[1] This follows from the fall. Fallen man cannot in any way remedy his condition; the flesh cannot believe. (The works of the flesh are enumerated in Galatians 5, and they're all evil.) We are dead in sin (Ep 2) and must be made alive before we can believe. This spiritual birth is "being born again," or regenerated. It doesn't happen by believing—the spiritually dead don't believe. They just can't.
But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God,
Ignoring for a moment that they usually quote it without the rest of the sentence (or even the rest of the thought, as happens most often with Romans 3.23), the verse seems a powerful statement in some respects to the Reformed position.
Post-reformation decision theology states, "If you believe, then you're born again," and John 1.12 is often trotted out as a proof text. Both the Reformers and the Catholics would disagree, however—regeneration (the new birth) precedes belief.1 (Naturally the two groups go in a somewhat different direction thereafter.)
So today someone mentioned John 1.12 as a proof that the Calvinistic persuasion that one must be regenerated before believing was wrong.
But I think that if we look a bit more carefully, we'll find a somewhat different picture painted here:
11 He came to his own, and his own people did not receive him. 12 But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.
Something should immediately bother us here: God's giving people who are born of God (verse 13) the right to become children of God (verse 12). Doesn't this seem a little obvious?
We might attempt to get around this by saying, "Well, everyone is God's child," which is sometimes done. Being a child of God is, in other words, basically just contingent on being physically born. But we know that this doesn't square with the rest of the verse, which gives us the idea that the birth isn't physical.
A perhaps better approach is to treat the phrase "children of God" as a title. We're still stuck with the obviousness of the statement, but we avoid any glaring issues with the spiritual nature of verse 13.
The key in this approach is verse 11, where we read that Jesus came to his own people and was rejected by them. His own people were Jews. Recall that the Israelites were always God's children, and they were considered his children by being born a Jew. (There were, of course, means of naturalization, e.g., circumcision.) They considered themselves children of God by virtue of their physical heritage. We see this in John 8:
39 They answered him, "Abraham is our father." Jesus said to them, "If you were Abraham's children, you would be doing what Abraham did, 40 but now you seek to kill me, a man who has told you the truth that I heard from God. This is not what Abraham did. 41 You are doing what your father did." They said to him, "We were not born of sexual immorality. We have one Father—even God."
The Jews, in other words, considered God to be their father because Abraham was their father. They excluded Gentiles because of genetics.
This, I think, is the message of John 1.12. Those who did receive Christ were given the same rights and standing as God's children that formerly belonged exclusively to the Jew. This was not based in physical birth, but in spiritual birth. Those who received Christ were born of God and were invested with the right that belonged to the Jews, who rejected Christ (v 11).
The verse does not say that if we believe, we're born again. It speaks to the unity of the body of Christ (cf Ga 3.28). It is clear that man is not born spiritually of his own will, but rather of God. There is no synergy in the new birth.
[1] This follows from the fall. Fallen man cannot in any way remedy his condition; the flesh cannot believe. (The works of the flesh are enumerated in Galatians 5, and they're all evil.) We are dead in sin (Ep 2) and must be made alive before we can believe. This spiritual birth is "being born again," or regenerated. It doesn't happen by believing—the spiritually dead don't believe. They just can't.
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