Weston Blaha

Tag: End Times

  • The Sheep, the Goats, and the “Least of These”: Reading Matthew 25 in Context

    The Sheep, the Goats, and the “Least of These”: Reading Matthew 25 in Context

    Few passages in Scripture stir the conscience like Jesus’ parable of the sheep and goats in Matthew 25:31–46. The King returns, gathers the nations, and divides them as a shepherd separates sheep from goats. His criterion? How they treated “the least of these my brothers.”

    This phrase is often taken out of its first-century context and made into a universal humanitarian slogan—“Be kind to everyone, especially the poor.” While Christians are indeed called to compassion for all people (Gal. 6:10), this is not the point of Matthew 25. The passage has a sharper edge: it is about how the nations respond to Christ’s people—His disciples—during the period of gospel proclamation leading up to the judgment on Jerusalem in AD 70.

    Who Are “the Least of These My Brothers”?

    In Matthew’s Gospel, “brothers” (ἀδελφοί) consistently refers to Jesus’ disciples (see Matt. 12:48–50; 28:10). The “least” are those who are weak, marginalized, and often persecuted for the sake of the gospel. Jesus had already taught this connection in Matthew 10:40–42—receiving His messengers is receiving Him; rejecting them is rejecting Him.

    The parable in Matthew 25 comes at the end of the Olivet Discourse (Matt. 24–25), where Jesus has been speaking about His coming in judgment against Jerusalem. The “nations” (ἔθνη) are not gathered for some vague, end-of-time general inspection of morality; rather, they are being evaluated for how they treated Christ’s emissaries in the generation before the great tribulation of AD 66–70.

    Why This Matters

    While there are many variations of echatology, I share the perspective that the “coming” in Matthew 25 is not describing the end of the physical world but Christ’s coming in judgment against the covenant-breaking nation in the first century. The sheep and goats judgment, then, is tied to the mission of the disciples to the nations (Matt. 28:18–20) and the response they receive.

    In this light, the parable warns that nations and individuals would reveal their allegiance to Christ by their treatment of His people during the gospel’s explosive first-century advance. Supporting, sheltering, and aiding these persecuted witnesses was not mere charity—it was a recognition of the authority of the risen King. Refusing them was to side with the enemies of Christ.

    The Danger of the Humanitarian Hijack

    When “the least of these” is flattened into “the needy” in general, the historical context disappears. The parable is not a moral pep talk for random kindness—it is an eschatological warning rooted in covenant loyalty. Stripping away that context can turn the church into a generic NGO and rob the passage of its sharp, Christ-centered meaning.

    To be clear, this is not about narrowing our compassion; it’s about clarifying what this text is saying. The sheep are not commended for generic philanthropy, but for siding with Christ through tangible care for His people during a time of testing.

    Living the Text Today

    While the original setting is rooted in the first-century gospel mission and judgment on Israel, the principle remains: how we treat Christ’s people is how we treat Christ. Even now, caring for persecuted believers, supporting missionaries, and standing with the church in hardship is not optional charity—it is allegiance to the King.

    To serve “the least of these my brothers” is to serve Christ Himself.

    Sidebar: Common Objections

    Objection 1: “Doesn’t ‘the least of these’ just mean the poor in general?”
    Answer: In Matthew, “brothers” (ἀδελφοί) consistently refers to Jesus’ disciples (Matt. 12:49–50; 28:10). Matthew 10:40–42 directly connects welcoming Christ’s messengers with welcoming Him. This is a covenant family term, not a generic reference to humanity.

    Objection 2: “But shouldn’t Christians care for everyone, not just believers?”
    Answer: Absolutely—Galatians 6:10 makes that clear. But Matthew 25 has a specific, historical focus: the nations’ response to Christ’s messengers before the AD 70 judgment. General compassion is biblical, but this parable is about covenant allegiance.

    Objection 3: “Isn’t this interpretation too narrow?”
    Answer: Narrow doesn’t mean wrong—just precise. In the Olivet Discourse, Jesus is speaking about His return in judgment on Jerusalem and the mission of His disciples in that period. The “least” are persecuted simply because they belong to Him, not because they are poor.

    Objection 4: “What about Luke’s emphasis on the poor and marginalized?”
    Answer: Luke does highlight concern for the economically poor, but Matthew’s context is different—rooted in mission and covenant judgment. We must let each Gospel speak on its own terms instead of importing themes from one into another.

    Objection 5: “Doesn’t this make salvation depend on works?”
    Answer: No. The works in Matthew 25 are the evidence of allegiance to Christ, not the basis of salvation. The sheep are not saved because they aided His brothers, but their care for Christ’s people demonstrates that they belong to Him.

  • 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.

  • 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. ↩︎
  • 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