Weston Blaha

Author: WestonBlaha

  • When the Kingdom Came in Power: Filling in the Gaps of Mark 8:38-9:1

    When the Kingdom Came in Power: Filling in the Gaps of Mark 8:38-9:1

    In Sunday’s sermon, we explored the sobering and triumphant declaration of Jesus in Mark 8:38–9:1. There, Jesus calls His followers to costly discipleship, warns of judgment, and makes a striking promise: that some standing there would not taste death until they saw the kingdom of God come with power.

    That closing line (9:1) is one of the most debated statements in the New Testament. What did Jesus mean? And did it really come to pass? If not, is it a future event yet to occur? Or could Jesus have been mistaken? This blog post is meant to fill in some of the historical and theological gaps from the sermon and to reaffirm the heart of the message: Jesus was not mistaken. He meant what He said. And His words were fulfilled within a generation.

    The Covenant Context of “Coming”

    In the ancient world, a god “coming” was often a metaphor for divine intervention in history—especially in judgment. This concept saturates the Old Testament. YHWH came in the cloud at Sinai (Ex. 19), in judgment on Egypt (Isa. 19), and through the armies of Babylon against Judah (Hab. 1:6). Significantly, to say that “God is coming” didn’t always mean a physical, visible appearance; it meant His presence would be made known in real and often terrifying ways.

    Jesus picks up that same covenantal framework (He is YHWH, after all–see “Is Jesus YHWH” for more on that). When He says that the Son of Man will come “in the glory of His Father with the holy angels” (8:38), He is invoking Daniel 7—a vision of the Son of Man receiving dominion and judgment authority. This “coming” is judicial, not geographical. In other words, it is expressly covenantal.

    Deuteronomy 28 and the Pattern of Judgment

    In Deuteronomy 28, Israel was warned that if they broke covenant, God would bring foreign nations as judgment: “The Lord will bring a nation against you from far away… like an eagle swooping down” (v. 49). This is the language of divine coming through historical agents. When Jesus predicted Jerusalem’s destruction (cf. Mark 13), He wasn’t imagining some distant apocalypse—He was announcing that the covenant curses were about to fall. And in AD 70, they did—Rome came like a flood.

    Why Not the Transfiguration?

    Some argue that Mark 9:1 refers to the Transfiguration, which happens just six days later. While there are connections—the glory, the divine voice, the cloud—the time-frame of the promise feels exaggerated if it only meant one week later. Additionally, Jesus says that “some standing here will not taste death.” That implies that most would die before this event—hardly a fitting way to describe something happening six days later. With his death, resurrection, ascension, and Pentecost only months away, the fall of Jerusalem nearly 40 years later fits the language better.

    Theological Support

    R.C. Sproul wrote, “The ‘coming’ of Christ in judgment was a real and visible event for those who lived through the fall of the city… not merely a future return.” N.T. Wright likewise argues that Jerusalem’s fall was the public vindication of Jesus’ kingdom mission. Even Matthew Henry notes that Christ’s prediction in Mark 9:1 was fulfilled within that generation.

    So What?

    Jesus’ words came true. Some of those standing there—perhaps John, perhaps others—lived to see the kingdom come in power through judgment. It was not the end of the world, but it was the end of an age. The temple fell, the old covenant was judged and fulfilled, the Church expanded, and Christ was vindicated as Lord.

    For us today, this means Jesus’ words are trustworthy. His kingdom is real. And when He speaks of discipleship, judgment, and glory, He is not playing with vague metaphors, rather, He is proclaiming covenant truth. So take up your cross. Don’t be ashamed of Him. The kingdom has come in power—and it’s still advancing today.

  • Do Christians and Muslims Worship the Same God?

    Do Christians and Muslims Worship the Same God?

    Imagine two patients diagnosed with terminal cancer.
    Both are prescribed chemotherapy. One receives the real thing—an intravenous mixture packed with cytotoxic agents designed to destroy cancer cells. The other receives a solution labeled “chemo,” but it’s made of vitamins, sugar water, and saline. It carries the name, but lacks the necessary power to save. As such, One is healed. The other is not.

    Why? Because despite the label, only one contains the active ingredient—the thing that actually kills the cancer.

    This is the difference between the Christian God and the god of Islam.

    What Makes Chemo Work?

    Chemotherapy isn’t just a name—it’s a treatment defined by its active agents. Drugs like cisplatin, doxorubicin, or paclitaxel do the hard work: they attack DNA, disrupt cell division, and force cancer cells into programmed death. BUT, if you strip away those compounds, you no longer have chemotherapy. You have a label without power.

    The Same is True of God

    Muslims and Christians may both use the word “God,” and they may even believe they are worshiping the one Creator. But when you examine the actual content—the nature and work of that God—you quickly see they are not the same.

    Here’s what the Christian God possesses that the Muslim god denies:

    1. The Trinity – God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This is not an add-on; it is God’s eternal identity.
    2. The Incarnation – God became flesh in Jesus Christ. Islam rejects this completely.
    3. The Cross and Resurrection – At the center of Christian faith is the saving death and bodily resurrection of Jesus. Islam denies both.
    4. Faith-Based Righteousness – Christianity offers salvation by grace through faith in Christ. Islam teaches salvation by works and merit.
    5. The Bible – Christians receive the Old and New Testaments as God’s Word. Muslims reject or overwrite this revelation with the Qur’an.

    By the way, even Muslims don’t believe we worship the same God.
    The Qur’an explicitly denies the deity of Christ, and Islam considers the worship of Jesus as “shirk”—blasphemous idolatry.
    So if Jesus is God to Christians, and not God to Muslims, we are not worshiping the same being.

    Why This Matters

    To say that Christians and Muslims worship the same God is not just misleading—it’s spiritually dangerous. It may sound respectful, even tolerant, but it subtly denies the heart of the gospel.

    If you take away God’s Son, God’s Spirit, God’s Word, and God’s saving grace—you don’t just have “a different perspective on the same God.”
    You have a different god altogether.

    Jesus said, “No one comes to the Father except through me” (John 14:6). That statement is not just exclusive—it’s definitive. A god who cannot be approached through the Son is not the Father. A worship system that denies the cross is not centered on the true and living God (see Mark 8:29-33).

    Conclusion: Chemo by Name Isn’t Enough

    If you jumped to the bottom of this article for the answer, here it is: Christians and Muslims do not worship the same God. In fact, any religion that is not Christianity does not worship the same God of Christianity. Real chemo contains real power. Real salvation comes from the real Triune God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—who acts in history, speaks through Scripture, and saves by grace. Anything else may carry the name, but it cannot heal the soul.

  • Is Jesus YHWH?

    Is Jesus YHWH?

    Imagine a town that’s spent generations crossing a beautiful old stone bridge. It was built centuries ago—carefully engineered, deeply grounded, weathered but strong. But over time, the townspeople begin to forget why it was built the way it was. New generations don’t remember what each stone is for. Some even begin removing parts of the foundation–making room for bigger boats to pass under, widening the path to accommodate more people–and all along assuming that the upper structure will stand on its own. But soon the bridge begins to sag, then crack, and people are left wondering why what used to carry so much weight can no longer bear anything at all.

    This is what happens when Christians forget their theological roots—especially when it comes to who Jesus is.

    One of the most essential, and perhaps most misunderstood, claims of the New Testament is this: Jesus is YHWH. He is not merely a messenger from God or a reflection of God’s character. He is the LORD himself—the covenant God of Israel—come in the flesh. This is not an optional theological add-on. It’s the bedrock of Christian faith. And when that foundation is lost, we not only misread Scripture, we lose our ability to connect the promises of the Old Testament with the fulfillment in the New.

    So let’s walk carefully and clearly through this claim: what does it mean to say “Jesus is YHWH? How did the early church come to this conviction? And why must we hold to it today?

    What Do We Mean By “Jesus is YHWH?”

    Let’s be clear: when Christians say “Jesus is YHWH,” we do not mean that Jesus is the same person as the Father. We mean that Jesus shares the divine identity—that he is fully and truly God, along with the Father and the Holy Spirit.

    YHWH (sometimes written “Yahweh”) is the divine name revealed to Moses at the burning bush (Exod 3:14–15). It’s the covenant name of Israel’s God—the great “I AM.” When Christians say Jesus is YHWH, we are saying that he is not just a messenger of God, not just a great teacher or prophet, but the LORD himself in human flesh. This is at the very heart of Christian faith:

    “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… And the Word became flesh.” (John 1:1, 14)

    The New Testament Applies YHWH Texts to Jesus

    The New Testament doesn’t just call Jesus “God” in a vague sense—it regularly applies Old Testament YHWH passages directly to him. Consider:

    1. Hebrews 1:10–12 quotes Psalm 102:25, a psalm of worship to YHWH, and applies it to Jesus:

      “You, YHWH, laid the foundation of the earth in the beginning…”

    2. Philippians 2:9–11 quotes Isaiah 45:23, where YHWH declares, “To me every knee shall bow,” and says this will happen before “Jesus”:

     “Every knee will bow… and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

    3. Romans 10:13 says:

    “Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved, quoting Joel 2:32—which clearly refers to YHWH.

    4. John 12:41 comments on Isaiah’s vision of the Lord in Isaiah 6 (where angels cry “Holy, holy, holy is YHWH of hosts”) and says:

    “Isaiah said these things because he saw [Jesus’] glory and spoke of him.”

    The claim that Jesus is YHWH isn’t some theological sleight of hand–this is the apostles teaching us who Jesus really is.

    Jesus Takes the Divine Name

    In John 8, Jesus himself make a shocking claims using the divine name:

    “Before Abraham was, I AM.” (John 8:58)

    The crowd knew exactly what he was claiming—they picked up stones to kill him for blasphemy (John 8:59). In Jewish context, “I AM” (“ego eimi“) is a direct reference to Exodus 3:14. Jesus wasn’t just saying he was old—he was identifying himself with YHWH.

    But Isn’t Jesus the Son? How Can He Be YHWH?

    Christian theology has always affirmed the doctrine of the Trinity: one God in three persons—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The Father is YHWH, the Son is YHWH, and the Spirit is YHWH. Not three gods, but one God, united in essence and purpose, eternally existing in three persons. There are many gods (“elohim” in Hebrew), but no other elohim is YHWH elohim. YHWH our elohim, is one elohim (Deut. 6:4)—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

    This isn’t something the church made up in the fourth century. It’s grounded in Scripture itself. The early church believed it, worshiped Jesus accordingly, and died confessing it.

    Why It Matters?

    If Jesus is not YHWH, then Christianity collapses.

    • Only YHWH can save. If Jesus is not God, he cannot be the Savior.
    • Only YHWH deserves worship. Yet the New Testament church worships Jesus.
    • Only YHWH is eternal and unchanging. And Hebrews 13:8 says, “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.”

    To deny that Jesus is YHWH is not to disagree on a side issue—it is to reject the Gospel itself.

    Conclusion

    It can be jarring to realize just how radical Christianity’s claim about Jesus really is. He is not just God’s representative—he is “God with us” (Matt 1:23). He is not just sent by the LORD—he is the LORD.

    The early church didn’t come to the conviction that Jesus is YHWH out of abstract speculation or political convenience. They came to it because the Scriptures demanded it, because the Spirit revealed it, and because the resurrection vindicated it. Jesus is not just the messenger—he is the Message made flesh. He is the I AM who spoke to Moses, the Lord whom Isaiah saw high and lifted up, the Shepherd of Israel, the Alpha and the Omega.

    To deny that Jesus is YHWH is not a small theological misstep—it’s a foundational collapse. And when that foundation erodes, the bridge that once carried the weight of God’s promises into our present moment begins to fail. The church’s ability to connect the God of Sinai with the Christ of the cross, the Psalms with the Gospels, the worship of Israel with the worship of the Church—all of it crumbles when we chip away at the stones our forefathers laid with sweat and blood and prayer.

    We don’t need to modernize the bridge. We need to remember why it was built the way it was—and trust that it is a path as narrow as it should be, as strong at it must be, and spans from death to life as promised.

    So yes, the church is a city on a hill for Christ, just as Israel was for YHWH—because they are not rivals or replacements, but one and the same. Jesus is YHWH in the flesh. And that’s not heresy–that’s Christianity.

    Because Jesus is not merely like YHWH.

    He is YHWH.

    And in him, the covenant holds fast.

  • From Fog Machines to Incense: Why Millennials and Gen Z Are Turning to Liturgy

    From Fog Machines to Incense: Why Millennials and Gen Z Are Turning to Liturgy

    Once upon a time, the ideal church had stadium seating, LED walls, and a worship set indistinguishable from Coldplay. But something is shifting. Slowly, quietly, almost counterintuitively, young Christians are trading smoke machines for incense, TED Talk sermons for creeds, and hype music for hymns. This isn’t a rejection of Christianity. It’s a rejection of thin Christianity—marketed, manufactured, and sometimes, morally bankrupt.

    The End of the Attractional Model

    The numbers are impossible to ignore:

    • 57% of young adults (18–35) say they’re disillusioned with the performance culture of modern church services (Barna, 2023).
    • Churches built on production value but lacking doctrinal depth are losing young adults rapidly, especially post-COVID (Lifeway Research, 2022).
    • Meanwhile, traditions like Anglicanism, Eastern Orthodoxy, and confessional Lutheranism are quietly growing, with Millennials and Gen Zs citing “stability,” “sacramentality,” and “the ancient faith” as primary draws (Pew Research, 2021).

    Howesver, the crisis isn’t just about style—it’s about substance.

    The Failure of Celebrity Christianity

    The attractional, platform-driven model of church is imploding. Ravi Zacharias. Carl Lentz. James MacDonald. Bill Hybels. Houston. Chicago. Seattle. Hillsong. Willow Creek. Each moral failure left not just broken institutions, but disillusioned congregants—many of them young. These churches often slipped into an error which blurred the line between spiritual leadership and brand management.

    For Millennials and Gen Z, many of whom were raised in or around these churches, the damage is personal. Their pastors were brands. Their churches were empires. And when it all fell apart, it felt like betrayal. The result? Not always atheism—not always deconstruction–but often exile. They didn’t leave Jesus; they left a system that packaged Him like a product.

    A Rejection of Postmodern Drift

    But there’s more than just disappointment. There’s also a deeper shift at play: a philosophical revolt against postmodernism itself. Behind all of this lies a long-coming cultural exhaustion. For decades, postmodernism told us:

    • Truth is personal.
    • Morality is relative.
    • Institutions are oppressive.
    • Everything should be fluid.

    Gen Z (those born 1997-2012) has grown up inside this cultural logic—and it has failed them too. They’re drowning in freedom without form; choice without meaning. What began as liberation now feels like disintegration. They want boundaries. They want permanence which, closely tied to this, means they want assurance. “Give us something real.”

    And so, paradoxically, they are running not toward novelty—but toward tradition. Toward structure. Toward the truth-with-borders that creeds and liturgies provide. They want truth that doesn’t flex with public opinion. Democracy is great, but we do not want truth to be democratic.

    “The modern self wants autonomy without limits. But meaning requires boundaries.”
    —Carl Trueman, The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self

    The return to liturgial worship, then, becomes not just church preference—but cultural resistance. It rebells against religious weightlessness and demands gravitas.

    The Hunger for Rootedness

    In place of celebrity pastors and curated sermons, young Christians are seeking:

    • Churches where Scripture is central.
    • The sacraments are serious.
    • Songs with strong theology, not just emotional vibes.
    • Worship that doesn’t depend on charisma but is shaped by ancient rhythms of grace.

    “Liturgy roots us in something enduring when everything else feels like sand.”
    —Tish Harrison Warren, Liturgy of the Ordinary

    The Apostles’ Creed, the Lord’s Prayer, sacraments, the church calendar—these aren’t just words and deeds. They’re instruments of formation, drawing weary modern souls into a faith that doesn’t collapse under pressure of individualism. These people are not chasing novelty. They’re chasing rootedness—a way to tie their lives to something older, deeper, and durable.

    Ancient Form, Living Faith

    It is important to emphasize: this isn’t nostalgia. This isn’t your hair-style from the 80s coming back into vogue. This is much more formative, much more impactful, much more lasting: it’s discipleship.

    “We are not just brains on a stick. We are lovers, shaped by rituals more than arguments.”
    —James K.A. Smith, You Are What You Love

    In this light:

    • Confession becomes countercultural honesty.
    • Creeds become resistance to relativism.
    • Communion becomes a protest against consumerism.
    • The church calendar becomes a reorientation of time itself.

    Liturgy grounds the rhythms of life into something real.

    In a culture trained to deconstruct everything, liturgical worship reconstructs the soul’s purpose. It insists that we are part of something greater than ourselves. It binds us to the body of Christ throughout the ages. As such, liturgy doesn’t just express who we are—it forms our identity.

    You Don’t Need a Cathedral

    Here’s the good news: You don’t have to be Roman Catholic, Orthodox or Anglican to lean into liturgy. You don’t need incense, robes, or a Gothic sanctuary. You simply need intentionality and the willingness to hold the line against patterns and designs that highlight hype over holiness. A simple, liturgucal service has:

    • Call and response.
    • Communion.
    • Psalm and hymn singing.
    • Preaching of the Word.
    • Historic creeds and prayers.
    • A church calendar that teaches Christ’s story, season by season.

    Even low-church Protestants can—and should—recover these rhythms. Because in a world of distraction, these are repetitive and necessary tools of spiritual formation. In a culture of postmodern instability, they become anchors of grace for weary souls.

    Conclusion: A Church With Memory

    Many young adults aren’t leaving the church because they are done with Jesus–they’re leaving because the church forgot how to be the Church. But the way forward isn’t innovation: its recovery. Young adults are daily bombarded with the new, but what they need is the old.

    Gen Z want to be part of something bigger than themselves–something tested and true, something that feels enduring. Creeds and confessions and established church liturgy unite the Church through the ages–the Church catholic(lower-case “c”!)–in a way that fog machines and celebrity pastors cannot. Instead of being of Apollos of Paul, young adults desire to be of Christ and his Church. It’s about being a part of something bigger, not being the biggest part of something.

    So, in an age of curated identities, collapsing platforms, and theological drift, the most radical thing a Christian can do…

    …is confess, and say together:

    “I believe in God the Father Almighty,
    Maker of heaven and earth.”

    Barna Group. The Open Generation: United States, 2023.

    Lifeway Research. Worship Attendance Trends Post-Pandemic, 2022.

    Pew Research Center. America’s Changing Religious Landscape, 2021.

    Carl Trueman, The Rise and Triumph of the Modern Self, 2020.

    Tish Harrison Warren, Liturgy of the Ordinary, 2016.

    James K.A. Smith, You Are What You Love: The Spiritual Power of Habit, 2016.

  • Prophetic Literacy and the End of an Age

    Prophetic Literacy and the End of an Age

    Many modern Christians treat biblical prophecy like a secret codebook—deciphering signs in the sky, tracking global politics, and panicking at every Middle Eastern rocket launch. But this “populist” reading of prophecy is more about headlines than holiness. And popular isn’t the same as faithful. Remember: in AD 33, the popular view was that Jesus was a blasphemer. So a better question might be: How did the early church understand prophecy? Do any New Testament examples help us reframe our assumptions?

    It might be surprising to hear that in the early church prophecy was something that found its fulfillment in the immediate, immanent, and practical “now.” It would be generally unheard of for someone to prophecy the specifics of an event 1000 years down the road—that is simply not how the ancient mind understood prophecy. That sort of prophecy held no impact or bearing on the life of the living. Rather, the normative mode for prophecy was one in which the prophet could be judged and weighed according to the correctness of his declaration. As such, in the Jewish world, vague oracles were not considered helpful nor divine. The case of Agabus—one of the few named prophets in the New Testament—offers an illuminating glimpse into how prophecy functioned within the apostolic community. That glimpse, when rightly understood, shines light upon how we should approach John’s Revelation.

    Agabus: A Prophet of the Present

    Agabus appears twice in Acts. First in Acts 11, where he predicts a famine under Claudius, which occurs soon after (AD 46-48). Second, in Acts 21, he foretells Paul’s arrest in Jerusalem. But each time, the pattern is clear: Agabus tells the church what is imminent, not what is distant. His prophecies are specific and time-bound—fulfilling the Deuteronomic standard (Deut. 18:22) and coming to pass within the lifetime of the hearers.. But perhaps most importantly, they prompt a tangible response from the church.

    When Agabus warns of the famine the disciples determined to send relief to the brothers living in Judea (Acts 11:29). No speculation, no panic: just action. The same realism holds in Acts 21. Paul does not question the prophecy—only what it demands of him. Agabus doesn’t speak in riddles or vague, partial fulfillments: he interprets unfolding events with Spirit-given clarity. 

    Prophecy and the Shape of New Testament Expectations

    This raises an important hermeneutical question: If New testament prophecy functions this way—why do we treat Revelation differently? A preterist reading (from praeter, Latin for “past”) sees Revelation speaking to the urgent realities facing the first-century church: persecution, the corrupting power of empire, and the impending judgment on apostate Israel. As G.K. Beal writes, “the book’s purpose is not to satisfy curiosity about the future, but to fortify believers to remain faithful in the present.”1 That purpose aligns perfectly with how prophecy operated in the early church—guiding believers through immediate historical crises. Agabus helps us read Revelation not as detached eschatology, but as pastoral prophecy. This is one of the roles of the “Apocalyptic” genre of prophecy. It does not attempt to tell you how God will do something, but rather, what he will accomplish in the most epic and convincing terms possible. As John tells us at the beginning of his letter, “These things must soon take place” (Rev. 1:1). In John’s life, the time was near (Rev 1:3), not distant. 

    Why This Matters

    The early church saw itself as living at the culmination of covenantal history. We must distinguish between the end of the world and the end of a covenantal world. The early church didn’t expect the collapse of creation, but the closing of an age—the Mosaic age (cf. Heb. 8:13). The prophetic word, then, is not an abstract oracle—it is God’s interpretation of unfolding covenantal realities. Thus, Revelation is covenantal judgment, not cosmic annihilation. As such, we must not understand the prophetic word as something floating in abstraction—no, it was significantly tethered to a present unfolding reality.

    This can be seen in Acts 2, where Peter specifically ties eschatological prophecy to Pentecost: “your sons will prophesy” (Joel 2). In this verse, Peter is stating something controversial for many of today’s readers: the end time prophecies were being fulfilled in Peter’s day. This whole argument can be summarized in a sentence: prophetic testimony pointed to Christ, not to distant geopolitical puzzles. Prophecy is about covenant, not conspiracy.

    Agabus and Revelation Read Together

    So how does Agabus clue us in on how to read Revelation? Well, Agabus provides a template: prophecy was given for the hearers’ immediate application and edification. Agabus doesn’t just predict events—he shepherds the church through them. This is the key: prophecy is pastoral, not predictive for its own sake. Which brings us to Revelation. Revelation should do the same for us today and all generations past and present—just on a larger, symbolic scale. As Richard Bauckham observes, “Revelation is a work of prophetic interpretation of the contemporary situation of the churches.”2 Whereas Agabus warns of famine and persecution, John warns of impending covenantal undoing–an “unmaking” of a people who rejected their Messiah, culminating in the fulfillment of the old covenant–which simultaneously results in the judgment of those in said covenant. When a covenant is broken, so is the relationship. Thus, as the old covenant is fulfilled and executed, the new covenant is inaugurated (Rev 11; Matt 24; Mark 12-13), the covenant Israel had long awaited (Deut. 30:6; Jer. 31:31–34; Ezek. 36:25–27). Thus, Revelation does not serve to warn of impending global doom, rather, it warns of the danger of covenant failure–and encourages those who finish the race well.

    Conclusion: Recovering Prophetic Literacy

    N. T. Wright, when speaking of prophecy writes, “Prophets were not fortune tellers. They were covenant watchdogs.”3 In other words, they were covenantal lawyers, telling the people when they violated the covenant and how God intended to respond. But these perspectives have been lost amongst the popular views of the “end times,” attributing weight and purpose that were not originally intended. As such, to read Revelation rightly, we must do the difficult work of recovering the church’s prophetic literacy:

    • Prophecy is not prediction, but perspective—God’s commentary on history.
    • We live in the overlap of the ages (1 Cor. 10:11)—not on the brink of escape, but in the thick of endurance.
    • Revelation calls us to faithfulness, not fear—to worship, not worry.

    Agabus reminds us that prophecy is timely, clear, and covenantal. So let us read Revelation not as a puzzle for tomorrow, but a call to faithfulness today. Because Christ has triumphed—and that changes everything.

    1. G.K. Beale, The Book of Revelation: A Commentary on the Greek Text (NIGTC; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 29.   ↩︎
    2. Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 2. ↩︎
    3. N.T. Wright, The New Testament and the People of God, p. 144. ↩︎
  • Keeping the Fire Alive: Parenting Beyond Camp

    Keeping the Fire Alive: Parenting Beyond Camp

    For fifteen years, I walked alongside teenagers in youth ministry. This week, I have the privilege of leading a youth camp that gathers students in our presbytery for a week of worship, the Word, and wild games. I’ve witnessed the mountaintop moments over the years of summer camp—the tearful confessions, the arms lifted in praise, and hearts awakened to the beauty of Christ and his work on our behalf.

    But I’ve also seen what happens two weeks later. What was burning becomes dim. What was fresh fades into habit. Parents (and often the students) ask, “What happened? Camp was so powerful—why didn’t it last?”

    Here’s the hard truth: summer camp was never meant to last on its own.

    “Mountaintops are for views and inspiration, but fruit is grown in the valley.”
    —Billy Graham

    The Campfire Needs a Fireplace

    In Deuteronomy, Moses stands on the edge of the Promised Land and speaks to a generation who had not been at Sinai. They hadn’t seen the plagues. They hadn’t walked through the sea. And yet, Moses doesn’t lower the bar or appeal to sentiment. He calls them to covenantal faithfulness rooted in doctrinal clarity and community accountability.

    “These words that I command you today shall be on your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children…” (Deut. 6:6–7)

    The command is not first to the elders or “pastors.” It is to the parents. Israel was not told to rely on charismatic prophets or emotional gatherings. The Word was to be engraved in the home.

    And the surrounding chapters make this clear: doctrine is not a list of abstract ideas—it’s the story of God’s faithfulness, taught and embodied daily. Deuteronomy is thick with covenantal rhythm: teaching at meals, binding Scripture on hands and foreheads, writing it on doorposts (6:8–9), reenacting it in liturgical ceremony (ch. 27), and calling the whole community to live in view of blessings and curses.

    In short: Christian formation was never meant to be outsourced.

    Truth Witout Roots Will Wilt

    Let’s borrow one of Jesus’ favorite illustrations, and use it in a slightly different context: At camps and conferences, we plant and water seeds. Sometimes they sprout fast. Sometimes they sprout slow. But unless they take root in the soil of the local church and the water of Word-saturated homes, they will wither.

    Research confirms this: according to studies from Lifeway and Barna, nearly two-thirds of teens who are active in church during high school will walk away from the church in their twenties—most of them beginning that drift during late high school and early college. The drop-off doesn’t happen after graduation—it begins long before.

    Why? Often it’s not because they reject Christianity outright. It’s because they were never deeply rooted in the first place. They had inspiration but lacked integration. They were moved but not formed.

    A Fireplace for the Fire

    Your students need more than campfire worship–they need a fireplace to keep the flame hot. When fire is kept in a fireplace, it is easy to stoke, revive, or increase in temperature. It is when you pull it out of the fireplace that the fire begins to struggle. It loses heat quicker. It’s exposed to outside elements. Once the flame loses its heat, we end up doing weird and foreign things to keep it going. We stop putting in wood. We hit it with a 5-second squirt of lighter fluid. We toss in paper trash. In short, we use abnormal means to revive the flame so it can burn at an acceptable level. But the only true and lasting remedy is simple: Put the fire back in the fireplace.

    So, the question becomes: is your home a fireplace? What about your church? Or do you find yoursleves constantly doing weird things to keep your child interested in their spiritual walk? Your student needs more than campfire worship a couple times each year. They need:

    • Doctrinal instruction at both home and the church that connects their identity to the story of redemption (Deut. 5–11)
    • Moral worldview shaped by God’s law as wisdom and life (Deut. 4:6; 30:19)
    • Ritual rhythms that habituate faith—church attendance, communion, prayer, confession (Deut. 12; 26)
    • Covenant community that calls them back when they stray (Deut. 29)

    You don’t have to be a Bible scholar to do this. But you do need to be present. The Word of God is not just a Sunday event—it’s a way of life. And the home is the primary stage.

    A Word to Parents

    If you’ve sent your kid to camp, thank you. Seriously. It matters.

    But please don’t see camp as the climax of their spiritual year. See it as a spark. A moment to build on. A reminder that your child is being invited into something deeper than a one-week experience—they are being summoned into a lifelong covenant with the living God.

    And in that covenant, you have a vital role. The same God who said, “I will be your God, and you shall be my people,” also said, “Teach them diligently to your children.” Camp can light the fire. But the fireplace—that’s your home. Your church. Your rhythms.

    Let’s not give our kids an emotional high and then abandon them to spiritual cold–that’s just “lighter-fluid Christianity.” Let’s give them doctrine. Let’s give them covenant. Let’s give them Christ, again and again.

  • Stop Calling It ‘Legalism’: Why Obedience Isn’t the Enemy of Grace

    Stop Calling It ‘Legalism’: Why Obedience Isn’t the Enemy of Grace

    “Know therefore that the LORD your God is God, the faithful God who keeps covenant and steadfast love with those who love him and keep his commandments.”
    — Deuteronomy 7:9

    Somewhere along the way, we decided that “obedience” was a dirty word. In much of modern evangelical discourse, any serious talk of God’s commands is met with suspicion. If you suggest that Christians are called not only to believe but to obey, someone will inevitably cry, “Legalism!” And so, slowly and subtly, a generation of well-meaning believers has learned to recoil from the language of covenant loyalty—as if obedience were a threat to grace, rather than the fruit of it. But Scripture doesn’t share our hesitation. Especially not in Deuteronomy.

    Covenant Love Demands Covenant Loyalty

    Deuteronomy is a book of covenant—a re-preaching of God’s law at the edge of the Promised Land. But it’s not cold legislation. It’s a call to relational faithfulness. It is a document of catechesis, hoping to convince Israel that everything has moral applications–there is no neutral. Over and over, Moses pleads with Israel to love the Lord their God by walking in His ways, keeping His commandments, and living in the land under His blessing (Deut 10:12–13; 30:15–20).

    This is not legalism. It’s covenant logic.

    “Because you are His, therefore walk in His ways.”
    “Because He brought you out of Egypt, therefore obey His voice.”
    “Because He loves you, therefore love Him with all your heart.”

    Deuteronomy teaches that obedience flows out of prior redemption. This is why there is so much historical background packed into the book. The law doesn’t earn Israel’s place in the covenant; it expresses it. It is how a people redeemed from the bondage of Egypt live with their Redeemer in a land that belongs to Him.

    Grace Is Not Passivity

    There’s a dangerous modern reflex to pit grace and effort against each other, as if they were theological enemies. But the Bible doesn’t hesitate to call redeemed people to strive (Heb 12:14), to make every effort (2 Pet 1:5–10), and to work out their salvation with fear and trembling (Phil 2:12).

    That’s not works-righteousness. That’s grace-empowered obedience.

    And if the law is written on our hearts (Jer 31:33), if God’s Spirit causes us to walk in His statutes (Ezek 36:27), then obeying God is not opposed to grace—it’s grace in motion. We don’t keep commandments to get into the covenant; we keep them because we are in it. To refuse obedience is not freedom—it’s infidelity.

    The Rhetoric of Faithfulness

    My own research in Deuteronomy focuses on how Moses uses rhetoric—not just commands—to shape Israel’s heart. The commands are liturgical, embodied, communal. They’re not just rules to follow; they’re rhythms to form a people.

    Deuteronomy 27–30, for example, is not merely law—it is liturgy. It frames obedience as worship, as covenant renewal, as a public enactment of loyalty before God and one another. There’s no cold morality here—there’s persuasive covenantal love. And that makes obedience not only possible, but beautiful.

    When we flatten obedience into a checklist or reject it as legalism, we miss the whole heart of the covenant.

    The Real Enemy of Grace

    Here’s the irony: the church’s fear of legalism has often led it into the arms of a subtler and deadlier enemy—antinomianism. The refusal to name sin, the unwillingness to call people to holy living, the rebranding of worldliness as authenticity—all of this is not grace. It’s neglect.

    It’s not loving to tell someone Jesus is Savior and never call them to follow Him as Lord.

    Legalism says, “Obey and God will love you.”
    Antinomianism says, “God loves you, so obedience doesn’t matter.”
    But the gospel says, “God loves you in Christ, therefore walk in a manner worthy of the calling you have received.”

    Pastoral Plea

    As a pastor, I want people to know the God who saves freely—and who calls us to follow Him wholly. I want to be a people that treasures grace so deeply that we gladly obey the One who gave it. Not to earn love, but because we already have it.

    So let’s stop calling covenant obedience “legalism.” Let’s stop apologizing for holiness.

    Let’s stop confusing freedom with autonomy.

    Instead, let’s rediscover the grace-fueled joy of living as a people who belong to God, in every moment and every motive.

  • Gospels vs. Epistles: Key Differences Explained

    Gospels vs. Epistles: Key Differences Explained

    Introduction

    Genre, when studing the Scriptures, is an often ignored piece of the contextual puzzle. In today’s culture, we are (mostly) adept at distinguishing between what is satire, poetry, news, opinion, etc. We are able (hopefully!) to discern a work’s genre intutitvely as we read, sometimes changing out perception of the genre as more information is gathered along the way. However, when 2,000 years separates the text from the reader, genre may not be so easily identifiable. This post offers some hermeneutical considerations for a New Testament reader in the 21st century.

    Ramification vs. Application

    While the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke, John) do contain ethical teaching, their primary purpose is Christological revelation, not moral instruction. They are designed to answer “Who is this Jesus?” and present the ramifications of his identity and work. Luke tells us that his Gospel is written “that you may have certainty concerning the things you have been taught” (Luke 1:4). John states, “but these things 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” (John 20:31). In short, the Gospels seek to produce a work of justification–opening our eyes to who Jesus is and what he has done.

    The Epistles, by contrast, answer “What does it mean to live in light of who Jesus is?” and are filled with applications for the church. The Epistles are the “wisdom literature” of the New Testament. It is here that the focus shifts generally from justification to sanctification (though neither are absent from Gospels or Epistles). Thus, with the knowledge of the Gospels, how is one now to live?

    It must be clearly stated up front: the Gospels are not written at the expense of instruction, however the primary concern is identification. Thus, we may find more ramifications in the Gospels than applications, though they are by no means mutually exclusive. A ramification is something that has implications, follows from the truth, is indirect, analytical, and answers the question “What does this imply?” An application has practical outworkings, tells us what to do with the truth, is direct and concrete, pastoral, and answers the question “How should we respond?” As one can see, ramifications and applications overlap, but are, at the same time, distinct. Just as justicifation is distict from sanctification, they cannot exist without the other. Thus, the Gospels are justification-focused, with significant ramifications. The Epistles are sanctification-focused, with significant applications. To summarize the argument in a phrase: the Gospels major in ramification, the Epistles major in application.

    1. The Gospels: Ramifications of the Christ Event

    Genre Orientation:

    The Gospels function in the tradition of Greco-Roman bios—not as moral manuals, but as identity-defining narratives. They reveal Jesus’ nature through action, fulfillment of prophecy, confrontation, and ultimately his passion and resurrection.

    Key Ramifications:

    • Christological: Jesus is the Son of God, Messiah, fulfillment of Israel’s hopes.
      • Ramification: The kingdom of God has come (Mark 1:15).
    • Cosmic: His resurrection signals the in-breaking of the new creation.
      • Ramification: Death is defeated (John 11:25–26).
    • Political: Jesus is Lord, not Caesar.
      • Ramification: Allegiance to Jesus may cost everything (Matt. 10:34–39).
    • Covenantal: Jesus reconstitutes Israel around himself.
      • Ramification: The people of God are defined by relation to him, not to Abraham (Matt. 12:48–50).

    The Gospels confront the reader not primarily with a command but with a claim—that Jesus is who he says he is. This reality is what elicits faith: do you believe this claim?

    2. The Epistles: Application of the Christ Event

    Genre Orientation:

    Epistles are occasional writings—pastoral, theological, and didactic—written to communities already convinced that Jesus is Lord. Their function is to encourage, clarify, explain and apply what it means to live in light of the Gospel.

    Key Applications:

    • Ethical: “Put off the old self… put on the new” (Eph. 4:22–24).
    • Ecclesial: “Bear one another’s burdens” (Gal. 6:2); unity in Christ (Phil. 2).
    • Missional: “Be ambassadors for Christ” (2 Cor. 5:20).
    • Doctrinal-Pastoral: “If Christ is raised… your labor is not in vain” (1 Cor. 15:58).

    The Epistles turn the theological ramifications revealed in the Gospels into practical applications for community life, ethics, worship, and mission.

    3. Theological Implication: Genre Shapes Interpretation

    By maintaining this distinction:

    • We protect the Gospels from being moralized into “how-to” manuals that reduce Jesus to a mere example–this is one of the signifcant errors of theolgical liberalism.
    • We honor the Epistles’ function as Spirit-inspired apostolic instruction for believers learning to embody the new reality inaugurated in Christ.
    • We orient readers properly: the Gospels are revelatory and confrontational; the Epistles are formative and instructive.

    Conclusion:

    The Gospels primarily give us the ramifications of Christ’s person and work—they reveal who he is and what that means for the world. The Epistles provide the applications of that reality—they teach us how to live in a world where Jesus is Lord. Both genres are essential, both genres overlap into the other’s sphere, but confusing their purposes can lead to shallow moralism on one hand, legalism on the other, or disconnected theology altogether.

  • From Abel to Zechariah: The Two Witnesses and the Covenant Lawsuit Against Jerusalem

    From Abel to Zechariah: The Two Witnesses and the Covenant Lawsuit Against Jerusalem

    Introduction

    The identity of the two witnesses in Revelation 11 has long intrigued readers and scholars. Are they literal figures from Israel’s history—perhaps Moses and Elijah, or Enoch and Elijah—returned to the stage of redemptive history? Or are they symbolic representations of the Church, the Law and the Prophets, or the faithful community? In the swirl of interpretations, one striking possibility has received less attention: the idea that the two witnesses represent Abel and Zechariah, the first and last martyrs of the Old Testament period, as identified by Jesus in Matthew 23:35. This study reexamines the identity of the two witnesses in Revelation 11, suggesting they represent Abel and Zechariah as symbolic figures in a covenantal indictment.

    In this article, I argue that the two witnesses symbolize these two prophetic martyrs, not as resurrected individuals but as archetypal figures. Their witness is not merely individual but covenantal—bearing testimony to God’s justice in the face of Israel’s long history of persecuting the prophets. This reading finds strong support in Jesus’ words to the religious leaders of His day, when He says that all the righteous blood shed on earth—from Abel to Zechariah—would come upon that generation (Matt. 23:35–36).

    When viewed through the partial-preterist lens, which understands much of Revelation as a prophetic vision of events leading up to the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 A.D., this identification makes theological and narrative sense. Revelation 11 becomes part of a larger covenantal lawsuit against Israel, one that began with the first blood shed (Abel) and culminated in the martyrdom of Zechariah. The two witnesses stand as the final testimony against the “great city… where their Lord was crucified” (Rev. 11:8)—a city ripe for judgment.

    Matthew 23:35 and the Arc of Prophetic Martyrdom

    In Matthew 23, Jesus delivers one of the most sobering pronouncements of judgment in the New Testament. Speaking to the scribes and Pharisees, He unveils a scathing indictment of Israel’s history of killing the prophets and rejecting God’s messengers. The climax comes in verses 34–36:

    “Therefore I send you prophets and wise men and scribes, some of whom you will kill and crucify, and some you will flog in your synagogues and persecute from town to town, so that on you may come all the righteous blood shed on earth, from the blood of righteous Abel to the blood of Zechariah the son of Barachiah, whom you murdered between the sanctuary and the altar. Truly, I say to you, all these things will come upon this generation.” (Matt. 23:34–36, ESV)

    Here, Jesus frames Israel’s history of prophetic martyrdom as a unified witness—a long chain of testimony that condemns the covenant people’s rebellion. Abel, murdered by his brother Cain (Gen. 4:8), is recognized as the first martyr. Zechariah—likely Zechariah son of Jehoiada,1 murdered in the temple court during the reign of King Joash (2 Chron. 24:20–22)—is presented as the last in the Hebrew canon’s historical order (Genesis to Chronicles).

    The phrase “from Abel to Zechariah” functions as a literary merism, covering the entire span of Old Testament prophetic witness. And notably, Jesus says that this generation—the very one He was addressing—would bear the consequences. In partial-preterist interpretation, this statement refers directly to the judgment that fell on Jerusalem in 70 A.D., when the temple was destroyed and the Old Covenant order decisively ended.

    In this context, Abel and Zechariah are more than individual martyrs; they represent the cumulative indictment of a nation that rejected God’s messengers. It is precisely this legal and prophetic function that links them to the two witnesses of Revelation 11. Jesus sets the interpretive framework: these two martyrs stand for the righteous blood that calls for justice and precedes divine judgment.

    Revelation 11: The Two Witnesses and the Judgment on Jerusalem

    Revelation 11 introduces two mysterious figures—“my two witnesses”—who prophesy for 1,260 days, clothed in sackcloth.2 Their ministry is powerful, echoing the deeds of Moses and Elijah. They are described as “the two olive trees and the two lampstands that stand before the Lord of the earth” (Rev. 11:4), a clear allusion to Zechariah 4. After their testimony, they are killed by “the beast that rises from the bottomless pit,” and their bodies lie unburied in “the great city that is symbolically called Sodom and Egypt, where their Lord was crucified” (Rev. 11:7–8).

    That final phrase—“where their Lord was crucified”—grounds the setting in Jerusalem. And Jerusalem, in the partial-preterist reading, is not just the geographic location but the theological centre of covenant unfaithfulness. Just as Jesus indicted the city for killing the prophets (Matt. 23:37), Revelation dramatizes the consequences of that history in apocalyptic terms.

    The witnesses are eventually resurrected and ascend to heaven, vindicated before the watching world. Their deaths trigger a great earthquake and the destruction of a tenth of the city, a symbolic sign of divine judgment. This is not the fall of Rome or the end of the world—it is the judgment Jesus predicted would come upon “this generation” (Matt. 23:36).

    Here, Abel and Zechariah emerge as fitting symbolic identities for the two witnesses. They are not literal individuals returned to earth but archetypes of prophetic martyrdom. Just as their blood cried out to God (cf. Gen. 4:10; 2 Chron. 24:22), so the two witnesses in Revelation bear testimony against the covenant-breaking city. Their ministry, death, and resurrection encapsulate the story Jesus told in Matthew 23: a long history of rejected messengers, culminating in divine wrath.

    The Legal Function of Witnesses: Covenant Testimony and Judgment

    In biblical law, the testimony of two or three witnesses was required to establish a legal case (Deut. 19:15). This principle is echoed throughout both Testaments and provides the foundation for understanding the symbolic function of the two witnesses in Revelation 11. They are not simply prophets; they are legal agents, bearing witness in a covenant lawsuit against an unfaithful people.

    Within this legal framework, Abel and Zechariah serve as the first and final witnesses of the Old Covenant era. Abel’s blood “cries out from the ground” (Gen. 4:10), and Zechariah’s dying words were a plea for justice: “May the LORD see and avenge!” (2 Chron. 24:22). Their blood forms a bookend to Israel’s prophetic history—a continual testimony that reaches its climax in the generation of Jesus and the apostles.

    By identifying the two witnesses of Revelation 11 with Abel and Zechariah, we interpret their ministry as part of this legal and prophetic continuum. Their deaths are not merely tragic—they are judicial. They complete the testimony of the prophets, and their vindication signals that the case against Jerusalem is closed. Judgment follows.3

    This identification does several important things:

    1. It reinforces the unity of Scripture. Jesus’ words in Matthew 23 and the vision of Revelation 11 speak the same language: the blood of the prophets bears witness against Jerusalem, and God is not blind to it. The prophetic voice—beginning with Abel and ending with Zechariah—finds its final echo in the two witnesses. Revelation is not introducing a new message; it is confirming what Jesus already declared.
    2. It makes sense of the timing. Jesus explicitly said that “all these things will come upon this generation” (Matt. 23:36). The partial-preterist view takes Him at His word. The events of Revelation 11—particularly the judgment on the “great city where their Lord was crucified”—finds fulfilment not at the end of history, but within history, in the destruction of Jerusalem. Abel and Zechariah, as archetypal witnesses, testify to this judgment.
    3. It honours the covenantal structure of biblical revelation. Throughout the Bible, God brings judgment only after repeated prophetic warnings. Abel and Zechariah, as the beginning and end of the prophetic line, embody this divine patience. Their resurrection in Revelation 11 symbolizes the vindication not only of their own testimony, but of the entire faithful remnant under the Old Covenant.
    4. It deepens the significance of Christ’s ministry. Jesus did not merely warn of judgment; He located it in a long history of martyrdom. By invoking Abel and Zechariah, He made clear that His generation stood at the tipping point of covenant history. Revelation 11, by recalling this imagery, underscores that same truth: Christ was not only crucified in Jerusalem—He was the final Prophet, and those who rejected Him rejected the whole prophetic witness.4

    Conclusions and Response to Counterarguments

    The identification of the two witnesses in Revelation 11 as Abel and Zechariah offers a cohesive, theologically rich interpretation that aligns with Jesus’ own words in Matthew 23 and fits naturally within a partial-preterist reading of Revelation. These two figures, as the first and last martyrs of the Old Covenant era, represent the fullness of Israel’s rejection of God’s messengers. Their prophetic ministry, death, and vindication reflect the pattern of covenantal faithfulness met with hostility, culminating in divine judgment on Jerusalem in 70 A.D.

    By seeing Abel and Zechariah as symbolic, collective figures—embodying the witness of the faithful rather than acting as literal resurrected individuals—we preserve the prophetic, literary nature of apocalyptic imagery while rooting it firmly in biblical history and theology.

    Response to Counterarguments

    1. “The two witnesses must be Moses and Elijah, or Enoch and Elijah.” These figures are often chosen because they performed similar miracles or were taken up without dying. However, Revelation 11 is symbolic, not literalistic. Abel and Zechariah better match the thematic focus on martyrdom, covenant witness, and judgment—precisely the themes Jesus emphasized in Matthew 23.
    2. “Zechariah’s identity is unclear—Jesus may be confusing the son of Jehoiada with Zechariah son of Berechiah.” While Matthew 23 refers to “Zechariah son of Barachiah,” the context more strongly fits Zechariah son of Jehoiada, who was murdered in the temple (2 Chron. 24:20–22). This fits the narrative flow of Jesus’ indictment, which spans from Genesis to Chronicles—the full arc of the Hebrew Bible. The textual ambiguity does not undermine the theological point: Jesus is summarizing the full history of prophetic martyrdom.
    3. “The two witnesses symbolize the Church, not individuals.” Indeed, many scholars view the witnesses as a symbol of the Church’s prophetic role, serving the role of faithful testimony as two or more witnesses. But Abel and Zechariah can function in the same symbolic capacity: not merely as individuals, but as representative archetypes—the faithful who speak for God and suffer for it. Their identification doesn’t exclude corporate symbolism; it deepens it by anchoring it in redemptive history.

    Final Thoughts

    If Revelation is a covenantal document, as the partial-preterist interpretation holds, then its visions must be understood in the context of covenant history. The witness of Abel and Zechariah—like the ministry of Christ—marks the end of an era. Their prophetic blood cries out, not only from the ground, but from the pages of Scripture, testifying to a generation that stood on the brink of judgment. And in Revelation 11, God answers their cry for justice.

    Footnotes

    1. Admittedly, there is a significant textual concern for this argument which depends upon which Zechariah Jesus is referencing. Some scholars argue that “son of Barachiah” may be a scribal error or oral conflation. It’s possible that a copyist accidentally inserted the name Barachiah, perhaps confusing him with Zechariah the prophet, the author of the book of Zechariah (Zech. 1:1), who was the son of Barachiah—but was not martyred. The manner and location of the death (“between the sanctuary and the altar”) precisely matches the temple setting described in 2 Chronicles 24, where the Zechariah son of Jehoiada was martyred. Even if, however, “Barachiah” was included by Jesus, it’s possible He was blending identifiers to make a larger typological point (as He sometimes does), referencing a figure whose martyrdom exemplifies Israel’s long rejection of the prophets. It is worth noting, some ancient versions and manuscripts (including Syriac and some early patristic sources) omit “son of Barachiah.” This may suggest that the reference to Barachiah was not original but a later addition to clarify or harmonize. ↩︎
    2. These 1,260 days align nicely with the siege of Jerusalem from 66-70 AD: from the beginning of the Jewish Revolt in 66 AD to the fall of the city in 70 AD. It’s important to note that the Christians, heeding the prophecy of Jesus in Matthew 24:15-16, fled Judea and Jerusalem before the “abomination of desolation” could destroy them out as collateral damage along with the rebelling Jewish population. ↩︎
    3. A possible support for this theme would be the parable of the wicked tenants, who reject the messengers of the vineyard owner, eventually killing the master’s son. Their punishment would be death and a passing of the vineyard to those who are worthy (Matthew 21:33-46; Mark 12:1-12; Luke 20:9-19). ↩︎
    4. Again, see the parable of Wicket Tenants: Matthew 21:33-46; Mark 12:1-12; Luke 20:9-19 ↩︎
  • Always Reforming: Eschatology and the Call of Scripture

    Always Reforming: Eschatology and the Call of Scripture

    “Ecclesia reformata, semper reformanda secundum verbum Dei”—

    “The church reformed, always being reformed according to the Word of God.”

    This ancient-sounding phrase didn’t come from the 16th-century Reformers themselves, but it has become one of the most enduring expressions of the Reformed tradition. It captures a critical and humbling reality: even a theologically “reformed” church is always in need of further reformation—not according to cultural trends or human systems, but according to the Word of God.

    The Origin of the Phrase

    The phrase semper reformanda—”always reforming”—originated not with Luther or Calvin, but with Jodocus van Lodenstein, a 17th-century Dutch Reformed pastor associated with the Nadere Reformatie (“Further Reformation”) movement in the Netherlands. He saw that while the Reformation had recovered much biblical truth, the hearts and lives of God’s people were still in need of reform. His cry was not for doctrinal innovation but for personal and corporate sanctification rooted in Scripture.

    Over the centuries, this phrase has been both treasured and misused. In some contexts, it has been distorted into a license for constant novelty or theological deconstruction. But rightly understood, semper reformanda calls us to a deeper, more faithful submission to Scripture. It urges us to return again and again to the Bible—to let God’s Word reform our hearts, our practices, and yes, even our theological systems.

    Letting Scripture Reform Our Eschatology

    This brings us to a present concern: eschatology—our doctrine of the last things. In many Christian circles today, particularly in the American context, dispensationalism has become the default (and often unknowingly adopted) framework for understanding prophecy, the end times, and Israel. It is presented as biblical, sometimes even as the only faithful way to read the Bible. But dispensationalism, as a system, is relatively recent, emerging in the 19th century through figures like John Nelson Darby and gaining popular traction through the Scofield Reference Bible and later popular media.

    Here’s the danger: whenever we inherit a fully-formed system—whether dispensational, amillennial, postmillennial, or otherwise—we are tempted to fit the text of Scripture into our eschatology, rather than letting Scripture shape or challenge our views. We run the risk of reading the Bible through the lens of our system, instead of submitting our system to the scrutiny of the Bible.

    This is not a problem unique to dispensationalism; it’s a human problem. But it becomes especially pressing when one system becomes dominant in popular teaching and church culture.

    But the Reformed tradition calls us to be always reforming. This means we must constantly bring our presuppositions and systems back to Scripture (Acts 17:11), testing all things and holding fast to what is good (1 Thessalonians 5:21).

    “All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness…” — 2 Timothy 3:16

    “The sum of your word is truth, and every one of your righteous rules endures forever.” — Psalm 119:160

    If our theological system cannot bear that scrutiny, then it needs to be reformed. If it prevents us from hearing what Scripture clearly says, then it has become an idol.

    Always Reforming Means Always Submitting

    Semper reformanda reminds us that we must never hold our theological frameworks with greater authority than the text of Scripture itself. The moment we defend our views more fiercely than we test them, we’ve stopped reforming. The moment our eschatology becomes untouchable, we’ve replaced biblical authority with theological pride.

    A Reformed posture is not merely about affirming the Five Solas or the Westminster Standards. It’s about a heart that is always willing to be corrected by God’s Word, even when it costs us—especially when it costs us our comfort, our systems, or our traditions.

    Preaching the Whole Counsel of God

    Semper reformanda also means that we do not gloss over or ignore uncomfortable passages of Scripture. We are not free to mute the voice of God when it challenges our categories or unsettles our traditions. As Paul said to the Ephesian elders:

    “I did not shrink from declaring to you the whole counsel of God.” — Acts 20:27

    Faithfulness requires preaching and teaching all of Scripture—not just the passages that align neatly with our frameworks. This includes difficult prophetic texts, apocalyptic literature, and themes of judgment and restoration. It means searching out the eschatological implications of the text and understanding how the original audience would have understood it. This is difficult and convicting work that challenge our presuppositions. However, pastors are not called to protect the flock from discomfort; we are called to form them by truth, even when that truth provokes hard questions or opposition (2 Timothy 4:2–4).

    Reforming Toward Christ

    Eschatology is not a secondary matter—it shapes how we view redemption, history, mission, suffering, and hope. But our views must be shaped by what the Bible actually says, not what our charts or traditions assume. Semper reformanda, therefore, is not about discarding tradition, but about testing it. Traditions can bolster, but not determine. Theological traditions let us know the company we keep–and it is important that we pay attention to such things. But semper reformanda, at the heart, is about being reforming people—not just reformed in name.

    Let us be committed to this: that our eschatology, like all our theology, stands under the judgment and light of Scripture. And where we find that we have built upon assumptions rather than exegesis, let us return—not to our comfort zones, but to the Word of God. For the church reformed is a church still reforming, under the gracious rule of Christ and the authority of His Word.

    “Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth.” — John 17:17