Early Christian Witnesses: Biblical and Theological Explorations 9781922582034, 1922582034

Table of contents :
Table of Contents
Listening and Proclaiming
Theological Themes
The Witness of the Synoptic Gospels and Acts
The Witness of the Fourth Gospel

Citation preview

This book of essays by Dr Victor Pfitzner, pastor and lecturer for thirty-six years from 1968–2004 in New Testament Studies, Homiletics and Christian Spirituality at the Lutheran Seminary, now the Australian Lutheran College in Adelaide: Serving as Academic Dean, vice Principal and Principal of the College. The book evinces at once an author with complete mastery of the subjects he addresses, New Testament studies and its multifarious dimensions, ranging from detailed and critical discussion of hermeneutics, the themes of the principal Gospel writers, the nuances of Luther’s exegesis, the practical work of pastoral ministry, conflicts in the church relative to its theology and polity, such as the ordination of women to the office of Pastor and ecumenical encounter reflecting differences in theology concerning the meaning and purpose of the church’s ministry and mission. These all find their place here in an ordered array of profound learning and skilled presentation. It is uncommon to find a book that is historically rigorous, theologically rich, lucidly written and at the same time directed toward the communication of the essence of the Christian tradition. This book is a mine of sanctified learning that will enrich readers from students to scholars of both theology and the New Testament from a variety of Christian traditions. Dr W Gordon Watson Sometime Head of Systematic Theology, Trinity College Brisbane and Visiting Fellow in Humanities at Griffith University, Brisbane, Queensland.

Dr Vic Pfitzner is a retired pastor of the Lutheran Church of Australia and New Zealand. He gained his doctorate at Münster University in Germany in 1964 and has spent most of his ministry teaching New Testament to future pastors at Australian Lutheran College in Adelaide, South Australia, where he was principal for nine years. Some of his many books have been translated into Finnish, German, Indonesian, Japanese and Mandarin, including commentaries on John, First and Second Corinthians, and Hebrews. He has lectured extensively overseas, with a special interest in the churches of Southeast Asia.

Early Christian Witnesses: Biblical and Theological Explorations Victor C Pfitzner

The articles and talks included in this collection cover fifty years of theological engagement, the primary focus being on education for ministry in Australia and abroad. Despite the diversity of topics, such as hermeneutics, New Testament theology, preaching, ecumenical relations, and early church history, there is a connecting concern to listen to the unique voices of early Christian witnesses as foundational for the faith and the apostolic claims of the church in its present-day witness. The publication of these essays has been suggested for some time. Despite my reluctance to reissue articles written over a period of more than five decades, I have relented in the hope that there will be enough to engage the interest of a variety of readers, and not only former students in seminaries and theological colleges in Australia and various places overseas. Included here are mainly articles written specifically for publication in journals, but also lectures and talks to various groups of clergy, lay people, and theological students. Of prime concern has always been the explication of the Christian faith according to its earliest witnesses in the early church of apostles and martyrs. Faith remains attested and lived, approved not proven.  From the introducation by Victor Pfitzner.

PRESS www.atfpress.com making a lasting impact

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Early Christian Witnesses Biblical and Theological Explorations

Selected Essays of Victor C Pfitzner

Early Christian Witnesses

Selected Essays by Victor C Pfitzner

Scholars Collection The volumes in this Collection aim to celebrate the quality of work by scholars whose reputation has been established through a substantial career. They bring together essays, articles from journals and chapters in publications around a particular theme or topic, often showing a development or progression in thinking over time. ATF Press is pleased to promote the series that highlights an author’s significant contribution within theology, biblical studies, history, ethics or social issues. The purpose of the Collection is to provide a valuable resource for current and future generations by those who have contributed at an international level in their respective field. 1. Opening the Bible, 2014, Antony Campbell, SJ 2. Amplifying that Still Small Voice, 2015, Frank Brennan, SJ 3. Gospel Interpretation and Christian Life, 2017, Francis J Moloney, SDB 4. The Natural World and God: Theological Explorations, 2017, Denis Edwards 5. Thinking Faith: Moods, Methods and Mystery, 2017, Anthony J Kelly, CSsR 6. Colonial Religion: Conflict and Change in Church and State, 2020, Bruce Kaye 7. Creation, Matter and the Image of God: Essays on John, 2020, Dorothy Lee 8. The Other Side of the Story: Essays on Jews, Christians, Cults, Women, Atheists & Artists, 2021, Rachael Kohn 9. ‘Jesus Left Loose Ends’: Collected Essays, 2021, William RG Loader 10. Now and Then: Australian Catholic Experiences, Edmund Campion

Early Christian Witnesses

Biblical and Theological Explorations

Selected Essays by Victor C Pfitzner

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THEOLOGY 2021

©copyright remains with Victor C Pfitzner All rights reserved. Except for any fair dealing permitted under the Copyright Act, no part of this book may be reproduced by any means without prior permission. Inquiries should be made to the publisher. Cover design: Copy editor Layout: Font:

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Table of Contents

Forewordvii A.  Listening and Proclaiming The Charm of Biblical Narrative (1983) The Hermeneutical Problem and Preaching (1966) Do Reformation Slogans Still Indicate Valid and Adequate Hermeneutical Principles? (2014)

3 25 45

B.  Theological Themes The Unity of the New Testament (1969) Law and Gospel in Luther’s Listening to the Scriptures (2014) The Power of the Holy Spirit (1975) The Quest for the Spirit – Then and Now (1967) The Biblical Concept of Truth (1970) Worshipping with the Angels (1995)

63 81 97 109 127 147

C.  The Witness of the Synoptic Gospels and Acts Purified Community – Purified Sinner (1982) Continuity and Discontinuity – The Lucan View of History in Acts (1975) ‘Pneumatic’ Apostleship? Apostle and Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles (1980)

v

165 185 203

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vi

D.  The Witness of the Fourth Gospel Christ the Intercessor: The Praying Christ of John 17 (1996) 231 The Coronation of the King: The Passion in the Gospel of John (1977)249 ‘They Knew it was the Lord’: The Place and Function of John 21:1-14 in the Gospel of John (1986) 265 Luther as Interpreter of John’s Gospel (1984) 283 E.  The Witness of St Paul The Theology of the Cross: First Corinthians1-4 (1971) The School of Jesus: Jesus Traditions in Pauline Paraenesis (1979) Proclaiming the Name: Cultic Narrative and Eucharistic Proclamation in First Corinthians (1991) The Spirit of the Lord: The Christological Focus of Pauline Pneumatology (1999) Was Paul a Sports Enthusiast? Realism and Rhetoric in Pauline Athletic Metaphors (2012)

301 319 343 357 379

F. Ministry General Priesthood and Ministry (1971) Office and Charism in Paul and Luke (1981) The Pauline Principle and the Ordination of Women (2002) Do We Need Bishops? Australian and International Discussions between Anglicans and Lutherans (2000)

411 433 449 463

G.  From Martyr to Public Witness The Rhetoric of Hebrews (1993) Martyr and Hero: the Origin and Development of a Tradition in the Early Christian Martyr-Acts (1981) From the Invincible Sun to Christ the Pantocrator: Tracing an Iconographic Trajectory on Roman and Byzantine Coinage (2016)

483

Biblical References Index of Names

533 555

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Foreword

The publication of these essays has been suggested for some time. Despite my reluctance to reissue articles written over a period of more than five decades, I have relented in the hope that there will be enough to engage the interest of a variety of readers, and not only former students in seminaries and theological colleges in Australia and various places overseas. Included here are mainly articles written specifically for publication in journals, but also lectures and talks to various groups of clergy, lay people, and theological students. I have resisted the temptation to add to, change or correct the material, and to delete some repetition of material in dealing with the Acts of the Apostles, confining myself to no more than changes in format, standardised spelling, the adoption of inclusive language, some omission of material, and obvious emendations where required. Some initial editorial changes were made by my colleague Peter Lockwood; I thank him for his excellent assistance with the work he was able to complete. The older essays are perhaps of some historical interest since they indicate what was currently at issue, at least in my theological environment. Some older articles reflect the debates and theological terminology of nearly four years of postgraduate study in Germany. Back home in Australia, my interest was less in engaging with scholarly discussion than with questions of immediate relevance to my own Church and overseas sister Churches, especially in SouthEast Asia, whom I served from time to time. The pulpit has never been far from my thinking. In the process of addressing questions, the approach has always been from Lutheran positions, but they are hopefully clarified

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sufficiently to allow debate where they are not accepted by others. And years of involvement in inter-Church dialog and teaching in ecumenical situations, especially at St Francis Xavier Seminary in Adelaide, have hopefully ensured that a narrow denominational standpoint has been avoided. Of prime concern has always been the explication of the Christian faith according to its earliest witnesses in the early church of apostles and martyrs. Faith remains attested and lived, approved not proven. Vic Pfitzner Adelaide 2021

A.  Listening and Proclaiming

The Charm of Biblical Narrative

The Inaugural Lecture, Luther Seminary, 1983 academic year; first published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 17.1 (1983): 1-12 Reverend Principal, respected emeriti, honoured colleagues, fellow students of theology! ‘All scripture is inspired by God and is profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness’ (2 Tim 3:16). Might we not add, without doing any violence to that statement, that the reading of scripture should be an enjoyable adventure, even a delight? There is only one essential textbook set for compulsory reading in this seminary: the Bible. It is not too much to expect that all students will have read the entire scriptures at least twice in their years of study for the ministry. Luther says that he read through the Bible twice every year. Even allowing for the Reformer’s occasional exaggeration, it is certain that he never ceased reading his Bible in large portions and on a regular basis. We can perhaps be excused from imposing such a large quota on ourselves, but we can insist that a regular program of Bible reading be the vital heart of every student’s private meditation and study. It might be interesting to speculate on possible reasons for the lack of familiarity with the scriptures among church people—and even among some theological students. The Bible continues to be the world’s number one best-seller, but one which is sadly not read in equal measure. I am reminded of the collection of essays that appeared in Germany in 1976 under the arresting title, Der Bestseller ohne Leser (The Best-seller without Readers). By and large, Australians in general

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are not avid readers, especially when compared to Israelis who devour more books per capita of population than any other nation. In the past there was the added problem that the English-speaking world read the Bible in a vernacular, however beautiful its cadences might be, that was already more than three-hundred years out of date. But since the Authorised Version has long been superseded by a variety of modern translations there is no longer any excuse in that area. The Danger of the Pericope Approach It is more profitable to ask why it is that an enjoyable reading of the Bible is often not an integral part of the theological student’s daily life. One of the occupational hazards of doing theology is that we can finish with having read many books about the Bible but not the Book itself. That is true, in a special way, in biblical studies. There are two main contributing factors. First, from childhood we become accustomed to the short story or pericope consumption of scripture. In Sunday school, day school, Bible study circles and in our church services, we hear short sections of the scriptures. To suggest that one can do justice to a letter of St Paul only by reading it at one sitting as it was originally intended to be read or heard, comes as quite a surprise to some people. It does not seem to occur to some that the best way to develop an ear for the message of a biblical author, to appreciate its developing themes and to be caught up in the magnificent panorama of revelation, is to begin by reading large slabs at a time, preferably the whole writing. Only a holistic approach which gets beyond the pericope or the biblicalmotto-for- the-day method of reading will allow people to discover that reading the Bible, especially narrative, can be an enjoyable adventure. It can even be fun! Especially for theological students, involved as they are with detailed and in-depth probing into scripture, there exists another danger. They can look at the minute details of the Greek or Hebrew text, analyse single verses, phrases and words, and finish with a host of divers and diffuse details which add little to an appreciation of the message of an entire chapter, book, or of the scripture. It is just possible that a text can be examined from various angles, employing the whole range of scholarly techniques and ‘criticisms’ or analytical methods, and at the end the Word still has not been heard through

The Charm of Biblical Narrativ

all the words! We can turn the words inside out and upside-down to discover subtle nuances and still miss the meaning within the greater whole of the chapter or entire book. To use an image, we can finish looking at the cellular structure of a leaf but fail to see how that leaf is connected to a twig, to a branch, to a tree which is part of a great forest. One way (not the only way) to rediscover the joy of Bible reading is to steep ourselves in the charm of biblical narrative. In its simplest form a story is a narrative about characters and events with which we can identify from our own experience. It usually involves such basic elements as human characters (they can be animals as in the case of Wind in the Willows or Watership Down), the development of a plot involving suspense, tension, intrigue, foul play, heroism, and the like, all leading to a climax. Story as Teaching Tool The story is the basic and primary teaching form. It fires the imagination, amuses, excites. But a good story always teaches us something. That is how we first learned as children. We eagerly listened to stories long before we began to master abstract thinking. Stories are also the basic element of religious tradition, if we can include the larger-than-life myths and legends that are the stock of religious tradition, from tribal religion at one end of the spectrum to the great world religions at the other. In recent years theologians have been talking more intensively about the importance of story as a form in which Christian truth is preserved and communicated. Of course, educationists have always known that the story is the prime teaching tool in the case of children. But more recently all disciplines of Christian theology have become involved in studying the dynamics and the use of story. Systematicians, homileticians, church historians and liturgiologists are all taking part in the discussion, quite apart from biblical scholars. To speak of story is not to speak, necessarily, of historical narrative. The catchword ‘revelation as history’ was used to describe the program of a school of theology. To suggest that revelation is synonymous with history is to limit the ways in which God has revealed himself and to create further theological problems. Certainly, scripture tells of events within history. It is not a finished compendium of doctrine.

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Even its creedal formulations, like the cultic creeds in Deuteronomy 6 and 26 and in Joshua 24, or the great Christological confessions of John 1 and Philippians 2 that summarise and present the heart of faith, tell a story of what happened. But the bare-bones facts of history (if there are such things in the first place) require interpretation. Something that happened in history is not immediately and patently Word of God. Hebrews 1:1,2 summarises the history of revelation with a magnificent parallel formulation, but common to both halves of this statement is the simple, basic proposition: ‘God has spoken’. That claim holds true not merely for a certain number of key events in history but for the believing recitation of these events which have come to have special meaning for the community of God’s people. Then again, in addition to historical narrative, in the Bible we also find prophecies, proverbs, wisdom, parables, psalms, legal codices, ethical teaching, and so on. Even here we still have the story as the basic form of communication (think of Jesus’ parables). It may thus be more accurate to speak of revelation as story than of revelation as history. Granted that such a proposition is at least arguable, one might well ask: Of what significance is that for our deeper appreciation of the Bible, for our greater enjoyment in readings its pages, and for our communication of its message to others? Letting the Story Speak for Itself The Lutheran Church of Australia has a strong confessional and doctrinal heritage, insisting that our identity depends on the preservation of that heritage because it represents the doctrinal substance of the heart of the Bible as God’s unchanging message to humanity. The temptation, however, is to read the Bible all too readily in terms of dogma that can be distilled from the text. It became a feature of postexilic Judaism that the texts of the Old Testament, even narrative sections, were minutely examined and sifted for their legal content. Halakah, law, was what mattered. That was the essential content of scripture. In a parallel way we run the danger of reducing scripture to timeless lessons, teaching, doctrine, dogma. That is probably why there is some confusion over the relationship between biblical narrative and the publica doctrina. One need only cite the

The Charm of Biblical Narrativ

disputes over the interpretation of Genesis 1-3 as an example of this confusion. We are a Pauline Church. That is understandable for the simple reason that Luther’s own theology and that of our historic Confessions of faith take as their starting point Paul’s doctrine of justification. But there is, I believe, another reason for our predilection for Paul and, for that matter, the epistles of the New Testament. After all, here we have more obviously distilled, digested theology. We have finished doctrines, rounded-out teachings. Some years ago a colleague made an interesting observation. In our circles, synodical mottos and texts for sermons delivered at conferences and conventions tend to come in the main from the epistles. A spot check (if that could be conducted) of texts being used in Lutheran pulpits on most Sundays would reveal the same predilection for Paul and the epistles. What I am suggesting is that pastors seem to find it more difficult to work with biblical narrative, whether the stories of the Old Testament or those from the Gospels and Acts, because their homiletical treatment requires more effort. We sometimes appear to be a Church with little feeling for story as a teaching and preaching tool. Hurrying to Application It might be objected that due attention to biblical narrative and to stories is given in our Christian instruction for children. They are taught stories before they move on to the real meat of religious instruction! But that highlights the point being made: we think that stories are for children! Might I suggest that even in the case of the traditional teaching of Bible stories to children there is also a problem in our circles? We appear to be somewhat ‘application happy’. There is a concern to get the story told as quickly as possible to get to the real point: what the story means in terms of a final lesson. The predilection for, if not obsession with, application may finish with the very sad situation that the story has not even been properly heard; it has not been allowed to speak for itself. Of course, there is to be application. The question is: How does this best take place? How does it begin? It is almost ludicrous to ask how the early Israelites applied the story of the exodus to themselves. It was their story; it spoke of their origins as God’s people. They were still living in that history. That kind of involvement with the narrative

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may not always be so obvious for us today. But at least two points should be made with respect to application. First, the old Württemberg pietist and Bible student, Johann Albrecht Bengel, wrote: Te totum applica ad textum, rem totam applica ad te.

That is: ‘Apply yourself totally to the text, and [only then] apply the whole text to yourself ’. To make the point even more clear, we could reformulate Bengel’s advice as follows: If you apply yourself diligently to the text, the text will apply itself to you. That is also theologically true in the fullest sense, since it is the Holy Spirit who shows us what the text means for us. The story is the primary teaching tool because it engages, it excites, it fascinates, it involves—that is, if it is a good story. Why is David Kossoff a master storyteller also, and especially, when he retells Bible stories? Simply because he excites the imagination. He involves readers in such a way that they become first-hand witnesses to the event being related. They are invited to become participants in what is being related. Application begins with careful retelling and careful listening. It is part of the very process of passing on a story. Application begins with involvement, with a sympathetic understanding of characters and events so that finally no application need be demanded; it follows naturally as a matter of course. We are all too familiar, I imagine, with the Sunday school go-and-do-thou-likewise kind of moralistic application to which the Bible’s stories have been subjected. But any interest in facile application begins with one great error: the failure to allow the story to speak for itself to the imagination of the reader or listener. These thoughts kept running through my head as I read through the Bible in two modern versions when commissioned to prepare a Family Bible to include some of the best-known and loved stories retold in modern idiom.1 I rediscovered what I had long known but not fully appreciated: stories of the Bible are fascinating, exciting, intriguing, amusing. One only needs to discover how the ancient 1. For various reasons, mainly problems with the artwork, this venture with Macquarie Press did not eventuate, though the text was completed.

The Charm of Biblical Narrativ

narrative techniques work and to find some modern dynamic equivalent for the original ancient expression or turn of phrase. Certainly, some interpretative keys are required for an understanding of the intent and meaning of some stories, for a true appreciation of how, for example, the patriarchal stories belong together and develop certain themes (we think of the catchwords ‘land’, ‘seed’, ‘blessing’). Yet to a large extent the stories speak for themselves and require little imaginative retelling for central lessons to come across loudly and clearly. Biblical scholars have long been stressing a holistic look at the Bible. In Old Testament studies there is an appeal for canonical criticism, that is, an appreciation of the meaning of whole books within the canon in contrast to minute, critical analysis of verses and small sections. There is an appreciation of the need to analyse the structure of entire books. Further, the genre of ‘story’ is being studied with great interest. It has been Old Testament scholars who have led the way, leaving their New Testament colleagues to jump on the bandwagon and to apply the latest insights in the field of literary analysis to their own special field. In 1982 Robert Alter published a book titled The Art of Biblical Narrative.2 He begins with the premise that the biblical stories are meant to be enjoyed as narratives which employ conscious and deliberate narrative art. They are to be interpreted by literary analysis rather than by the usual critical methods used in the past. Like all works of art they work within a grid of conventional techniques, ideas, and associations. There are type scenes, for example, where a betrothal takes place at a well or the threatened wife is passed off as the sister in the Abraham and Isaac stories of Genesis. The art of storytelling consists of such conventions, but it is often by shifting the anticipated image that the reader’s attention is gained, and an important new point is made. Alter rightly points out that biblical narratives work with dialog rather than with description by outside observers. Often a key point is made in such a terse and brief form that readers are left to decide for themselves the meaning of the story or event. There is no over-kill, no excessive moralising, and no long drawing out of lessons to be learned. Rather, there is an economy at work that allows readers or listeners to work their own way into the story and its meaning(s). 2. George Allen & Unwin.

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Much of this and other literary approaches to biblical narrative make good sense. But before we make our own simple observations on how Bible stories work on us with their own special charm, one critical comment is in place. It is one which also applies to a recent book which applies the category ‘story’ to a whole Gospel. I am referring to David Rhoads and Donald Michie, Mark as Story: An Introduction to the Narrative of a Gospel.3 These writers speak of the art of biblical narrative as a conscious literary art. True, the stories belong to a book; they belong to human literature. But we have here an overemphasis on the imaginative art of the literary agent, the writer, without paying due recognition to the characteristic skills of storytelling in oral tradition. Is it by chance that—in my opinion, at least—the best stories of the Bible are to be found in the old patriarchal cycles of Genesis? Certainly, the final collation involved a ‘refining’ process, an arranging of stories in a certain sequence to develop certain themes. Yet I remain convinced—and this holds true also of the New Testament Gospels— that the basic stories which the editors and evangelists used were, to a larger extent than is often acknowledged, preformed. That is, the basic techniques of storytelling were developed not by the writers but by the storytellers working with oral tradition. This may well mean that Bible stories, like all good stories, are best heard, not read. Just as it is true that a good joke is still best heard rather than read. My intention is to share some features of biblical story which I find particularly fascinating, also some which make the task of understanding and retelling somewhat difficult. I make no apology for presenting these observations in a simple and unscholarly way. They are, in the main, features which will at some point strike every careful reader of the Bible, also those who have little or no knowledge of the Hebrew or Greek original text. I will limit myself, in the main, to examples from Genesis and John’s Gospel. The Patriarchal Stories Modern storytelling tends to highlight human emotions and reactions. It tends to psychologise. By contrast, biblical narrative and story is much simpler, more reserved. But consider the following 3. Fortress Press, 1982.

The Charm of Biblical Narrativ

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dramatic scenes. Jacob, the arch cheat, the original Slippery Sam, has outwitted his scheming father-in-law, and become a wealthy owner of large flocks. Now he is about to decamp with his two wives. We pick up the story where Jacob is out in the fields persuading his wives to accompany him back to Canaan. Rachel and Leah needed little persuading. ‘We can expect to inherit nothing from father’, they complained; ‘he treats us like slaves. The money you gave him for us he has long since spent.’ So, in a short time Jacob gathered all his possessions. Off they went, the wives and children sitting on camels, with the flocks being driven ahead. At the time, Laban happened to be away from home, shearing his sheep. So, Rachel stole the statues of the household gods. In this way Jacob finally outwitted his father-in-law by leaving behind his back. Taking all the wealth he had gained in Mesopotamia, he crossed the river Euphrates on his southward journey. Three days passed before Laban got wind of what had happened in his absence. Calling his men together, he set out after Jacob, catching up with him a week later in the hill country of Gilead. Confronting Jacob, he bitterly complained: ‘Why did you sneak away when my back was turned? You have carted off my daughters like prisoners of war! Had you given me sufficient warning I would gladly have sent you off laughing and singing. But you did not even let me kiss my daughters and grandchildren goodbye. Had God not told me in a dream last night not to harm you, I would make you pay dearly for all this. Sure, I can understand why you want to go home, but why did you have to steal my household gods as well?’ he challenged. ‘I fled because I suspected that you would take your daughters away from me’, Jacob replied, defending himself after this bitter attack. ‘As for your statues,’ he added, ‘search the camp if you will. Whoever has them will be put to death’ (Jacob did not know that his dear Rachel was the culprit). So, Laban searched the tent of Jacob, then that of Leah. Coming to Rachel’s tent, he found his daughter sitting on a camel’s saddlebag (this was where she had hidden the missing statues). Rachel said, ‘Father, please don’t make me stand up; it’s that time of the month for me.’ So, Laban found nothing.

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At this point Jacob lost his temper. ‘Tell me,’ he exploded, ‘what crime have I committed to be hunted down like this? You have the audacity to finger through all my private possessions, and what have you found? Nothing! I worked hard for you for twenty years. I stole no stock, and any losses I bore myself. I stayed by your flocks through the heat of day and slept by them through many a cold and sleepless night. And what have I got for all my work? Nothing! In fact, without God’s blessing, I would be leaving you with nothing to my name.’ When Laban replied, his tone was softer. ‘These are still my daughters, my grandchildren, my flocks. But let us not argue any longer. We will make a solemn and lasting pact. . .’ (Gen 31:14–44)

We can leave the two men and their bargaining at this point to make a few observations. Obviously, I have told the story in free form but hopefully in a way that is faithful to the meaning and intention of the original text. Phrases like ‘they complained’, ‘he complained bitterly’, bitter attack’, ‘he lost his temper’, ‘he exploded’ or ‘his tone was softer’ are not found in the Hebrew. Instead, we simply find the most frequent phrases in the whole Bible: ‘they said’ or ‘he said’. In other words, the original story does not psychologise or explain the state of mind of participants in the drama, nor are we given secret insights into motives, personality descriptions or the like. All this is suggested by the dialogue itself. There is deep irony in the story especially when we look at it within the larger framework of the Jacob stories. Jacob the cheat seems to have met his match in his father-in-law, especially when he wakes up after his wedding night to the wrong set of pigtails on the pillow next to him. Of course, we can say that in the end, through God’s blessing, Jacob comes out on top. But one cannot help suspecting that Jacob pays only token acknowledgement to divine help when he says, ‘Without God’s help I would be leaving you with nothing to my name.’ Why the long recitation of all his hard work, his faithful service for Laban over twenty years? He has earned his riches, and he has earned his freedom! But in the end, he is going away as much a cheat and conniving trickster as ever, and in his own bosom, in the person of his dear Rachel, he has a dishonest companion who is the true daughter of her father and the true wife of her husband!

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When we read this story as part of the greater cycle of Jacob stories, we are faced with the final staggering fact, one that does not override our fascination with a good story and its interplay of human characters but puts it all into proper perspective’. Rachel and Leah exaggerate: ‘He treats us like slaves’, Jacob exaggerates: ‘I worked my fingers to the bone for you and got nothing for all my efforts’. But there is no exaggeration in the final lesson. God has blessed a cheat and sticks to his promise to make him the bearer of a grand promise. In some cases, the charged emotions of participants in a drama are more directly suggested. Consider the final confrontation between Joseph and his brothers after the brothers have been apprehended with incriminating evidence found in their corn sacks. We take up the story at Genesis 44:13. Panic-stricken, the brothers were escorted back to the governor’s palace. ‘So, this is how you repay me for my kindness to you!’ the governor exclaimed. ‘The youngest who had my cup must now become my slave; the rest of you can go back to your father.’ ‘Please, sir, don’t be angry with me’, said Judah, plucking up enough courage to speak. ‘You asked about our father. He is old and feeble, Benjamin’s brother is dead, and father let him come with us only after we pleaded with him, promising to return the lad safe and sound. Please, sir, if we go back without the boy our father will die of grief ’. No longer able to control his emotions, Joseph dismissed his servants. Suddenly his whole body was racked with sobs. ‘I am Joseph, your brother! Is my father really still alive?’ he asked, tears streaming down his cheeks. But his brothers still hung back in terror, their tongues frozen in fear. ‘Come close’, said Joseph. ‘I am the brother you sold as a slave. But don’t be hard on yourselves. You see, it was really God, not you, who sent me here. He is responsible for making me ruler of all Egypt. Now go and tell father what has happened. Then you must all join me here in Egypt, for there will be five more years of famine.’ Then Joseph threw his arms around Benjamin, and they cried in each other’s embrace. Still weeping, Joseph hugged and kissed his other brothers. Now, at last, they could talk to him.

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I have conflated the story, especially by abbreviating or eliminating some of the dialogue, but where emotions are portrayed, they are part of the original story. The only difference is that, as often in Hebrew narrative, emotions are not described but hinted at with expressive actions, for example, the tearing of robes to express anger and sorrow, the downcast look to express anger or grief. It is interesting to observe that in the above story the scheme of Joseph to plant money and his drinking cup in his brothers’ sacks, as well as the actual arrest of the brothers, is not related in a third person narrative, but in the form of instructions given by Joseph to his servants. In this way the readers are more closely involved with the action; they are invited to be inside observers. The drama and tension of this scene, the brilliant way in which old Jacob back home in Canaan is continually woven into the story even when the brothers are in Egypt, the development of character, the realism of the scene which never degenerates into sloppy sentimentality, is impressive. Think of the immediate reaction of the brothers. They are naturally frightened to discover that the governor is none other than their brother. All this hits us powerfully if we read the story sensitively—better, if we listen to the story. It is the climax to one of the longest stories of the Old Testament, which is almost a saga. The insufferable brat of a young brother, daddy’s pet, is stuffed down a well by his jealous brothers. But he makes good and finally saves not only his persecutors but the whole of Egypt. The point of the story is made even more powerful by being kept right to the end. There is no moralising along the way, such as: Joseph deserved what he got for being such a skite about his dreams, even if they were true prophecies of things to come. What terrible men those brothers were; they deserved all the torment Joseph put them through! No, the story is simply told, and then comes the denouement: It was all God’s plan. We can imagine how stories like this might have been told around many a campfire in Israel’s ancient past. Differences in the Septuagint version and the development of Haggadic traditions which include features not found in the Masoretic text of the patriarchal stories would suggest that the stories continued to be told as part of the oral tradition even after they found at least one fixed form in the written tradition. We can imagine the glee with which Israelites heard the exploits of sly old Jacob and of Joseph who even became top dog in Egypt, the very country in which their forebears were later slaves. It may be that the final theology is the product of collation

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and arrangement into a coherent sequence of events, but there is no reason to eliminate all theological content from the original stories in their oral form. It is highly doubtful whether Israel could ever have recited stories about the patriarchs without also talking about the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. The Fourth Evangelist as Storyteller One well-known and much-loved scene from the Gospel according to St John will suffice to show how the chaste economy of narrative in the Old Testament is carried over into the New. Consider the scene in John 20:11–16: Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb. It is a moment charged with emotion, but the evangelist, using his characteristic narrative skill, does not deal with emotions as we might. There are features of the story which are not part of modern storytelling. Consider the following. Both the angels and Jesus ask why Mary is crying. What a silly question! They know full well the reason. But in each case the question is the trigger to an important statement by Mary, which does not simply betray the agitation of her soul. Twice in the narrative we have the characteristic statement that Mary ‘did not know’. Anyone who has read John’s Gospel in large slabs and gained a feeling for his diction will quickly realise that the phrase crops up at various points, especially in the passion and Easter narratives.4 While Jesus ‘knows’ everything, such as the Father’s will for him, the hour of his glorification, and so on, the disciples know and understand nothing. Mary’s not-knowing is a statement about faith or the lack of faith. More important for our argument is the observation that the climax of the story is even more powerful because of its simplicity. We are not told why Mary did not recognise Jesus at first. A modern storyteller would probably explain that feature. Nor are we told what went through her head as she heard the familiar voice speak her name. All we have is, ‘Mary’, and her response, ‘Teacher’. Were a modern storyteller let loose on this scene we might end up with something like the following—with apologies.

4. See the phrase in John 1:26,31,33; 4:22,32; 7:28; 8:19; 9:30; 20:2,9,13,14; 21:4.

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Mary stood outside the tomb, tears streaming down her cheeks. Could it be possible that the body was stolen, so that she did not even have this last chance tenderly to kiss the dear face that she had loved so well, to trace those lifeless features, frozen in death, with her finger? Every glance into the empty tomb only sent her into another spasm of weeping. She looked in once more. Did her eyes deceive her? Did she really see two figures in white? Did she really hear them say, ‘Madam, why are you crying?’ Surely, she didn’t have to explain her private grief to anyone, let alone to angels who are supposed to be in on God’s secrets. But no, she had heard correctly and stuttered a reply with her tear-choked voice. ‘I am crying because my dear master who was buried here has disappeared. Someone must have removed the body.’ At this point she heard a rustling sound behind her. She had been too deeply immersed in her hellish grief to observe anyone approaching. She did not look up to see who it was. Why should she display her distraught face to some perfect stranger? Anyway, it was probably only the gardener who ought to leave her alone in her hour of sorrow. And even had she looked up, she would not have been able to make out any clear features. Who can see through a torrent of tears? Resentment at this stranger’s intrusion into her private grief was at the same time mingled with a glimpse of hope that he might at east shed some light on the mystery of her Lord’s disappearance. The same stupid question set her back somewhat: ‘Madam, why are you crying?’ But she managed to control herself and asked as civilly as she could, ‘Sir, if you are responsible for removing the body kindly tell me where it is, and I will take it away.’ Into the whirlpool of her emotions, grief, anger, disappointment, regret, fear, resentment, there suddenly came a voice that brought her spinning world to a sudden halt. ‘Mary’, said the stranger. Yes, that was all she needed to hear, just ‘Mary’. For a split second she could not believe her ears. It was not simply that the stranger knew her name that brought her reeling senses to a state where she felt as if the whole world was standing still. It was the tone, the inflection. No, it wasn’t that at all. It was the voice itself, the familiar voice speaking her name that made her wheel around, grasp his feet and look up into the face of one who was no longer a stranger but her dear master. Oh, the emotions that now flooded through her

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heart and soul! What a torrent of endearments now poured from a throat that only seconds ago had been constricted with a pain that threatened to tear her apart.

Enough is enough! Exaggeration has hopefully been a permissible tool in making a point. Brevity adds to the drama of the moment rather than detracting from it. There is no choice between the evangelist’s few but dramatic words and the above wordy and sentimental nonsense. Just think what one could make of that short, pregnant line in Genesis 22:6 that reports Abraham and his son, his only son Isaac whom he dearly loves (verse 2), walking on silently to Mount Moriah: ‘So they went, both together.’ There is nothing more than this, and a brief conversation about a missing sacrificial lamb, to cover what we must envisage were hours of walking together. Not one single comment is made about the flood of thoughts passing through the poor father’s mind, nor the questions running through the unwitting victim’s mind. We are left to identify imaginatively. The Role of Repetition What we have just said about the reticence of biblical narrative to psychologise or to indulge in emotional analysis could be illustrated with many examples. This does not mean that the narratives are always brief or terse, quite the contrary. Sometimes we are struck by what appear to us to be wordiness and a needless repetition of detail. One example will suffice: the story of the wooing of a wife for Isaac by proxy in Genesis 24. Here a large section simply repeats the story in dialogue form. Sitting at last in the house of Laban and Bethuel, the servant recalls everything that has happened up to that moment, even though we have heard it all before. He recalls Abraham’s plea to look for a wife in the land of his relatives, his own objection that the girl might not want to return with him to Canaan, his prayer at the well for a divine sign, and God’s answer to his prayer with the arrival of Rebekah who fulfils the conditions down to the last detail. In modern storytelling, that large section would probably be summarised rather briefly, but there is good reason for the repetition in the story as it stands. The listener again participates in the events as they happened, step by step. But the real function of the repetition appears to involve more than an invitation to participate. We have

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here not conventional literary style and technique, but a feature that is essential to storytelling. Listeners cannot cast an eye back over a page or column to remind themselves of essential details. They must hear them once more; the details must be repeated in order that the point is made clear: this is more than human romance, a touching story of relatives rediscovering each other. It is a living illustration of the truth that the covenant God of Abraham is living up to and remaining true to his promises. He is fulfilling the prayer of Abraham himself. What at times seem to us to be major points from a human angle are, by contrast, expressed very briefly. Consider the conclusion of the story. Then Isaac brought her into the tent, and took Rebekah, and she became his wife, and he loved her. So, Isaac was comforted after his mother’s death. (Gen 24:67)

Dramatic Tension Of course, the true drama and its meaning often come out neither in individual scenes nor in an event by itself. This is true of major sections of Old Testament narrative, just as it is true of the stories of the Gospels and Acts in the New Testament. It is only within the connected narrative that certain features, otherwise apparently insignificant, are seen in a proper light. There is, for example, the theme of barrenness which crops up repeatedly. The Abraham story begins with the simple statement, ‘Now Sarai was barren; she had no child’ (Gen 11:30). The throne succession narrative begins with this note: ‘And Michal the daughter of Saul [and King David’s wife] had no child to the day of her death’ (2 Sam 6:23). Little statements like that set the agenda for what follows. They pose the problem: How can the promise of a son be fulfilled when there are no preconditions for its fulfilment, at least, no human preconditions? How can the promise of an eternal kingdom in Second Samuel 7 come true when David has no son and heir? The promise and human reality stand in strong tension with each other. Not only that. Human actions continually place the promise in jeopardy and threaten its realisation, such as when the mother of promise (Sarah and Rebekah) is passed off as the sister of the patriarch.

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We may also recall how certain statements or entire stories stand in tension with the promise of land. Abraham has been promised Canaan at his call, but no sooner does he arrive in the promised land than we have the seemingly innocuous comment: ‘At that time the Canaanites were in the land’ (Gen 12:6). Or we recall how Abraham does finally come to possess land, but only a small plot. He possesses it in death after bargaining for the cave of Machpelah as a burial site for Sarah (Gen 23). In this way small features assume major significance within the entire cycle of stories. The Element of Humour Human interest, dramatic tension, and character portrayal there are aplenty. But there is also humour which can easily be overlooked. We look in vain for jokes, for rib-tickling, side-splitting yarns. Biblical humour works more with the ironic twist, with sarcasm, with the wry practical observation of the wise man who knows what life is all about, with pun and play on words. Again, only a few examples will suffice to attune our ears to this feature. Who could fail to spot the intended irony behind the little comment in the tower of Babel story? ‘And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower’ (Gen 11:5). With these few words a magnificent edifice meant to give access to the highest heaven is reduced to a puny pimple on the plain. We can almost see God getting out a microscope to find the structure by which the people think they are going to make a name for themselves! And there is irony in that the tower and city meant to unite humanity and prevent it being scattered become the very reason for its dispersion and disunity. The cutting parable of Jotham directed against the petty king of Shechem, Abimelech, is a masterpiece of sarcasm (Judg 9). The bramble bush which has nothing to offer is only too eager to take on the role of king, whereas the rich olive tree, the fig tree with its sweetness, and the vine with its cheering wine, refuse to take on the role. The sneaky behaviour of Jacob and his equally conniving mother are more likely to raise a smile than moral indignation as we see them outwit old Isaac and his brother Esau. There is the pathetic and the comic in the figure of blind old Isaac who is easily duped. Surely the picture of Abraham bargaining in true oriental style with the Hittite

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for the cave of Machpelah raises a smile (Gen 23). The humour of the situation comes in the form of understatement and implication. With a grand gesture meant to be taken as generosity Ephron the Hittite three times says, ‘Let me give you the land.’ He speaks loudly, of course, so that everyone can hear his grand offer. Abraham bows politely and offers to pay the going price. Ephron then makes what seems to be an off-handed comment in line with his previous generous offer, but in fact the statement is carefully formulated down to the last syllable. We can imagine the tonal inflection has been carefully rehearsed in his mind: ‘My lord, listen to me; a piece of land worth four-hundred shekels of silver, what is that between you and me?’ In other words, what’s $20,000 between friends? Again, he has made sure that everyone has heard the price. The text makes no comment about this financial transaction, the Shylockian trickery involved, the combination of moral and financial blackmail. We simply look on as Abraham weighs out the price with not so much as a word of protest. Perhaps he also is thinking, like us, that generous offers can turn out to be awfully expensive! Examples of humour can be multiplied. We are surely lacking a sense of humour if we read the story of Balaam and his talking ass without noting the comical element, especially in the dialogue which transpires as Balaam is laying into his beast that has simply lain down on the road for no apparent reason. Even a donkey can have his pride and honour hurt. Think of the injustice of the situation which comes out as the ass pleads, ‘Have I ever treated you wrong ever since you began riding me as a lad?’ All that Balaam can stammer is a weak ‘No!’ (Num 22:28–30). Or recall the portrayal of the beautiful, astute but scheming Abigail, the future wife of David, in contrast to the stolid and brutish stupidity of her oaf of a husband, Nabal. Of course, much more than stupidity or intellectual ineptitude is implied in the Hebrew name Nabal (meaning ‘fool’), but we cannot read this episode without feeling some glee at the fall of this fool. Who can fail to see the funny side as a beautiful lady soon spots which side her bread is buttered on and acts accordingly? Her feminine charm does not completely hide the truth we have recognised before much has transpired; she is a scheming lady. But we can forgive her that. She is not only beautiful; she is to become the wife of the Lord’s anointed.

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There is tragic comedy in the story of the charismatic musclebound ladies-man Samson, who is finally laid low by the wiles of a woman. The Raising of Lazarus as Drama The fourth evangelist is surely the master dramatist of the New Testament. His account of the death and raising of Lazarus in John 11 provides an excellent example of the way in which his narrative skill works with suggestion, implication, tension, time lapses and shifting scenery. We have something like a collage of images which make up a total picture that is something like a triptych in which three panels combine to depict the entire drama. In the process of one chapter the evangelist relates events that cover about a week. Yet every detail is precise and has its important place in the drama. The feature of time-delay marks the start. Jesus hears of Lazarus’ sickness but instead of leaping into action, as we would expect, he indulges in double-talk about sleep and death, in cryptic sayings about the glorification of the Son of man and about working while it is still day. Two days are frittered away before he even begins to journey to Bethany. When he finally arrives, Lazarus has been in the tomb for four days. It’s too late! The scene shifts to the road outside Bethany as practical Martha leaves Mary quietly grieving at home to go out to confront Jesus— the character portrayal of the sisters is the same as in Luke 10. We fully identify with Martha as she says, ‘If only you had been here . . .’—is this a reproof or expression of faith? A doublet is formed in the second panel of the triptych as Mary comes out to repeat the ‘If only’ of her sister. Between these two conversations comes the great ‘I am’ of Jesus and Martha’s confession of faith. We know what is going to happen, but the scene in the third and last panel is still gripping, precisely because of the brevity with which it is related. The climax has greater impact because it is not drawn out but depicted with only a few strokes of the pen. Jesus weeps, some onlookers reproach him for his apparent lack of action. The hopelessness of the situation is underlined; the process of decay has already set in. Jesus’ gaze to heaven speaks eloquently without many words. There follows his command, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ Suddenly, with a few suggestive words we have the incredible picture of an ex-corpse emerging from the dark tomb trailing his funeral wrappings. All this is told with no

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frills, no elaborate description, with no attempt to arouse emotions. Again, listeners are invited to envisage for themselves, to become part of the event. More importantly, the evangelist never loses the important thread of the story by relating human reactions, at least not those of the central figures of the two sisters and Lazarus himself. How would we feel if we had to face death a second time? The important point comes right at the end, with the reaction of the onlookers and the Jewish leaders, not of the Bethany family: ‘So from that day on they took counsel to put him to death’ (John 11:53). The circle which John began to trace at the beginning of the story has been closed. The entire drama is really about the necessity of Jesus’ own death and his own glorification via the cross. Unfolding Christology A careful reading of John’s Gospel shows an interesting feature that can be mentioned only in passing. Every student soon discovers that John has abandoned the Messianic secret of the Synoptic Gospels, especially of Mark. From the outset (the Prologue) he presents an explicit Christology. Sometimes overlooked is that John shows a development in Christology, rather, of Christological awareness. He does so in the process of relating various events. His concern is to show how participants in the drama, in the confrontation with the Lord, come to faith. In this way he gives us little paradigms of faith’s emergence. Two examples will suffice. In chapter 4 the Samaritan woman begins by addressing Jesus as a Jew (v 9). Before long she perceives that he is a prophet (v 19), and is later found asking the question, ‘Can this be the Christ?’ (v 29)—a question that is clearly answered for her and her fellow townsfolk by the end of the chapter. Again, in chapter 6, the blind man who is given sight (and insight) begins by referring to Jesus in the same terms as the Jewish authorities; Jesus is simply the man (v 11). In response to the pressure from the authorities he changes his mind: Jesus is a prophet (v 17). At the end there comes the full confession: Jesus is the Son of man (vv 35–38). It is time to draw these comments to a conclusion. I have probably pointed out little that is new. My own reasons for finding certain biblical stories charming may not be the same reasons shared by you. We may differ in our choice of favourite stories, but that is the

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partly point I am trying to make. Bible stories cannot be reduced to a few, final object lessons. They have an open-ended quality which challenges us to continual involvement with them, continual probing, listening and, learning. I trust that no one will gain the false impression that I am suggesting the best parts of the Bible are stories and that one can neglect the rest. If by God’s grace we are allowed clear minds at death we will probably grasp at a few texts with a clear gospel message. We will not be relating whole stories to ourselves or demanding that they be read to us. Yet it remains true that faith first apprehends the truth of the gospel through story. Even when we have progressed to deeper theological insights and to an appreciation of non-narrative didactic, we still come back to familiar stories that illustrate both the sad truth of sin and the amazing greatness of divine mercy. We need clear perception of divine truth imparted through stories, but also people who can relate stories in such a way that young and old are drawn into the story of divine grace. We need to read, to explore and enjoy God’s story for ourselves. Above all, we need to find ourselves in God’s story.

The Hermeneutical Problem and Preaching

First published in Concordia Theological Monthly, XXXVIII (1967): 347-62

One is sometimes tempted to think that the theologian’s work is carried out not in obedience to the Great Commission of Matthew 28:19,20, but rather in compliance with an unknown saying which might run, ‘Go therefore and discuss with all nations. . .and make into problems whatever I have commanded you’. It is thus with some diffidence that I have left the word ‘problem’ in the heading of this paper, but I do it for this reason. One does not have to do much reading in biblical disciplines to realise that hermeneutics has gained a position of central importance in this field, as in the entire study of theology. We can go so far as to say that the scholarly discussion in New and Old Testament theology reflects an interest in the hermeneutical problem. What is ‘Hermeneutics’? Part of the problem lies in just this: the difficulty of settling on one commonly accepted definition of hermeneutics! The difficulty is again experienced when we come to the question of the relationship of hermeneutics to exegesis. The Greek verb hermeneuein can be translated in three ways: to express, to interpret or explain, to translate. In each case one idea is uppermost. The basic meaning can be rendered with ‘to transmit understanding’, ‘to bring to understanding’ whether it be through free speech, the interpretation of something already spoken, or interpretation of a foreign tongue through translation. Linguistically, hermeneuein can hardly be differentiated from 25

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exegeisthai which can also mean ‘express’ or ‘expound’. Where then lies the distinction between exegesis and hermeneutics? There was a time when the latter term, when applied to biblical theology, simply meant the science which dealt with the techniques and tools of scriptural exegesis. Together with isagogics, hermeneutics took its place as an introductory discipline to the study of exegesis itself. The present meaning is much wider, with hermeneutics having to do with the methodology of understanding after exegesis. It is a discipline not limited to theology with its five main fields, but applies equally to psychology, philosophy, literature, history, and science. Within the sphere of biblical interpretation, the distinction between hermeneutics and exegesis can perhaps best be put as follows: The task of exegesis is to ascertain exactly what authors wished to say in the precise historical situation in which they were transmitting their message. The hermeneutical question already begins with the task of translating the original words of the text, of understanding what they meant then. But it is really felt only when the exegetical task is completed and we are left with the task of understanding this text for ourselves, of understanding its message in our precise historical situation. The hermeneutical problem thus involves not only our understanding of the original text, but also the problem of bridging the historical time-distance between the original text and ourselves. How is one to bridge the distance between God’s once-for-all-time action in Christ and my own situation? Hermeneutics first deals with the question of the appropriation of the saving event in Christ. It then concerns the problem of communicating the relevance of this event, and the whole subject of preaching. The Necessity of Biblical Hermeneutics The church needs clarity on the doctrine of the Word of God. It is not accidental that the dissension and confusion about this doctrine is to be matched only by the methodological confusion in the exegetical approach to scripture and in hermeneutical work. If we have clear teaching on the nature and purpose of the Word, we must also have clearly defined principles of understanding and interpretation. It is not by coincidence that the Reformation with its concentration on the Word of God, and especially on the viva vox Dei (living voice

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of God), conferred on the question of hermeneutics a significance it had, arguably, never gained in the history of the church. The Roman Catholic view of tradition was itself an answer to the hermeneutical problem, and this in two ways. In the first place, it held that revelation as testified in scripture cannot be correctly understood without the apostolic tradition preserved intact in the church. The problem of understanding is solved also by the fact that this tradition is itself interpretive in character. This means that the second problem of hermeneutics is also solved: the present actualisation of past revelation. This is effected by the binding force of the doctrinal and moral teaching derived from scripture and realised in the present life of the church. This takes place in the following ways. (a) Specific instructions of Jesus to his disciples, the so-called consilia evangelii, are again made applicable in the present situation by reconstructing the past situation. This takes place, above all, in the monastic system, and is called by Ebeling, ‘the method of actualisation by imitative historicising’.1 (b) In the case of the doctrinal teaching of the Roman Church, we also find an actualising by contemplative historicising. The gap between past and present is bridged by believers transposing themselves into the past, thereby becoming contemporaneous with it. This is done by contemplation and meditation not only on an event itself or on a reported saying, but also on the experience of those originally concerned. This can also take place by means of re-presentation of the past in mimes and passion plays, in the contemplation of relics, or in pilgrimages to the sites of sacred history. In each case what is aimed at is a reappropriation of the past event of salvation. (c) Another method, that of mystical actualisation, is of course not limited to the Roman Catholic Church. In this case direct contact with reality is provided by immediate, that is, non-mediated experience, so that the time factor is excluded altogether. The encounter takes place in a timeless eternity; past and future become present. (d) Relics have special hermeneutic significance. They not only stimulate a contemplative actualisation of the past. In them, in a special sense, the unique past event of revelation is itself present. 1. For this and the following points see G Ebeling, ‘The Significance of the Critical Historical Method’, in Word and Faith (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1963), 32–35.

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(e) Access to the past via the Word alone is further obviated by the role of the saints. The whole history of salvation is present in its outstanding representatives, the patriarchs, prophets, apostles, and saints, including Mary, the Queen of Heaven. The church gains access to the past not merely by remembering them but by bringing them into the present. Believers can thus turn to them as immediate contemporaries—in prayer. (f) All these methods are of secondary consideration when compared with the importance of the sacramental actualisation of the past in the sacrifice of the mass. Here appropriation takes place not only in the repeated sacrifice of the mass and participating in the elements, but also in the reservation and adoration of the host extra usum sacramenti.2 Here it is not Word and sacrament, neither is it a case of Word in the sacrament. ‘The real actualisation of the event of revelation does not at all take place via scripture and its exposition in the sermon, but solely via the sacrament.’3 In the past this led to the neglect of the homily since sacramental actualisation did away with the hermeneutical problem. (g) To complete the picture, the final guarantee of the present possession of the past is given through the institution of the church, in the unbroken episcopal succession with the infallible teaching office of the papacy. Ebeling concludes: ‘The perfect tense of the event of salvation is swallowed up by the continual present of the Church.’ The answer of the reformers to all these issues, salvation by faith alone, is at the same time the enunciation of a central hermeneutical principle. The sola fide is said not only against any work-righteousness but also against any false actualisation of the past Christ-event. To this there corresponds the solus Christus and Luther’s insistence on the primacy of was Christum treibet.’4 This naturally includes the third basic hermeneutical principle, the clear distinction between law and gospel. All this means that past revelation in Christ is made present or actualised through the Word, thus the sola scriptura. The appropriation of Christ and benefits takes place in every case

2. That is, apart from the celebration itself. 3. Ebeling, 35. 4. ‘Whatever promotes Christ.’

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through the Word alone.5 Added to this central principle is Luther’s supporting contention that scripture is its own interpreter, sui ipsius interpres.6 This is not an additional hermeneutical principle, nor is it to be understood in a biblicistic sense. It is rather an explication of the sola scriptura, as is also his insistence on the perspicuitas and claritas of scripture and on the primacy of the sensus literalis over against the traditional allegorical, tropological and anagogical interpretations of scripture. It is natural that evangelical discussion on hermeneutics takes as its starting point the theology of the Word of God and our understanding of this Word, especially in preaching. It might still be objected that the very perspicuity of the Word does away with the need for detailed exegesis, for interpretation. We have already noted that the hermeneutical problem sets in not only with our understanding of the original text but also with the search for the relevance of the text’s message for our present historical situation. This is no problem for those who have a biblicistic-fundamentalist view of scripture, since here every single word is absolutised within the Word of God. It thereby loses its nature as a word spoken at a certain point of history in a not necessarily repeated or repeatable situation. It results in a concentration on the verba (words) to the detriment of the res (subject matter) which the words seek to express. It results, for example, in the false emphasis on words of prophecy, especially on the historically unclear words of Daniel and Revelation, as in modern sects. But this procedure is certainly not only sectarian. It is also found in denominational textbooks which presuppose ‘that the Bible is a compendium of abstract and eternally valid doctrinal statements, conditioned in no way by their original historical context’.7 The History of the Hermeneutical Problem in New Testament Research Insistence on sola scriptura and the stress on the preached word of God as the viva vox Dei make the study of hermeneutics imperative. 5. This is not to deny that the Word is or can be present in some of the actualisation methods listed above, for example in meditation. 6. In Assertio omnium articulorum, 1520; WA 7: 96ff. 7. Robert H Smith, ‘Creation, Ethics and Hermeneutics’, in The Lutheran Scholar, XXII (1965): 68.

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However, what has been said so far still does not show how the hermeneutical problem—one could say dilemma or confusion—has assumed such importance. This short survey is restricted to the New Testament field, especially the Gospels.8 While research into the Old and New Testaments has run in close parallel, the Old Testament has its own hermeneutical problems. We may simply refer to the discussion which arose over von Rad’s Old Testament Theology and its typological method of interpretation, a discussion that led to him being called the Bultmann of the Old Testament. The mere mention of the rise of the historical-critical method in biblical research should be enough to set the stage for what here follows. The old liberal search for the historical Jesus ended in failure with the realisation that it is impossible to distil from the Gospel accounts a purely objective, historical biography of Jesus of Nazareth on which faith might be based. This realisation was further strengthened by the findings of form criticism or form analysis (Formgeschichte). Despite the varieties of approach reached by this method,9 and despite the methodological confusion that ensued,10 this method came to one central conclusion which has found general acceptance: The synoptic evangelists were not so much free authors as collectors or collators of originally isolated pieces of tradition which were not only preserved by the early church but also formed and formulated according to the needs of the church, whether in its preaching, teaching, its apologetics, or whatever the need may have been. That is, the original pericopes arose out of the situation of the early church and thus reflect its thinking and theology.

8. [At the time of writing it also also reflected my studies in Germany.] 9. See KL Schmidt, Der Rahmen der Geschichte Jesu, 1919 (ET: The Framework of the Story of Jesus); M Dibelius, Die Formgeschichte des Evangeliums, 1919 (ET: From Tradition to Gospel); R Bultmann, Die Geschichte der synoptischen Tradition,1922 (ET: The History of the Synoptic Tradition, 1962); also, M Albertz, Die synoptischen Streitgespräche, 1921; G Bertram, Die Leidensgeschichte Jesu und der Christuskult, 1922. In English see V Taylor, The Formation of the Gospel Tradition, 4th edition, 1957; BE Redlich, Form Criticism, its Value and Limitations, 1939; FC Grant, The Growth of the Gospels, 1933. For an early critique of the form critical method see E Fascher, Die formgeschichtliche Methode, 1924. 10. A brief look at the famous Kittel-Friedrichs Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, with its many approaches, methods, and presuppositions, is enough to prove this assertion.

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There followed a new development in synoptic research which had vital significance for the question of hermeneutics. The findings of form criticism were supplemented, or rather corrected, by redaction criticism or analysis (Redaktionsgeschichte). This approach to the Gospels showed what should have been acknowledged all along, that the evangelists were more than mere collators of tradition, that as redactors or editors of tradition they were theologians in their own right who treated the tradition handed down to them, whether in oral or written form, according to the theological aims which they were pursuing. Their Gospels are a preaching of the gospel in a specific historical setting.11 This line of development can also be followed up in respect to the book of Acts and the epistles of the New Testament. The History of Religions school, at its peak at the beginning of the twentieth century, and strong in the next two decades, tended to discredit much of the contents of these books, seeing dependence on Hellenism here, on Gnosticism there, at another point dependence on the oriental mystery religions or on Hellenistic or Palestinian Judaism. Here, too, the situation changed. The question was not: From where did Paul get this thought—from Hellenism or Judaism? The final question became: In what way did Paul appropriate the terminology and thought forms of his day and its culture to serve the preaching of the cross? The question thus had a different hermeneutical goal: the better understanding of the theology of the author whether, Paul, Peter, John, or James and, specifically the better understanding of their preaching of the cross. The relevance of all this for hermeneutics should be clear. In the first place we have impressed on us once more that the Word of God contains kerygma. It is proclamation. It is not a dogmatic textbook, although it contains dogma, nor is it a textbook on ancient law or science. It is the proclamation of the cross (1 Cor 1:18). Our preaching of the cross is based on a text that is already the preaching of the Christ-event.

11. For the standard redaction critical work see H Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit, 2nd edition 1957 (ET: The Theology of Saint Luke, 1960); W Marxsen, Der Evangelist Markus, 1956 (ET: Mark the Evangelist, 1979); G Bornkamm, G Barth, HJ Held, Überlieferung und Auslegung im Matthäusevangelium, 1960 (ET: Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew, 1963).

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In the second place, our understanding of the original apostolic kerygma will be greater as we take into consideration the first situation, the first life setting (Sitz im Leben) in which the message was proclaimed, to the extent that this can be recovered. At times, several situations may be implied in the text: the situation in which a message was spoken by Jesus, one in which it was spoken in the early church, and the setting in which the evangelists ‘spoke’ when they included the message in an entire written Gospel. These, in brief, are the presuppositions on which further hermeneutical questions rest. They must now be described and illustrated. We do best to begin with a brief outline of the rise of kerygmatic theology, as presented especially by Barth, Bultmann, Ebeling and others. The Hermeneutics of Bultmann We have seen that the modern discussion on hermeneutics, within Protestantism, issues from the basic understanding of the word of God as living kerygma. This constituted the protest of the dialectical school of theology against the relativism and historicism of the religio-historical school. Faith is not to be built up on a picture of Jesus that is based on a critical reconstruction of the historical Jesus, just as he was. This is also the protest of Barth in his epoch-making commentary on Romans—and long before him, of Martin Kähler in his book The So-called Historical Jesus and the Historic Biblical Christ (1892).12 The famous introductions to Barth’s commentary in its various editions (first printed in 1918) are themselves hermeneutical essays. They highlight the confrontation character of the kerygma. Human beings are not so much questioners as those whose existence is placed under question by God and who are called to decision. A dispassionate and objective attitude to the Word is a denial of its very nature and purpose. Bultmann, who with Barth, Brunner, Gogarten and Thurneysen formed the first core of this protest group, then went his own way in developing a theology which was itself a hermeneutic of the New Testament. His name recalls the launching of the demythologisation 12. Der sogenannte historische Jesus und der geschichtliche biblische Christus (ET published in 1964).

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program in his manifesto, New Testament and Mythology.13 Much criticism of Bultmann does not touch him since it does not see the presuppositions of his approach or the purpose of his program. In his own words, Bultmann’s aim is to allow the scripture to speak ‘as a power that addresses present existence’.14 The word is understood only in so far as it speaks to me directly in terms of my existence, in turn illuminating my existence. Bultmann’s radical, critical work led him to the point of extreme agnosticism on the question of the historicity of the events which the New Testament records.15 The point is not that he refuses to believe in the miracles, the resurrection of Jesus or other supernatural events described in the New Testament, but rather that he is not at all interested in establishing these events as objectively historical. Faith, he protests, here claiming to follow in the footsteps of Luther, cannot be based on objectively verifiable historical facts. This would be to provide props for faith; it would also amount to works-righteousness, to faith as human achievement. No, the message of the Bible comes to us only in the form of Anrede, as appeal and challenge whose content cannot be objectified. It is easy to see how Bultmann’s hermeneutic leads to a new understanding of history. History is for him not established historical fact (Historie) but rather that which applies to and concerns me in my present existence (Geschichte). Even the objective historical facts which the New Testament seems to present, the bare facts (bruta facta), are for him irrelevant for Christian faith. History is not the unrecallable march of events leading on to the end of time, in whose course God’s dealings in salvation began at a particular time and lead on to a particular temporal fulfilment. On the contrary, ‘history’ is every meeting point, in the Now, through which I am asked whether I will deliver myself up and thus open myself for the future which conceals itself in the meeting point of the Now. In this way the recurring ‘moment of decision’ takes the place of the definiteness of the once-for-all historical action of God.16 13. First presented in lecture form in 1941. 14. Glauben und Verstehen, Volume II, 233 (my translation). 15. Though it is surprising what he can include in his booklet titled Jesus (ET: Jesus and the Word, Fontana Paperback, 1958). 16. See WG Kümmel, Man in the New Testament, 1963, who cites Bultmann, Glauben und Verstehen, Volume II, 71.

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Bultmann’s radical insistence on the ‘non-objectifiability’ (Nichtobjektivierbarkeit or Nichtgegenständlichkeit) of the message or content of scripture arises from his concept of the Word only as Anrede, as addressed to people and their existence. Faith therefore cannot be identified with a past picture of the world with angels, miracles, a three-tiered universe, with heaven and hell, that is, with mythological language. This must be demythologised in terms of human existence. Thus, for Bultmann, every theological statement must also be an anthropological statement if it is to be legitimate. There is no objective religious truth that does not speak to people in terms of the meaning and purpose of their existence, existence being in turn analysed and characterised in terms of Martin Heidegger’s philosophy of existence. The central problem with Bultmann is this—and here the ‘dedogmatising’ tradition of liberal theology has not been completely shaken off. Theology has here become anthropology. ‘If one wants to speak of God, one must obviously speak of one’s self.’ Again, ‘When asked how speaking about God is possible, the answer must be: Only as speaking about us’.17 Faith as the work of God—on this Bultmann still insists—is based not on a new understanding of God but on the new understanding of self (neues Selbstverständnis) in the light of the kerygma, an understanding which arises from existential confrontation with the Word. Bultmann’s hermeneutic is essentially anthropological in orientation since understanding is possible only in terms of the existence in which one lives. Apart from the criticism already implied in the above brief review, the following points must be directed to Bultmann’s position. (1) The problem of the actualisation or appropriation of the past has still not been overcome. We could even go so far as to say that the gap between the history of salvation in Christ—which for Bultmann is practically irrelevant—and us in the present is widened. What does Jesus Christ, his suffering and death, mean for me if that is all to be reduced to the mere ‘that’ (German: dass) of the Jesus of history?18 (2) Does not Bultmann, to escape the old liberal Ritschlian concept of atonement as a new objective picture of God, fall into the other trap of making the reader the questioner? It seems that he turns 17. Glauben und Verstehen I, 28, 33 (my translation). 18. Meaning, that Jesus existed.

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‘Adam, where are you?’ which comes to us from God, into ‘Adam, how do you understand yourself?’ (3) Can I approach God’s Word with an understanding of myself apart from having already heard God’s verdict on my existence? Is a non-scriptural analysis of human existence a legitimate tool for understanding God’s Word spoken to me? Or must I not be still and listen and be told where I stand? Can understanding take place exclusively based on the existence which I know, or is there not a revelation which is ‘unearthly’? (4) Finally, if the New Testament is to be understood as the explication of the meaning of the cross and resurrection in kerygmatic form, and if this proclamation itself depends on the very historicity of this salvation event—whether this can be objectively verified or not—is not the present preaching of the cross bound to the New Testament’s own understanding of history? Can I make my analysis of human existence the final yardstick for the relevance of the Word of God? If I do this, am I not returning to the old human hybris, the prideful position of those who dare to stand in judgment over God’s Word? The Hermeneutics of Ebeling and Fuchs To continue our survey, the old discussion on hermeneutics in the New Testament field next came to be dominated by Gerhard Ebeling and Ernst Fuchs, who critically carried on where Bultmann had left off. To put their case as briefly as possible, we may outline it as follows. To bridge the gap between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith, or the gap between the written Word as the record of God’s action in Christ and the present preaching of this event as illuminating my existence, they have concentrated on an examination of the nature of speech and language. Here again the aim is to let the message of the New Testament ‘come to expression’. In an important essay titled ‘Word of God and Hermeneutics’,19 Ebeling outlines his position which can be characterised by means of two technical terms: the ‘hermeneutical circle’ and ‘word-event’. The argument briefly goes as follows. The actualisation of the past occurs only through the Word. The sola scriptura must be retained 19. In Word and Faith, 305ff.

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as the central hermeneutical principle. But the written Word must be distinguished from the spoken Word, the proclaimed Word of God which speaks directly to humanity. Hermeneutics can thus be called the theory or doctrine of the Word of God.20 Words themselves possess only symbolical character. The problem imposed by speech is not so much that of understanding words as of transmitting understanding through words. A word is an event (he here refers to the Hebrew word dabhar), and it is that between humans only because words, by transmitting understanding, illuminate existence. The proclamation of the church as the preaching of Christ is therefore in itself the actualisation of the past. The preaching of the cross and resurrection is not the proclamation of what God did in the past but the opening of the possibility that this can happen in the present for the believer. The language-event which takes place in preaching becomes itself the salvation-event. Thus, the past historical event is absorbed or subsumed into the present proclamation of the Word as the living challenge of God to faith, the surrender of self to God. As with Bultmann, this challenge must be in terms of human existence. What must be understood is not only the text of scripture, but also human existence. Again, as with Bultmann, the question with which we approach the Word is central.21 This implies the hermeneutical circle. We approach the Word with an understanding of ourselves which is then modified or corrected, and is itself interpreted by the Word, giving us a new understanding of ourselves (Selbstverständnis). ‘Hermeneutics, in order to be an aid to interpretation, must itself be interpretation’, as Ebeling says in his essay. How does the salvation-event take place in the word-event in proclamation? The text, Ebeling says, seeks to serve proclamation. But ‘if the word-character of God’s Word is taken strictly, it is absurd to designate a transmitted text as God’s Word.’ What then is the relationship between the text and the sermon? ‘Proclamation that has taken place is to become proclamation that takes place.’ The sermon is the execution of the text in the sense that ‘it is proclamation of 20. Word and Faith, 323. See also E Fuchs, Hermeneutik, 2nd edition 1958, and the essays in Studies of the Historical Jesus, 1964, especially the two titled ‘Translation and Proclamation’ and ‘What is Language-event?’ 21. German: Das Woraufhin der Befragung.

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what the text has proclaimed.’22 The text is thus a hermeneutical aid towards the understanding of present existence. A critique of this system, in broad outline, also applies to that of Fuchs. (a) The gap between the past and my present is here bridged by swallowing up the past into the present word-event of preaching. With Bultmann the past action of God in Christ is pushed into distant obscurity. With Fuchs and Ebeling the past disappears in the present. This has two consequences. First, the once-for-all unique character of the saving event in Christ is in danger of being lost. Second, as with Bultmann, the objective extra nos (apart from us) character of salvation in Christ is in danger of being replaced by a subjective emphasis on the present event in its significance for us. This represents a different understanding of the church (not to mention the Eucharist) because of its individualistic understanding of salvation and its stress on the event as pro me (for me). (b) One is still left with a question mark about God’s past action in Christ. If Jesus Christ, crucified, buried, and risen is only Jesus Christ in the word-event of the kerygma, to what am I praying when I address myself to the risen and glorified Lord? Can I pray to a wordevent? (c) If ‘hermeneutics is the theory of words’, are we not turning hermeneutics into philosophy of language or speech, into semantics? There is such a thing as biblical semantics, but the task of hermeneutics cannot be confined to this. (d) Finally, and this is perhaps the crux of the matter, is the distinction between the written text and the preached Word legitimate in so far as it makes the text into no more than past proclamation, and only potentially the Word of God? Even if scripture is past preaching of the Word, of Jesus Christ as the original Logos of God, can and does it not speak to me now as God’s Word? We have come back to our first statement that the hermeneutical problem issues from an inadequate understanding of the Word of God.23 Biblical hermeneutics is not the theory of words but the application of the doctrine of the Word of God, the quest for its right understanding. 22. Ebeling, Word and Faith, 330–32. 23. This is made clear by F Hohmeier, Das Schriftverständnis in der Theologie Rudolf Bultmanns, 1964.

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Hermeneutics and Preaching We are now in a better position to be able to formulate the central principles of a biblical hermeneutic and to draw some practical conclusions for preaching.24 Preaching is here referred to in the widest sense to include the proclamation of the Word in the sermon or homily and in all forms of instruction. (a) Scripture alone: Our understanding of the past saving event in Christ and our appropriation of it takes place solely through scripture as the written record of this event, including the story of God’s salvific work in the Old Testament. (b) Faith alone: This record is still God’s continual challenge to people to accept by faith alone the relevance of this past event for themselves in the present. (c) Law and gospel: The challenge to accept the lordship of God comes to us in the form of address (Anrede) which is not to be dispassionately or objectively viewed. Barth’s famous assertion, ‘We do not have God at our disposal’, can be extended to ‘We also do not have God’s Word at our disposal’. This Word comes to us in the form of law or demand: ‘Adam, where are you?’ is answered by God with ‘You are a sinner’. It also comes as gospel which expects the decision of faith in answer to the question ‘What do you think of Christ?’ to which God again answers ‘in Christ you are a saint’. (d) Christ alone: This is not only a dogmatic statement with reference to salvation through Christ alone, but also a hermeneutical principle in the understanding of this event. In other words, the Word of God is the preaching of the Logos, of Jesus Christ as the Word of God. The content of scripture is Christ; every chapter and verse is to be understood in this context. These basic principles may appear clear and simple, but their application is anything but simple. The following are some guidelines for their practical implementation as well as pointers to some typical dangers in preaching. 1. According to the first principle, preaching must be scriptural. A sermon is not necessarily scriptural if it merely takes a piece of scripture as its starting point, or if it takes a verse or two of 24. This has been done by Kurt Frör, Biblische Hermeneutik zur Schriftauslegung in Predigt und Unterricht, 1961.

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scripture as the pretext for preaching or to create the right atmosphere or setting for a sermon. The sermon should reflect the right understanding not only of a certain passage but of the whole of scripture. It is an exaggeration to say that the whole of scripture is kerygma. It also contains prophecy, ethical teaching, exhortation, wisdom, prayers, and hymns of praise which are the human response to the kerygma. These forms either prepare for or reflect the gospel of the cross and resurrection. They presuppose the saving event in Christ. Rightly understood, we can accept Ebeling’s phrase: ‘Proclamation that has taken place is to become proclamation that takes place.’ The sermon cannot be a mere paraphrase or repetition of the words (verba) of the text, but a new proclamation of its substance (res), a new preaching of Christ who stands behind every text. In this sense we are to proclaim what the text once proclaimed. Every pericope of the New Testament we might choose as a sermon text presupposes the whole event of salvation, since it was written with the faith of the post-Easter church. This statement is a hermeneutical guide, not a critical yardstick to be used in determining the historicity of a reported word or event. 2. With reference to faith alone, the preaching of Christ’s saving work can only appeal to God’s call to us through this event. The relevance of history must be accepted in faith based on apostolic witness. This is where the hermeneutic of Adolf Schlatter sets in: with the original witness of the apostles.25 His pupil KarlHeinz Rengstorf has argued in various works26 that the very concept of ‘apostle’ as a fully authorised representative of the Lord presupposes the resurrection experience, better, the risen Christ of whom they were eyewitnesses. The whole of the New Testament is based on eye-witness kerygma. It is problematical to go as far as Schlatter who insists on the direct apostolic origin of all New Testament books, but he is right in insisting that the proclamation of the New Testament is based on fully authorised apostolic witness. Both the witness itself and relevance of this

25. See U Luck, Kerygma und Tradition in der Hermeneutik Adolf Schlatters, 1955. 26. See his article on apostolos in Theological Dictionary of the New Testament I, 407– 47; also Die Auferstehung Jesu, 4th edition, 1960.

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witness must be accepted by faith alone. ‘If Christ has not been raised, your faith is futile’ (1 Cor 15:17). The preaching of the church as God’s call to faith is the continuation of apostolic witness, for the church claims this witness as its own. This constitutes the true apostolicity of the church. The challenge to faith must remain just that. There can be no props to faith in the form of appeals to other historical data, to archaeological findings, to subjective psychological feeling or experience. The Word comes to us with no other ‘proof ’ than the promise of a new creation which will follow the obedience of faith. Exegesis of a text may have to illuminate certain aspects of it through the findings of historical science and archaeology, but these can never become the subject of preaching. Likewise, it is a travesty of God’s Word to preach exegetical niceties or controversies. A sermon should reflect a thorough exegesis, but it should never preach exegesis. Finally, another danger. We express our faith in dogmatic formulations, and every sermon involves dogma, reflecting the teaching of the church. But we do not preach or ‘believe in’ dogma. We preach Christ and him crucified. 3. The distinction between law and gospel belongs with the first two principles. All proclamation of God’s will through law as demand must presuppose the gospel as promise, while the gospel at the same time presupposes a new understanding of the law. What the old homiletics textbooks stressed remains true: we dare never preach a curtailed message, whether it be law as a new morality (or moralism!) or an insipid gospel. We do not preach a system of dogmatics yet the whole counsel of God is implied—even if only indirectly—no matter what the occasion. In this connection, the occasional address is the most difficult and dangerous of all sermonic forms. It is especially here that the temptation to use a text as a pretext for presenting a ‘fitting’ message is greatest. The sermon should not degenerate into a speech for a special occasion. It must contain Good News. The right preaching of the gospel will imply a proper understanding of the ‘decision’ of faith, a point that is important in view of the dangers of evangelistic preaching. Our decision of faith is only the answer to God’s prior decision for us. Much appealing for decisions implies a wrong understanding of the Word: as if we are in a position dispassionately to view and listen and then make our decision. Faith itself is a creation of the Word through the working of the Spirit.

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4. All the above is already an explanation of the ‘Christ alone’ principle. Christ is the Interpreter who has not only given us a new understanding of God and new standing with God, but also a new understanding of ourselves after being placed in a new relationship with God. But there are two ways in which we can offend against this principle. In the first place, preaching can lapse into a false anthropology, into a mere analysis of the human condition, often in terms of a naive or simplistic presentation of ‘modern’ sins. This is a common error in evangelistic sermons—sometimes tirades! Secondly, a balanced Christology can be distorted into a ‘Jesuology’ that preaches not the risen and glorified Christ and his present full lordship, but an abbreviated Christology remembering only the words and deeds of Jesus of Nazareth.27 This danger is not so great in preaching as in catechetical work where it may result in a moralistic presentation of the New Testament message. With the Old Testament we have the danger of presenting the patriarchs and other people of faith as moral examples instead of seeing in them the hand of God at work. It is not an attack on the tri-unity of God or a revival of a teaching of subordination to assert that New Testament writers speak in terms of God’s action in and through his servant, the Christ. This can be seen by noting the passive forms used in the passion and resurrection narratives. ‘He was crucified’ means more than ‘People killed him.’ The deeper meaning of this statement is, ‘God allowed him to be crucified.’ ‘He was raised’ is a circumlocutory expression for ‘God raised him’. He appeared also means, ‘God made him to be seen.’28 Preaching, while Christocentric, should be the proclamation of the acts of God in and through his Son, just as the preaching of the Old Testament should present the mighty acts of God in and through his chosen people. 5. Communicating understanding through the sermon presupposes not only that preachers have themselves understood the text as a result of exegesis but also that they have received renewed faith. But one more point must be added. What must be ‘exegised’ is not only the written text of scripture but also the ‘text’ of the 27. As with the question, ‘What would Jesus say or do?’. 28. The passive reveals a typically Jewish avoidance of the use of God’s name. See KH Rengstorf, Die Auferstehung Jesu, Appendix I.

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human situation to which the Word is to be readdressed. Here anthropology does play into the preaching of the Word and its understanding. A precise analysis of the human situation is necessary lest the sermon be presented in a vacuum. People must be addressed in their present existence, with their real questions and problems. Humanity here is always specific human beings. An abstract unapplied gospel is no gospel at all. Both the Word and the natural human state are changeless in one respect, but in proclamation they must become concrete. The danger is that of speaking to situations and problems that are not real issues. The Word must be explicated to lead people through specific problems, to comfort them in specific sorrows, to warn them of specific dangers, to confront specific sins. That preaching does not always do this may be why some sermons become platitudinous, stilted, boring, and even naive. It goes without saying that the use of slang or hip language is no guarantee that the sermon is ‘practical’ and relevant for the situation. We, like St Paul, must use the language of our day, but the challenge of meaningful communication is solved not by slang but by a careful analysis of the human situation and speaking to it. 6. Having said this, we have already committed ourselves to a specific understanding of the hermeneutical circle. Our analysis of the human condition is itself made under faith in the light of the New Testament’s own picture of humanity under sin. It offers no objective anthropology. It is always people in Christ and under faith who picture the life and situation of people under the power of sin.29 In other words, our understanding of both the Word and of ourselves is continually challenged by the Word. We come to new depths of faith and understanding through the understanding already gained from the Word. That is the practical conclusion of the hermeneutical circle. Faith is thus itself a hermeneutical agent since it gives both an understanding of myself and of God’s world, an understanding that is to be corrected, widened, and deepened by continually hearing the Word.30

29. Kümmel, Man in the New Testament, 14-16. 30. See K Frör, Biblische Hermeneutik, 55,56.

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From Text to Sermon Taking proclamation in the narrow sense of preaching, we can briefly trace the process from text to sermon. 1. The text should be translated from the Greek or Hebrew. This stage involves hermeneutics since every translation is a piece of interpretation. For the sake of good order, the church may decide that one modern version be used in public worship (for example the JB, NRSV, or NIV), but preachers have to do their own work on the text. 2. The text should be seen within the context of the entire book in which it is located, and within its immediate historical and literary context. 3. Strange concepts or references in the text must be explained. 4. Then the actual work of exegesis begins, the attempt to say in our own words what the writer wanted to say back then. We can say that we have finished this process with the text when the necessity of it being preached hits us. 5. We look in our setting for a situation that most closely corresponds to that implied in the text. In some cases, the original message may be easy to reformulate because past and present situations run parallel. In other cases, finding the right ‘hook’ on which to hang the sermon is more difficult. 6. The actual writing of the sermon will seek the best, most pointed, direct, and applicable expressions of the matter in hand. But one fundamental point has been left unmentioned. The Holy Spirit is the Hermēneutēs, the Interpreter, who works faith and understanding, who leads us into all truth. Preaching thus requires the prayer: Veni Creator Spiritus!

Do Reformation Slogans Still Indicate Valid and Adequate Hermeneutical Principles?

First published in Cross-cultural Affection. Festschrift in Honour of Dr Thu En Yu (Kota Kinabalu: Sabah Theological Seminary, 2014), 393–411 It is a privilege to contribute to a Festschrift published in honour of Dr Thu En Yu on his retirement as Principal of Sabah Theological Seminary. My association with him and with STS over more than a decade, as a visiting lecturer, has allowed me to claim Dr Thu as a treasured friend and colleague. Having long and faithfully served the Basel Christian Church of Malaysia, first as missionary to the native Rungus people and then as pastor and bishop, Dr Thu’s vision and leadership as Principal has seen the interdenominational STS grow from humble beginnings to its present stature as a leading theological school in South-East Asia. Few people have exercised a wider influence on the theological scene in this part of the globe than this dedicated man of God. The following brief thoughts are directed less to academic than to practical goals, echoing the conviction that any theology which does not throw light on and facilitate the church’s task of bringing the transforming gospel to human society remains nothing more than religious theory. Listening without Presuppositions The aim here is to assess whether certain familiar principles can still serve us in the task of understanding the scriptures for proclamation and private reading, for listening in the pew and for personal meditation. Are age-old Reformation principles still valid

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or adequate for the hermeneutical task today? It is also pertinent to ask whether these axioms have been misunderstood or misapplied from time to time. Mindful of the fact that Asian theology should not merely parrot European or American theologies, one should also ask whether Reformation hermeneutical principles are helpful precisely in South-East Asia. The final answer to that question must, of course, be given by local theologians. Biblical hermeneutics has the task of elucidating coherent meanings in the entire corpus of Scripture. It begins with exegesis, but it reaches beyond the necessary tasks of linguistic and literary analysis of individual texts and whole writings. The goal of hermeneutics is to bridge the gap between the word once spoken and the word heard so that faith is engendered, and lives are transformed for service. ‘Faith comes from hearing’–fides ex auditu, to cite the Latin Vulgate version of Paul’s words in Romans 10:17. We could say that faith is an auricular creation of God through the power of the Holy Spirit working through the Word. It is sown into the listening ear. Of course, the seeds of faith can also be sown by a reading of the Bible, but a fuller, meaningful understanding of the Christian faith comes from constant hearing of the word within the community of faith in the context of the worship. The scriptures belong to the people of God. Indeed, the Augsburg Confession of 1530 even defines the church as that place where the Word is rightly proclaimed, and the sacraments celebrated as enacted word (Article VII). Listening to the scriptures is, strictly speaking, a corporate event. Thus, private meditation on the word (perhaps all too often neglected) is subsequent to and dependant on the continual listening on the part of all believers. Thus, hermeneutics is not a private affair, let alone a purely academic task. It is also a critical task; placing assumptions and presuppositions under review is part of its agenda. St Paul’s statement that people cannot hear without a preacher does not yet answer the age-old question of how people are to hear correctly. The question of Philip to the African official in Acts 8:30 still applies: ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ One does not need to know much about the history of biblical interpretation to reject as fallacious the claim that the meaning of the scriptures is always self-evident. Long discredited is the assumption that all that is required of us to understand the Bible is the rejection of all presuppositions or pre-understandings arising from our education,

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our culture, our doctrinal bias, or any other conditioning factor. This idea that a completely neutral, rational, unbiased study of the Bible will inevitably lead to a correct interpretation is simply naïve in the extreme.1 More than half a century ago the famous German New Testament scholar Rudolf Bultmann rightly asserted that biblical interpretation without presuppositions is impossible. That assertion remains valid even if his own declared presuppositions are open to question, namely, that faith has little to do with history and that the existential meaning of salvation in Christ can be grasped only when both the ‘history’ of Jesus and the early Christian kerygma have been demythologised. Those who have followed the long debate over attempts to rediscover the ‘real Jesus’ of history will also readily agree that the many reconstructions have resulted in very differing pictures, a point well documented already by Albert Schweitzer in his famous study, The Quest of the Historical Jesus (1906). The ‘quest’ has produced a revolutionary Jesus, a romantic Jesus, a pietistic Jesus, a Jesus of orthodoxy, to name just a few reconstructions, all reflecting the subjective starting point of the writers. More recently, as a product of the Jesus Seminar, we have a Jesus who becomes a mere teacher of wisdom who cannot be reconciled with the fiery prophet of Nazareth who threw traders out of the temple and spoke of the doom hanging over Israel, let alone with one who made messianic claims and saw his death as serving the purposes of God. Listening as Continuing Event If right hearing is to take place within the believing community and the scriptures are not surrendered to arbitrary and subjective interpretation, there must be some common assumptions. These declared assumptions must be open to critical examination and false assumptions carefully avoided. Hearing with understanding is always a dynamic event, presupposing engagement between speaker and hearer. This is the case in normal human conversation as well as in communal and individual listening to the Scriptures; it is better to speak of listening since the Scriptures were first oral communications 1. See Jeffrey J. Kloha, ‘Theological Hermeneutics after Meaning’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 46/1 (2012): 5.

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meant for aural perception. One person in the relevant community would have read Paul’s letter while the community listened to the message. This explains why Pauline diction is rhetorically tuned to impact the listening ear. To understand properly we need to give ourselves to the process of listening. A secular, critical reading of the gospels without personal engagement, without hearing the Word within the words, will never get beyond a once-upon-a-time story which can be dismissed as fantasy. Understanding is both process and event. For this reason, and because of the very nature of the biblical witness, we need to reject the idea that a biblical text has only one meaning. A fundamentalist reading of the scriptures usually works with the assumption (a) that the true meaning is readily accessible at a first reading, and (b) that this ‘true meaning’ is the meaning of the text. If we are correct in claiming that the scriptures are the dynamic word of God that was spoken and continues to speak in multiple situations, we must always allow for the possibility of multiple meanings. Neither the biblical text nor we as listeners are static entities. Once we think we have finished listening to a piece of Scripture, we close ourselves off from further understanding. Presumptuous assertions like ‘I know what that text means’ or ‘I have heard all this before’ foreclose on the process of right hearing and understanding. Literal or Literalistic? We return to the task of examining whether some fundamental Reformation principals are of help in examining the assumptions that we bring to the biblical text. It has often been asserted that Luther gave up the traditional medieval, scholastic interpretation with its four approaches: • • • •

historical, pointing to what happened allegorical, pointing to the church tropological, pointing to the individual Christian’s life anagogical, pointing to the eschaton, the last times

True, Luther concentrated on what we might call the historical literal meaning of texts, but he could still allegorise in ways that went far

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beyond the historical and literal meaning.2 His approach, as we will presently see, is better described as Christological. A literalistic interpretation of texts, absolutised and read in isolation and without reference to their historical contingency, has produced aberrations such as the prosperity gospel, legalism, millennialism, perfectionism, and many more isms than one would care to recall. There is obviously more to a Reformation hermeneutic than a simplistic and fundamentalistic literalism. Luther’s hermeneutic was developed out of deep personal struggle rather than out of any theoretical or academic study. Unfortunately, he has been seen as one who surrendered the task of interpretation to individualistic subjectivity. The popular myth continues: The Reformer championed the cause of religious liberty, the freedom of the individual conscience! Such nonsense fails to see that Luther’s concern was the freedom of the gospel so that Christians could be free to serve others. Interpretation was a matter for the church, a matter of determining corporate confession. In translating the Bible into German, he was seeking to let the Scriptures speak to everyone, to have them guide and rule the community of faith. And in saying ‘Here I stand’ (if he ever said those exact words!) he was placing himself under the Scriptures, not freeing himself from them. The Message as ‘Living Voice of God’ Against the spiritual Enthusiasts of his day, Martin Luther insisted on the authority of the external word that arises outside of us humans (extra nos) but is spoken for us (pro nobis). We are not to follow subjective inner voices but ‘cling to the external, oral word’.3 So Luther stresses the oral word of proclamation (verbum praedicatum). It is the viva vox Dei (the living voice of God) because in it the living God speaks through the Spirit of life to give us life in the triune God. ‘The inseparable companion of Holy Scripture is the Holy Spirit.’4 The Reformer can go so far as to say that ‘the Gospel should really not be something written, but a spoken word which brought forth the 2. For an example, see Victor C Pfitzner, ‘Luther as Interpreter of John’s Gospel’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 18.2 (1984): 68. 3. Luther’s Works, American Edition 23:95. 4. Weimarer Ausgabe, Tischreden V 397, No. 5904.

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Scriptures, as Christ and the apostles have done. That is why Christ himself did not write anything, but only spoke’.5 The primacy of the spoken message does not mean that the written words of the Bible are any less word of God; believers have Christ only in the swaddling clothes of the Scriptures. One cannot find the saving Christ in rainbows, butterflies, or waterfalls, as beautiful and reflective of a Creator’s goodness these may be. There is no faith that is not grounded on the written, external word. But this word is not to be heard merely as information, as historical evidence, as record from the past, but as address (German: Anrede). We hear correctly when we hear God speaking directly to us and challenging us. That means, as Karl Barth long ago insisted in his famous commentary on Romans, we do not have God or the divine word at our disposal. We can subject the words of Scripture to scholarly examination, but hearing the word requires that we allow it to be the subject and that we submit ourselves to it as its object. It means to be placed under the divine microscope or spotlight and to be asked personally, ‘Adam/Eve where are you’ (Genesis 3:9), and ‘Who do you say I [Christ] am?’ (Mark 8:29). When God speaks, things happen, at creation, in the prophetic message (see Isa 55:11), in the earthly ministry of the incarnate word which reveals and creates (John 1:1-5), and in apostolic preaching. Understanding Scripture as a living and creative voice makes good sense in the light of modern speech act theory which, put simply, distinguishes between descriptive speech (such as historical narrative), prescriptive speech (such as legal codes and commandments), and performative speech that calls things into being, as when a pastor says ‘I baptise you. . .’ or ‘I declare you to be husband and wife. . .’— It is, incidentally, failure to believe in the transforming power of the gospel that spells the end of good preaching, not the lack of rhetorical technique! Scripture Alone The western medieval church had solved the problem of the right understanding of the Scriptures by pointing to the teaching authority of the magisterium, led by the pope himself. Further, the written 5. Luther’s Works, 35:123.

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tradition of the scriptures was to be authoritatively interpreted within the living tradition of the church from apostolic times to the present. This interpretative tradition included the creeds, the ecumenical councils and the teachings of the Church Fathers, a supporting Aristotelian philosophical system, liturgical practice, church law, and much more. To some extent, the problem of understanding was obviated for the common (often illiterate) people by the fact that the church mediated God’s grace through the sacrifice of the mass, the veneration of saints and the contemplation of relics. The faith was taught visually through pictures and stained glass windows rather than aurally through sermons. On a higher level, for the ‘religious’ in monastic orders, there was the way of mystical union with God via contemplation. Luther and the other continental reformers never rejected church tradition per se when insisting on the principle of Scripture alone (sola scriptura). Thus, the three great ecumenical creeds stand at the beginning of the Book of Concord of 1580 which contains the historic Lutheran Confessions. Reference is often made to the Church Fathers in the writings of the reformers. It is likewise impossible to understand the liturgies that grew out of the Reformation without some knowledge of historic forms of worship in the Latin Church. Luther also never denied that the gospel was preached and enacted in the Church of Rome, despite the abuses that were apparent in his day. The question was whether tradition went beyond the clear voice of Scripture, and consequently whether Scripture was to judge the truth of tradition or whether tradition was to add to the meaning of the Scriptures. For those who stand in the Reformation tradition, insistence on Scripture alone rests on the premise of the fundamental sufficiency of Scripture and its clarity. The former simply asserts the written Word contains all we need to know of God’s saving will. It does not mean that revelation and Scripture are one and the same thing, for God has also revealed himself in the created world. That remains true even if our natural sight does not perceive the full truth of God in nature. Nor does ‘sufficiency’ mean that the Bible is to be treated as a fount of all wisdom, an encyclopedia of all that one needs to know, including the natural sciences, geography, and psychology! Likewise, the insistence on the clarity of the Scriptures (claritas scripturae) is not meant to assert that every text in the Bible is clear,

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leaving us with no exegetical problems. It rather asserts that the fundamental or central truths revealed in the scriptures are open to understanding, despite human sinfulness, spiritual blindness and deafness. Where difficulties remain, the further principal is in force: Scripture is its own interpreter (scriptura sui ipsius interpres). Difficult passages are to be read in the light of those that are clear. That this does not mean that the theologian’s main task is to harmonise all apparent discrepancies in the Scriptures should be obvious. Nor does it mean that the entire Bible is self-referential. The Old Testament book of Esther which does not even mention God cannot be interpreted by reading, for example, St Paul's letter to the Romans! All this sounds rather simple and self-evident to those who stand in the shadow of the sixteenth century Reformation. Yet if things are so simple, why do we finish with so many readings of the Bible? What denomination does not claim to base its teaching on the Scriptures? Agreement on sola scriptura obviously does not answer the question of how we are to read appropriately. Faith Alone The Reformation stress on the principle ‘by faith alone’ (sola fide) implies not only a rejection of all human cooperation with God for our salvation. It is also a critical principle of interpretation. For Luther, the grace of God can be comprehended and accepted only by faith and this faith comes through the hearing of the oral, preached word and the visible, enacted word of the sacraments. The appropriate human response to hearing God speaking to us is obedience. Thus, the Old Testament Shema, ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one . . .’ (Deut 6:4), could also be translated as ‘Obey, O Israel. . .’ Similarly, St Paul speaks of faith as the essential and primary obedience of the Christian that comes through hearing the gospel (Romans 1:5;6 16:26) —significantly, the Greek work for ‘obey’ (hypakouo) is a compound of the word for ‘hear’ (akouo). ‘Faith alone’ means that human reason and philosophy are servants, not masters, in the process of understanding the scriptures. Left to its own devices, human reason must inevitably finish with a 6. The NIV translation ‘the obedience that comes from faith’ is misleading since Paul is saying that faith is itself obedience to the call of the gospel.

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theology of glory, not a theology of the cross, for the preaching of the cross is an offence (skandalon) for natural human wisdom, as St Paul argues in First Corinthians 1 and 2. What rational person would ever devise a system of belief in a mighty God who comes among us as a baby wetting its diapers and as a man condemned to die by a horrible Roman method of execution? This does not constitute an argument for a simplistic, biblicistic reading of the scriptures and an uncritical acceptance of surface meanings. Nor can it imply a rejection of plain hard work involved in developing an ear for the truth of God’s written revelation. It is only sectarians who claim to know what every passage of the Bible means, including the dark passages of Daniel and Revelation! Christ Alone It is the third ‘alone’ (solus Christus) that is the most characteristic principle in Luther’s hermeneutic. For him it is not only a soteriological principle that rules out all human contribution to salvation; it is nothing less than the key to the scriptures. As his famous dictum in The Bondage of the Will states, ‘Take Christ out of the scriptures and what else will you find in them?’7 Or again, in the kind of exaggerated statement typical of him, Luther states that ‘everything in the Bible is about Christ’.8 Christ is the heart and goal of the scriptures; they are the swaddling clothes in which Christ is wrapped and presented to us. He is the res or essence of their witness. Seeking ‘that which promotes or presents Christ’ (German, was Christum treibet) was Luther’s rule of thumb in determining the primary and secondary status of canonical writings, but it also serves as a general hermeneutical rule. While one might disagree with the Reformer’s assessment that such books as Jude, Hebrews and Revelation are of secondary authority, one can hardly disagree with the determining principal as such. No Christian can read the psalms of revenge, the regulations of the Holiness Code in Leviticus 7. Tolle Christum e scripturis, quid amplius in illis invenies; De Servo Arbitrio WA 18:606. 8. Es ist alles umb Christus zu thun in der Biblien; WA 7:600. Reading the scriptures through the person and work of Christ does not mean the reduction of Trinitarian theology to Christology. Christology is the starting point rather than the end (see 1 Cor 15:28).

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or the detailed prescriptions for temple sacrifice and place them on the same level as the teachings of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount, Paul’s letter to the Romans, or the Gospel of St. John, for example. Yet their canonicity demands that we take seriously seemingly irrelevant books and passages. They, too, have some ‘meaning’, perhaps some new meaning acquired with the passage of time. It is because Luther sees the unity of the Scriptures as constituted by their witness to the will of God in Jesus Christ that he can adopt the originally rabbinic rule that Scripture is its own interpreter.9 Solus Christus means that one need not give up the quest for meaning in the face of texts that make little sense or have contradictory messages. One does not need to engage in complicated harmonisations in the face of contradictions. Listening for the voice of God in Christ means freedom to live with paradox, to let the Bible present us with a choir of voices (sometimes discordant, as when we listen to both Galatians and the Letter to James) rather than trying, for example, to make Paul and James sing from the same theological score. A Christological focus will allow for a polyphonic choir of voices rather than a univocal plainchant. The one thing that matters is the clear message of the gospel of God’s grace in Christ that liberates us to be servants of God and our fellows. Consequently, Luther is little concerned with historical and textual difficulties that lie on the periphery of texts. Problems of chronology are not a source of concern if one keeps focused on the heart of Scripture: the saving Christ. Luther was no fundamentalist. He could also allow Old Testament texts their own internal integrity and meaning without immediately reading Christ into them. Distinguishing Law and Gospel The second characteristic principle of Luther’s hermeneutic, the proper distinction between law and gospel, does not mean that we ignore or eliminate anything that does not sound like good news. Biblical hermeneutics is not the practice of applying scissors to texts that we do not like, especially legal prescriptions. Scripture contains both law and gospel: demand and promise, requirement, and gift. The law points out and condemns sin; the gospel proclaims divine grace. 9. See Assertio omnium articulorum 1520; WA 7:96–98.

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Law and gospel are two ‘voices’ or modalities according to which we hear God speaking. It is not a matter of carving up the scriptures into law passages on the one hand and gospel texts on the other, let alone of eliminating the law. The one text can be heard as both command and promise. For example, Genesis 1and 2 contain the gospel of a gracious creator as well as the imperative for ecological responsibility. ‘I am the Lord your God. . .’ as the preface to the Ten Commandments contains the gospel of covenantal commitment on God’s part as well as the expectation of faithfulness and obedience on Israel’s part. God speaks the whole word to us all the time. So, there is no moment when we do not stand under both demand and promise. We are always sinners under the law that condemns, but we are always saints in the gospel that sets us free in Christ. However, the gospel is the ‘proper voice’, the final message from God when it is received in faith. Getting this distinction right, says Luther, is what makes a true theologian. It prevents self-righteousness, self-satisfaction, spiritual complacency and legalism on the hand, and spiritual despondency and despair on the other. God’s final message to us in Christ is: ‘You are my children, made saints for holy service’. The Theology of the Cross We have already mentioned the theology of the cross which Luther developed already in the Heidelberg Disputations of 1518 as an attack on reason as the basis of faith: The very paradox of the gospel shows that it is not the product of human reasoning, for God is revealed in opposites; God’s glory shines brightly through the shame of the cross. God’s attributes and ways are also hidden under their opposites: weakness, folly, injustice, shame, defeat, death. Consequently, sight is not to be trusted, only the hearing of faith; the eye stands for proof, the ear for believing reception. Even what would normally be seen as success may not be so; suffering and defeat may indeed be victory, as is the case with the crucified Lord and with the suffering apostle Paul. Applying this theological insight further, we might say that any attempt to measure spiritual growth, to gauge the strength of the church externally, to determine its true members, and to theologise merely by experience, belongs to a theology of glory. The theology of the cross as an interpretative lens finds good support in the Bible where our normal value system is subverted: this

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says that the rich, the mighty, the noble born and clever will inherit the earth. God turns all this upside down, choosing a pagan (Abraham) and a cheat (Jacob) to serve the divine plan and promising them the earth!10 Messianic expectation is set in motion with a murderer and an adulterer (David). Not a mighty nation, but little Israel in the armpit of the Mediterranean is chosen and redeemed twice from captivity: in Egypt and Babylon. God uses a persecutor (Paul) to be the apostle to the Gentiles. Finally, justification by faith in Christ subverts our sense of justice. God does not act within the norms of common human justice. In an ultimate sense, God acts in an unfair way in the great exchange of Christ’s righteousness for our sinfulness. The paradox is that the lion of Judah must become a sacrificial lamb, that the Lord of glory must be seen as the great snake on the stake.11 Is There More? Biblical hermeneutics continues to be a flashpoint in theological debate rather than a common starting point even when most if not all the above principles are accepted. Exegetical methodologies have been expanded to include such things as linguistic, structural, narrative, and rhetorical analysis, social-scientific exegesis and so on, but the debate over meaning in terms of significance continues. More recently there has been a move from the text to the hearer in attempting to understand the process of understanding itself. Debates on biblical hermeneutics are part of wider philosophical discussions on meaning and method that include famous thinkers like the German HansGeorg Gadamer with his dialogical hermeneutic, the French Jacques Derrida with his method of ‘deconstructing’ texts, and another Frenchman who also taught in the United States, Paul Ricoeur, with his fascination with metaphors and symbols. In addition, liberation theology, feminist studies, and ecological readings of the Bible have widely employed the by-now famous hermeneutic of suspicion, seeking to uncover what lies behind the text. To summarise and analyse such developments is way beyond the scope of this article. I simply wish to point out one area where we must move beyond the Reformation principles outlined above: we 10. See the Magnificat in Luke 1:46–55; 1 Cor 1:18–25; 2 Cor 4:7–12. 11. Luther preaching on John 3:14.

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need to interpret and apply texts ‘situationally’ or, to use the more common expression, contextually. Contextuality: Then and Now The world has become much larger than Luther, Calvin and the whole late medieval Church of Europe could have imagined. Thousands of indigenous cultures in emerging continents were unknown. Further, there was little acknowledgement of the great time-gap that separated, for example, the patriarchs and ancient Israelites from sixteenth century Europeans. One need only look at medieval woodcuts or read Luther’s commentaries on Genesis to see how Old Testament figures were depicted as good European burgers and farmers! We now accept, as a general principle, that ancient texts need to be read as such—that is, as documents from a very distant past—before we dive across millennia and make facile applications in our own context. The proper understanding of the historical contingency and contextuality of biblical writings does not eliminate the truth of their contemporaneity. There is what Luther called ‘spiritual reading’ of the Bible for personal instruction and edification, the famous threefold process of prayer, meditation, and testing (Latin, oratio, meditatio, tentatio).12 However, personal illumination gives no one the right to determine communal confession of the faith. The need for the ‘agreement of the faithful’ (consensus fidelium) remains. Contextuality has become something of a buzz word, especially in younger churches that have grown from European missions. Before we listen to the scriptures rightly today, we need to give attention to their own various contexts, that is, the situation that comes with (Latin, con) the text within history. Concern for contextual understanding is thus a twofold process that begins with listening to texts within their own settings and then applying them within our own settings. The Bible is no Book of Mormon that suddenly fell from the sky but a library of books that had their origin in a wide variety of contexts. Vital for understanding the texts themselves and for appropriating them into our situation is the examination of the specific religious, 12. See ‘A way to study theology’ from the ‘Preface to the Wittenberg Edition of Luther’s German Writings’; LW 34: 285–87; see also John W Doberstein, The Minister’s Prayer Book, (Sydney: Collins Liturgical Press, 2001), 287–89.

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historical, political, economic, social, and cultural contexts which they reflect and the situations for which they were written. It is relatively easy to demonstrate how the scriptures reflect changing situations. A few examples from the New Testament will suffice. •

•

•

•

The vision of an imminent kingdom of God in the Synoptic Gospels and early Pauline letters is accompanied, though not totally replaced, by a more realised eschatology, as in the Gospel of St John. The delay of the parousia with the passage of time made this pastorally necessary. The picture of the Roman state as ‘God’s servant for your good’ (Romans 13:4) becomes the image of the beast in the book of Revelation. A church under persecution did not need to be told simply to buckle under state authority. The cleansing of the Jerusalem temple belongs to the climax of Jesus’ earthly ministry in the Synoptics. In John it comes at the beginning of the Gospel as the evangelist begins to develop the theme of Jesus as the perfection of Israel’s cultus. Here theology determines chronology. Doctrine and church practice can change, depending on circumstances. Thus, the edict of the Jerusalem Council requiring no more of Gentile believers than abstention from eating food offered to idols, unchastity, eating a strangled animal or bird, and ‘blood’, lapsed with the passage of time and the growth of the Gentile church.13

A literal reading of the Bible as the living word of God, in contrast to a literalistic reading, has no problem with changes and adaptations in expressing the gospel in new situations. A literal reading understands the difference between prose and poetry; it can distinguish between history, symbol, and metaphor, can understand the role played by specific historical circumstances in expressing the faith and expressing Christian morality and determining church practice. Literalistic reading understands texts through the lens of the present rather than the past. 13. The meaning of ‘blood’ in Acts 15:20, 29 and 21:25 is not completely clear. It probably does not mean eating of blood (which would be covered by ‘what is strangled’) but offences against Old Testament laws of consanguinity and sexual immorality; for the distinction see Lev 17 and 18.

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These distinctions become important in the debate over the ordination of women, a practice that my own Church in Australia still does not accept. In my view, it is only a literalistic exegesis and application of the key texts, First Corinthians 14:33b–37 and First Timothy 2:11–15, that can lead to a veto on women as candidates for the public office of ministry in the church. By failing to give due attention to the literary contexts of these texts and the local contexts in which instructions are to apply, directions that had meaning and good purpose in past situations are turned into divine mandates with universal and timeless validity. Consequently, half of the body of Christ is disqualified from speaking and acting as his authorised agents. One can only wonder what St Paul, who contextualised the gospel for the Hellenistic world, and Luther, who contextualised it for the German people, would say to such a reading and application of these texts in our modern world!

B. Theological Themes

The Unity of the New Testament

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 3/2 (1969): 59–71

That the Scriptures of the NT (henceforth NT) present a unity in some form will be contested by no one. The canon in its present form has been recognised and accepted by the church for some sixteen hundred years. Whether Christian or non-Christian, readers of any of the twenty-seven books of the NT canon are forced to read within the context of the entire collection of writings. That we have such a thing as the canon presupposes that the church has in its history viewed this collection as forming a fundamental unity which allows it to stand alongside the Scriptures of the Old Testament as equal in authority. At the outset we should set our theme within the theological debate on the Scriptures. This is advised since there is always the temptation to carry on a monolog with oneself in terms of familiar answers to questions which are no longer real or acute. We make no contribution to theological dialog by repeating the old harmonising of ‘discrepancies’ like the difference in numbers between First Corinthians 10:8 and Numbers 25:9. The question is not: Is the NT a unity? It is rather: In what way can we speak of a unity? Secondly, the search for the unity of the NT involves almost the total range of biblical studies, for what is sought is the heart and core of its testimony that gives unity to the whole. In a sense, the theme of this examination is the task of NT theology as a whole: What do the Scriptures say?

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Thirdly, the quest for unity is part of the quest for authority. Any attempt to outline what is meant by the authority of the biblical witness must also indicate in what way the two Testaments are entities and unities within themselves, and how they then together form the greater unity of the Bible as the authoritative revelation of God’s will for humankind. Our theme is, then, a subchapter in the discussion of biblical authority. Canonical Authority and Unity A few preliminary remarks on the interrelatedness of these two themes, authority and unity, are in place, especially insofar as they relate to the problem of the NT canon. The decision of the church in the past to limit the canon to just twenty-seven writings makes them authoritative in the tradition of the church. This excludes the following equation: the NT canon is authoritative, therefore the writings it comprises must form a unity. Or to put it slightly differently, because of the church’s decision to recognise the authority of these books, these writings within the canon must form a unity. The difficulty here is that the contents of the canon are confused, or falsely equated, with the formation of the canon itself as a collection of writings upon which the church later placed its stamp of approval. We may well believe that the church was led by the Spirit of God to limit the confines of the canon to just these writings and no more, but it can be shown that the arguments by which some were included in the collection must now be regarded as being of doubtful validity. This certainly applies to Hebrews and Second Peter, writings whose Pauline and Petrine authorship is now generally rejected. The past decision of the church to limit the writings to be used in public worship presupposes that they form a unity, but this decision does not mean that the church in later times does not have the right, even the duty, to examine in what way these writings belong together, without resting on the tradition of the church. In other words, we must grant that the canon as an historical factor, far from putting a protective fence around its contents, is open to critical examination. This also applies to an examination of its unity. This must be said against a biblicistic approach to Scripture which is so dominated by the attempt to define its inspiration and authority that it becomes involved in dubious formal proofs. A feature of this

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approach is that, to defend Scripture, its authority and unity, a false defensive, apologetical stance must be adopted whenever some word or statement crops up in the text which seems to throw doubt on the unity of the NT. Thus, for example, in the defence of the unity of the Gospel accounts of the life, death and resurrection of our Lord—a unity that is here equated with exact agreement in historical, topographical, and chronological detail—a strange, bizarre, and forced process of harmonisation is employed, one which threatens to or does destroy the character of the various Gospel accounts as unique testimony within the deep-going unity of the NT evangelic witness to Christ. Any examination of the unity of the NT must take seriously the decision of the church to limit the canon to its present contents, must note the reasons for this decision. But it must also recognise the historical circumstances (Geschichtlichkeit) of this decision. Luther’s free approach to the question of the extent of the canon underlines the fact that the actual scope of the canon belongs to church tradition. The church in all ages faces the question: Why does this or that book belong to the canon; what makes it of a piece with the rest of the NT record and witness? Here we cannot hide behind church tradition. The authority and unity of the NT, as of the whole of Scripture, must be approached with different presuppositions. The authority of Scripture is finally based on the work of the Holy Spirit who convinces people that God here speaks his divine Word through human words. The testimonium Spiritus Sancti (testimony of the Holy Spirit) is the only assurance necessary for the believer. Only when God has already spoken through the Spirit do such verses as Second Peter 1:21 and Second Timothy 3:16 ‘prove’ anything. By faith we accept the inspiration and authority of God’s Word. It is not open to historical verification. We might be inclined to think that the unity of the NT must also be accepted in faith, that it cannot be proved. That is true if it is thereby implied that what constitutes the heart and centre of the NT, what holds it together as the one, united, apostolic record and testimony to the work of God through Christ is seen and understood only in faith. On the other hand, it would be wrong to postulate the authority and deduce the unity. In a sense the unity of the NT is open to critical examination with all the analytical means at the disposal of scholarship.

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The search for the united witness of the NT, for its meaning and message, is as old as the canon itself and has produced quite different results. Marcion could find a unity only in his abbreviated and expurgated Lucan and Pauline canon. And while in later centuries the Eastern Church expressed its theology and piety more in Johannine terms, the West tended to speak more in terms of Pauline theology. Thus, also the Reformation of the sixteenth century found in the western imagery and language of the Pauline doctrine of justification the heart and centre of the NT. Every age has found its way to what it considers the heart of the message, often with a distorted picture or one-sided theology the result. We need recall only two examples The Liberal approach drew from the NT the picture of a Jesus who came to teach a higher spirituality and morality. The sectarian Adventist approach has to our day tended to make the apocalyptic element the centre of faith. Various scientific methods of biblical study developed through research have been used to underline not only the diversity of NT witness, but also what are regarded as areas of disunity. Again, only a few examples will suffice. The religio-historical approach has been used to present a picture of NT faith as a conglomerate of Jewish and Hellenistic thought, as a good mixture of rabbinic (Ethelbert Stauffer would even say Qumranic), mystical and Gnostic thought and diction. Or again, the literary and form-critical examination of the Gospels has sometimes resulted in a picture of the early church as a depository of diverse floating traditions, many of which were not only modified but also invented ad hoc to meet the needs of this anonymous church. The unity of gospel witness has sometimes been lost in the multiplicity of Gospel pericopes. Even in the nonacademic reading of the Gospels, in public and private worship and devotion, a piecemeal approach continues without in most cases being supplemented by the reading of whole Gospels, epistles, the whole of Acts and Revelation. The Quest for a NT Theology The redactional study of the Gospels tried to see how the evangelists used the traditional materials available in the service of their special kerygmatic goals. This led to the rise of much literature which speaks of the various theologies of the NT writers, but which has difficulty

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speaking about a theology of the NT. Its message is split up into that of theological schools, into the theology of John, Paul, of Peter and so on. It could be answered that all NT research in some way revolves around the search for its unity in the sense of its central meaning. But it is symptomatic of the present hesitancy in this area that, after Rudolf Bultmann’s Theology of the New Testament (1953) with its demythologising and existential approach, and Ethelbert Stauffer’s New Testament Theology (1941) with its strange Christocentric theology of history, only two NT Theologies appeared in the next decade, those of Alan Richardson (1958) and Hans Conzelmann (1967)—both unassumingly claiming to offer no more than an introduction or outline, to quote their titles This hesitancy was surely conditioned not merely by the many ongoing unresolved questions debated by scholars. It also reflected the wide-spread view mentioned above: that the NT was full of theologies, but what its theology (singular) was and how it was to be interpreted was debated. Because scholars had their problems, the unity of the NT became a problem. These comments give only half of the picture. All the various critical approaches have contributed also in a positive way to an understanding of the NT’s unity. The religio-historical method showed how the Gospels were addressed to people in the language of their contemporary world. Literary and form-critical analysis showed that the gospel is assumed in each pericope and that the one Easter faith is behind all the evangelic traditions. The redactional approach has also been salutary in opposing the view that the evangelists were mere collators of tradition or recorders of history. It has rightly placed them alongside Paul and John as theologians in their own right. By noting the various editorial emphases, this method has also highlighted what is common and essential to all the Gospels and what has allowed them to stand side by side as different Gospel versions of the one gospel of Jesus Christ. Much of the contemporary debate relevant to our topic is conditioned by the consistent historical approach to the NT. The quest for the unity of the NT is implied in the following areas: a. the quest for the historical Jesus as the search for the foundations of a NT Christology, that is, the search for the unity between history and faith, b. the unity between the person and message of Jesus and the witness of the NT writers, especially Paul and John,

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c. the commonality behind all the common theological expressions of NT writers, that is, the quest for the heart of the Christian faith, d. The renewed examination of the canon itself because of the problems raised in other areas. Examples of Solutions: Braun Before making some contributions to the discussion by suggesting points that indicate the unity of NT witness, there follow a few examples of the way in which the issue has been addressed in the past. We may be excused for deliberately choosing two extreme positions to highlight the issues involved.1 Herbert Braun of Mainz addresses the question of what constitutes the unity of the NT in his essay, ‘The Problem of New Testament Theology’.2 Braun is not content to speak of diversity or variety in the NT writings. He speaks rather of disparateness, of divergences, and illustrates what he means by showing how, in his opinion at least, NT writers do not agree in five fundamental areas: Christology, soteriology, attitude to the law, eschatology and the doctrine of the sacraments. It is enough to take one area to show what Braun means by this ‘disparity’. In the field of Christology, he maintains that the historical Jesus demanded absolute obedience to God without at the same time making any claims for himself as a mediator. He did not demand an attitude to his own person. Only with the Easter faith did the person of Christ assume central importance. Jewish, Hellenistic, and Gnostic honorific titles were then applied to him in retrospect. With John we reach the high point of NT Christology, for here Jesus is pictured as demanding a knowing and acknowledging of himself as the revealer and bearer of salvation. With Paul it is different again. Here Christ effects salvation by dying and rising as in the mystery religions His teaching plays no role. Thus, we have three different Christologies: 1. A pertinent recent study is that of Th Müller, Vielfalt und Einheit des Neuen Testaments, 1963. 2. First published as ‘Die Problematik einer Theologie des Neuen Testaments’, in Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirche, Beiheft 2 (1961): 3–18; ET in Journal for Theology and Church I: The Bultmann School of Biblical Interpretation, New Directions (Harper Torchbooks, 1965), 169–83.

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a. Jesus’ call for obedience only to God, b. John’s picture of Christ who calls for faith in himself, c. Paul’s Christology which is bound to the cross and resurrection. Braun is not the first to see these different ‘theologies’, but the conclusions he draws from his observations are startlingly different. We are probably immediately tempted to tackle him on two counts. First, we might object to his understanding of these writers and of the historical Jesus himself. His reading hardly does justice to what we can say about Jesus and his message, nor does it completely cover Johannine and Pauline Christology. Secondly, we might object that, granted there are differing Christologies, these are not mutually exclusive but complement each other to give the total picture of the Christ of faith according to the NT. It is just these kinds of questions that bypass Braun’s real point. Any attempt to harmonise the various theological conceptions in the NT is ultimately of no use whatsoever, is in fact cheap and dishonest.3 The main trouble is that the NT speaks mythologically and thus naively presupposes the existence of God and of salvation as an extension of this life into eternity. None of the NT Christologies, eschatologies, soteriologies, and so on can be accepted as they stand since they naively objectify faith according to that day’s world of thought. According to Braun there can be only one area in the NT where we can and must deduce an essential unity, and that is in the field of ethics. Christology, whether with Jesus or John or Paul, becomes a function to show the interrelationship between ‘I may’ and ‘I ought’. The ‘I may’ began with the encounter people had with Jesus of Nazareth, but where this ‘I may’ and ‘I ought’ again become event in the church by means of proclamation, there is Jesus.4 Or again, ‘Jesus always occurs in my “I may” and “I ought”—in the realm of the relation with one’s fellowman (sic)’.5 Since Braun can speak of God 3. ‘The authors of the New Testament make statements dealing with man’s (sic) salvation and with his relation to God which cannot be brought into harmony with one another’. ‘The Problem of New Testament Theology’, 169. 4. For these arguments see, ‘Problem’, 174–76. 5. ‘Problem’, 178. Here we see how Braun’s position is related to yet differs from that of Ebeling and Fuchs who speak of the proclamation of the gospel and resultant faith as word-event. For Braun the event is only within the realm of ethics and human relationships.

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only where he at the same time speaks of human beings, theology is dissolved into anthropology. People in relation to each other (Mitmenschlichkeit), this ‘implies’ God, and the atheist is the one who misses his fellow human being. Where Bultmann has taken us to halfway house, Braun has taken us the whole way. The demythologisation and existentialisation of the NT message have resulted in its ‘detheologisation’ and its consequent ‘anthropologisation’! Any theological unity of the NT has become meaningless because all theological statements of NT writers are based on naive and mythical objectivisations. The ‘theology’ of Braun has been cited to illustrate how, for some scholars, any amount of harmonising NT witness regarding statements, terminology or historical detail, is quite beside the point, because it does not see the real problem. The fundamental question remains: Is the heart and core of the NT, indeed of the whole Bible, theology, or is it to be found elsewhere—in Braun’s anthropology, in Bultmann’s Christian existentialism, or in Stauffer’s theology of history? Käsemann and Marxsen Braun’s radical position shares with others the rejection of a unity of the NT which is distilled from a comparison of propositional statements of faith. Here we briefly note three articles which directly relate to our subject. In his lecture on ‘The canon of the New Testament and the unity of the church’, Käsemann posited the view that all denominations can claim the NT as their final authority because the NT itself does not give us a unified system of truth, if we understand truth in the sense of objective statements.6 Willi Marxsen took up and popularised this argument in two articles.7 Since the reasoning is in each case developed in much the same way,

6. ET in E Käsemann, Essays on New Testament Themes. Studies in Biblical Theology 41 (London: SCM, 1964), 95–107. 7. ‘Das Neue Testament und die Einheit der Kirche’, in Der Frühkatholizismus im Neuen Testament, Biblische Studien 21 (Neukirchener Verlag, 1958), and another lecture under the same title in Einheit der Kirche? Ringvorlesung der Evang-Theol. Fakultät der Westfälischen Wilhelmsuniversität Münster (Witten: Luther Verlag, 1964).

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we can summarise it as follows.8 The disunity of the church reflects the disunity of the witness of the NT writings, in the sense of the variability of their proclamation. There is the problem of the plurality of the Gospels with their different emphases. The NT itself hints at the fact that there never was a normative Christian faith. From the start there were, side by side, various expressions of faith. Apart from significant tensions between the various theological views, there are also irreconcilable differences. It can be shown, Käsemann argues, that the church has misunderstood, toned down and modified the original sayings of Jesus. It is idle to argue with Käsemann or Marxsen over the correctness of their exegetical observations in the case of the examples cited. It remains true for all biblical scholars that there is the problem of the continuity of the gospel in the various historical strata of NT times. Finally, Käsemann and Marxsen find features in the NT which allow them to speak of ‘early catholicism’ within the canon, the situation where the Christian faith has become standardised, normatised and institutionalised. This is already a false development in contrast to the freedom of the Spirit working through the proclaimed Word as in the early Christian faith. The answer to this problem of diversity and disunity in the NT witness is this, according to Käsemann. Word of God and NT are not identical. Indeed, God is not to be imprisoned within the letter or the canon. The promise of the Spirit (John 16:13) still applies. He continues to lead into all truth, to Christ amid all the words of Scripture. There is a tension between Spirit and Scripture. The contents of the canon can at any moment become the Word as people are addressed and challenged, but the words can become mere ‘letter’ preventing the claim of God from reaching people. The NT is finally a unity only in the way it claims people for God. All NT confessions of faith dare not be absolutised into objective confessions. Thus, where Braun finishes with an anthropologisation of the NT witness, Käsemann finishes with a consistent kerygmatisation of its message. Marxsen’s arguments follow similar lines. He stresses more that the proclamation of Christ is always directed to a specific situation at a specific time, and for this reason dare not be viewed as a final 8. [The remaining references in the original article were accidentally omitted. It is not deemed necessary to recover them here.]

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expression of the truth. The heart of the Scriptures and the real unity of the NT is, again, the kerygma which challenges me to allow my relationship to God to be determined by this Jesus. At that moment where a confession to the Christ is absolutised and made normative, the problem of the disunity of the NT, and thus also the disunity of the church, must arise. A Constructive Critique An attempt to develop a detailed argument for the unity of NT witness would demand the writing of a ‘NT Theology’. All that can be essayed here are a few fundamental observations and basic presuppositions upon which a unified approach to the NT canon of writings can be grounded. In the first place we may agree with Käsemann and Marxsen that what binds the various writings together is the kerygma. But here a definition of terms is necessary since the term ‘kerygmatic theology’ can have different meanings. Depending on who uses the term, kerygma can mean a form of communication that calls, challenges, and claims the hearer, it can mean a literary form, or it can mean preachment (content). It is wrong to say that the entire NT is kerygma in the second of the above senses. We have hymns and doxologies, and confessions of faith which are the believer’s response to the preaching of the gospel. We find paraenesis, tables of duties, catalogues of vices and virtues. Nor will it do to say that the NT is a unity as preaching but not as preachment. Here we must make two objections. In the first place, even if we think of kerygma in the widest possible sense, we still have to say that much of the NT does not proclaim the gospel directly but presupposes it. This is certainly the case with the Epistle of James as also with Pauline letters which explicate and develop the gospel in view of errors and problems, but as teaching more often simply presuppose the kerygma. The distinction between form and content in the kerygma that is sometimes made is not in keeping with the NT itself. There can be no claim, no call to decision, no challenge and address in the kerygma without people being told something about themselves and about that in which they set their faith and hope. There is no claim without content. Paul knows there is a distinction between the ‘word’ (logos) of the cross (1 Cor 1:18) and the weak human words in

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which that preaching is couched (2:3,4), but the very formulation ho logos ho tou staurou (literally, ‘the message, namely, that of the cross’) in 1:18 indicates that the proclamation of the cross has a specific ‘preachment’ as its content. True, the message of the cross cannot be made the object of human scrutiny and examination to test the truth of its meaning and relevance. In one sense, one cannot objectify the message of the crucified Lord, for in the proclamation of the gospel it is the subject and human beings are the object. Or, to speak in terms of First Corinthians 2:10–16, it is the Spirit of God who reveals to humanity that the cross is more than mere object, but that its purpose is to claim people for God. Yet it remains a specific cross in history, one specific person on that cross. The kerygma as the proclamation of cross and resurrection has some very concrete things to say about this person, his place in history, and his meaning for humanity. The kerygma presupposes a confession. Secondly, the confession that unites all the various testimonies of the NT writers is, in its simplest form: Jesus is Lord (Rom 10:9; 1 Cor 12:3). It is also the confession behind the Christ-hymn of Philippians 2:5–11. The other confession, to Jesus as the Christ, remains throughout the NT, even where it is difficult to tell whether it is still a title (that is, ‘the Anointed’) or whether it has become a name. The unity of the NT is not proved by the appearance of the name Jesus Christ in every writing. The name appears at every hand also in the apocryphal gospels, epistles and acts not included in the canon. It is what the NT has to say about this Jesus Christ and how he is proclaimed that places its confession to Christ in a central position. The earliest recorded pieces of kerygmatic tradition (1 Cor 11:23–25 and 15:3–7) and the various examples of preaching in Acts show that, from the outset, it was the cross and resurrection that occupied the central position in the preaching of the church. Form critics suggested that the first running gospel narrative was that of the passion story. This is understandable, for here was the basis and centre of the church’s confession, remembering, of course, that the church has never been able to recount the passion and death of Christ without doing so in the context and on the background of Easter faith. When the evangelists compiled their Gospels, they were using traditions stamped by the Easter faith, so much so, that even before each pericope became part of the literary Gospel, whether it was a saying of Jesus, a miracle story, a parable, or some other piece of

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narrative material, it had already represented the whole gospel of the crucified and risen Lord. Martin Kähler famously called the Gospels passion stories with long introductions; this is true if we remember that the passion narratives themselves reach their climax in the Easter narratives. Thirdly, the unity of the NT in kerygma and tradition presents a unity of historical event, more exactly, of the entire Christ event. Again, this assertion requires careful qualification. NT writers do not simply proclaim history, nor do they record historical details out of mere historical interest, to meet curiosity about isolated incidents and events. They both record and proclaim one great event in the past so that the significance of that event might reach into the present. What we have is apostolic, interpreted preaching of history. History as bare facts is open to interpretation. The NT writers are one in presenting the whole Christ event as God’s great act for humanity. A distortion occurs when either of two elements is omitted from the picture. Where all the emphasis is placed on the historical details as such, we finish with historicism and a faith that rests on the accuracy of the Gospels as biographies. Alternatively, we finish with a Christ of faith who, divorced from history, becomes a mythical, docetic figure. Event and proclamation belong together and cannot be separated. The old Liberal school with its quest for the historical Jesus made a mistake just at this point. It believed that it could arrive at an objective picture of the Jesus of history by eradicating later interpretations of his person, by stripping away from the Gospel pictures of Jesus all later christological dogma. Later studies showed this to be impossible. No reconstructed ‘Life of Christ’ will be the same as another, but there is one Christ of faith in the entire NT. The kerygmatic school rightly continued to make this point but to a large extent made of an historical difficulty a theological virtue in decrying any return to the Jesus of history, with the resultant danger of prying the kerygma loose from its historical foundations. Asserting that the whole Christ-event unites the NT means that we cannot merely work with the teaching of Jesus. We need to take seriously the Gospels’ picture of Jesus who is one in his sayings and deeds. Admittedly, the connection between sayings and miracles (‘words’ and ‘signs’ in the Fourth Gospel) is underscored by the evangelists and shows a great deal of theological reflection in the light of Easter. We are left with the good news that Jesus in all he said and

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did was God speaking to humanity through his Son (Hebrews 1:2). To use the terminology of the Fourth Gospel, Jesus’ logoi (words) have sign character and his semeia (signs) have word character. The same applies to the heart-piece of the Christ-event, cross and resurrection. It is event, sign, and word. Our assertion that there is an historical unity in the NT does not mean accepting a certain concept of Heilsgeschichte (salvation history) and impressing this on all its writings, as Oscar Cullmann was inclined to do. Studies on the twin work of Luke suggest that he does have a scheme of history with Christ as the mid-point of time. But this scheme cannot by any stretch of the imagination be imposed on John’s Gospel which draws past, present, and future into the present Now of salvation, without losing sight of the history of God’s saving deeds (3:14; 6:32) or of the future eschaton (5:25; 6:39). To suggest that all references to futuristic eschatology in John must be late insertions is an unscholarly solution to a problem of a scholar’s own making. Attempts to locate a theology of history in Paul have not been impressive. To make a concept of history a central concern of the NT is to replace the picture with the frame. History can be past event, that past event in its enduring significance, or it can be my history now as I am faced by something in the past. But to canonise one of these aspects is to miss the fact that, for the NT witness, all three aspects are implied in God’s action in Christ and in the preaching of that action. It says, God has acted; it proclaims, God has acted for you; it challenges, Believe, be reconciled! Fourthly, there is an element of truth in the assertion that the NT is the first volume of the church’s sermons on Christ. Its writings show how the gospel of God’s actions in Christ for humankind has itself a history in the sense that it has been interpreted and explicated at various times in different situations by various witnesses. We are entitled to speak of the development of the gospel within the NT in the sense that we have theological reflection, and the growth of theological language and terminology as the church met new situations, new threats, and new errors. It is then only to be expected that we find no standard diction, no set imagery to which all writers had to adhere. Of course, no one has suggested that there should be this kind of unity; it would be uniformity. But the question does arise: How can we be sure that the

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way the gospel was interpreted and explicated, even in NT times, was a legitimate development? To use the language of Käsemann, how can we be sure of the continuity of the gospel in the discontinuity of times and situations? What keeps us from choosing the theology of John or Paul and rejecting the rest? How can we be assured that the witness to Christ is of a piece with that of Jesus Christ himself? Can we be sure that the Christ who is preached has everything to do with the Jesus who preached? The obvious, immediate answer to these questions is: No! We cannot be sure by any other means than that we accept the selfauthenticating witness of the NT. We will be disappointed and deluding ourselves if we search for proof anywhere else. Yet the NT has one strong claim to credibility as a whole and in its various parts. It is a claim based on a factor vital for the early church, and one that was in fact decisive in the formation of the canon itself: the factor of apostolicity. Discussion on the historical origins of the apostolate is by no means at an end, and the NT leaves us with unanswered questions in this area. Yet the centrality of the concept of apostleship and apostolic authority in the writings of Paul (chronologically early in the canon) and in the Lucan literature (later in the canon) is undisputed. It is not by chance that the climax of each Gospel, the resurrection narrative, is followed by narratives that have one thing in common: the establishment and ratification of authoritative eyewitnesses by the risen Lord and thus, by implication, the apostolate. It is worth adding, as a side-thought, that this is also a feature of the longer conclusion of Mark 16, one that can hardly have been added merely to bring the end of Mark in line with the other Gospels. It is also not by chance that Luke places near the beginning of his history of the spread of the gospel from Jerusalem to Rome the story of the election of Matthias, in which connection we find the classical definition of an apostle (Acts 1:21,22). It is likewise significant that Paul often had to defend the truth of his message and his apostolic authority in one breath (Gal 1–2; 2 Cor 10–13). Conclusions to be drawn from these considerations are farreaching. The ‘early church’ of which scholarship often speaks was not an anonymous community; it was an apostolic fellowship. It did not merely repeat the sayings of Jesus or merely retell stories about him. In proclaiming Christ, it went far beyond what Jesus had said.

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The earliest witnesses had every right to do so for they had been authorised by the risen Christ to do so. Here is the full connection between Jesus and the church, and the factor which allows us to speak of theologies within the NT while still asserting that it has one unified message. The apostolicity of the NT does not mean that all its writings must have been written by apostles. Exact knowledge as to the authorship of various books will never be gained, and a cloud of doubt over the authorship of the so-called Antilegomena (writings in dispute) will always prevent us from equating apostolic authority with apostolic authorship. Such an equation is impossible also because the church has never claimed that all books of the NT were written by eyewitnesses. Fifthly, the apostolic church was a church that possessed the Spirit of Christ. It is not thereby claimed that all writings in the NT share a common pneumatology, or that they all claim to be inspired by the Spirit. It is important to note that, compared to other examples of sacred literature in the world of religions, the NT makes few claims with respect to direct inspiration. The reason for this may lie with the rise of a spiritual enthusiasm within the church which soon absolutised the workings of the Spirit. This was part of the problem of the church in Corinth; it may also be the background behind other NT writings as a whole and behind individual verses, for example, Second Peter 1:20. Gnostic and heretical developments probably grew out of legitimate movements of prophecy in the early church. First Corinthians 12 and 14 as well as Acts 21:9,10 show that prophecy was still alive. But as far as we can tell it was inspired preaching of the gospel rather than inspired prediction. The one book that clearly claims to be prophetic in this sense is the Gospel of John, for this Gospel gives the fulfilment of the promises of the Paraclete in chapters 14 to 16, as he takes the things of Jesus and leads people into truth. This is how we can understand the diversity of the Gospel of John when compared with the synoptic Gospels, its freedom and sovereignty in depicting the story of the Christ. Here, especially, the attempt to preserve a unity in historical accuracy by means of harmonisation completely misses the point. The Fathers called John the spiritual Gospel. They left the difficulties of Johannine narrative stand, for example, the different dating of Jesus’ death, the different position of the cleansing of the temple. We are to allow this evangelist to present through the Spirit

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a profound theology by means of a great sermon, largely comprising the sermons (discourses) of Christ himself, without worrying about harmonisation of details. Sixthly, one further point sums up the five previous observations. The NT is a unity in terms of underlying kerygma, confession, interpreted history, apostolic witness, and as the witness of the Spirit. As such it is and remains theology. This assertion may seem obvious, even trite, yet it is necessary because other readings of the NT see its central significance in a new understanding of human existence, in anthropology. The NT does not give us anthropology for its own sake—there is evidence of a naïve trichotomous concept of human beings. At most we are given a negative picture of humanity in retrospect as people of faith look back to life without faith. This is no objective anthropology. From start to finish, human beings are under the judgment of God. In consequence, people are either in fellowship with God or not. Only a person who knows of God’s judgment of grace and mercy can make this distinction. The gospel opens new possibilities of human existence, but only because God has spoken, because there is logos theou. Also, from an exegetical point of view, the heart of the NT remains theology. It is possible to have a one-sided concept of christocentricity where Christ is no longer the way to the Father but replaces him, so that Christ becomes all in all instead of God being all in all (1 Cor 15:28). NT writers have a feeling for the primacy of theology. It is reflected in the message of Jesus and the way in which he formulated his message of the kingdom of God. Adolf von Harnack was to a degree right when he said that Jesus came proclaiming not the Son but the Father. Jesus called people to God's gracious rule; he brought the divine message of God as King and Father. The Semitic mode of expression often underlines the stress on the activity of God, as for example in the Beatitudes (Matt 5:3–11): blessed are those who mourn, hunger, are merciful for they will be comforted, satisfied, and shown mercy. The passive denotes divine activity. The Kingdom is there is Jesus’ person (Luke 17:21) as he claims people not for himself but for the Father. Of course, it is through just this man Jesus that sinners are claimed by God. Paul’s witness claims to come from the God who called him; he sees as the goal of all God’s purposes in Christ the glory of God. There is never any danger of Christology assuming an independent

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and autonomous role in his thinking. Christ is God’s agent sent to fulfil the plans of God (Gal 4:4). Romans 1:4 is in keeping with Paul’s manner of speaking about Christ as God’s designated Messiah, sent to carry out God’s plans for humankind. In addition, we can recall the way in which Paul expresses the action of God with the use of aorist passives. For example, ‘Christ was raised’ (Rom 6:4, 9; 8:34) means ‘God raised him’ (1 Cor 6:14). It is John, the evangelist with the ‘highest’ Christology, who shows the keenest sense for what we have been noting. Everything the Son says and does is derived from the Father. The glory (doxa) that is finally his is the glory given by God himself (John 5:44; 8:26–30 and many passages in the Farewell Discourses). The goal is that the Father may be glorified by the Son (14:13). Here we have a parallel to the ancient Christ-hymn that Paul quotes in Philippians 2:5–11. It is God who exalts the humble servant, who gives him a name above all names (that is, Kyrios, Lord), and all this ‘to the glory of God the Father’ (v 11). It is one thing to note these phenomena, another to evaluate them correctly. There is no justification for taking this way of speaking about God’s action through Christ as evidence of a primitive subordinationist Christology. The NT also has passages which can speak of God’s saving acts as carried out by Christ himself as the subject. For example, in First Timothy 2:6 it is ‘Christ Jesus who gave himself a ransom for all’. And even though the usual way of speaking of the resurrection has God the Father as the acting subject, there is the exception in First Thessalonians 4:14: ‘For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have died’. NT writers usually speak of God as the actor because they see in the Christ-event the continuation of the mighty acts of God of which the Old Testament speaks. They know that this one God as Father, Son and Spirit, but still speak of one God. They point back to the one faithful God of the Old Testament as surely as they see the Old Testament pointing forward to the Messiah. The primacy and centrality of theology also means the impossibility of stressing one article of the creed over any other. If this is done, we end with a variety of distortions of faith in the one God: a deism in which there is no Redeemer, a Jesus piety not bound to the revelation of the Creator in the old covenant, and a pneumatic enthusiasm separated from the Creator and the Son who came in the flesh.

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Worship in the NT is still directed to one God (heis theos). The great Sanctus of Isaiah 6:3 finds its NT parallel in Revelation 4:8. The surrounding hymns of praise to the Lamb in Revelation give the context and reason for the new Sanctus, but the object of the great song of praise is the same. The core of the NT as a unity is the one God. Seventhly, the NT can never be a unity in or by itself. It stands with the Old Testament in the unity of the entire Scriptures. One could say that the unity of the NT rests on the OT. One does not have to find OT quotations or allusions in all the NT writings to show that this is so. For all writers, the promises of God in the past in dealing with the chosen people have been fulfilled. Where the OT is cited, it is to show how God’s eschatological action in Christ conforms to, corresponds to, and complies with God’s past actions. In this sense the NT witnesses to the continuation of the gracious acts of God in history (Acts 2:11). The diversity within the unity of the NT is occasion to praise God. No one will deny that there are different emphases in the various Christological titles, in the varying accounts of the Last Supper, and in the areas of pneumatology and eschatology. They belong together in the one witness; they contribute to the total picture. No single presentation of the gospel ranks higher than another. If we see the heart and core of biblical truth to be in the Pauline doctrine of justification of sinners by grace through faith in Christ, we are not insisting that it is the only or best formulation of the truth, but that it expresses for us the meaning of God’s action in Christ. Johannine theology does it in different terms, in a different setting and is equally glorious. We should avoid basing our theology and devotional life on one writer of the NT, thereby denying ourselves the riches of other witnesses.

Law and Gospel in Luther’s Listening to the Scriptures, with Special Reference to The Freedom of the Christian

Presentation for a Symposium at Sabah Theological Seminary, March 6–9, 2012. First published in Introduction to Lutheran Ethics, edited by Michael Press (Kota Kinabalu, Sabah: Lutheran Study Centre, 2014), 9–28 Whoever knows well how to distinguish the Gospel from the Law should give thanks to God and know that he is a real theologian. (Luther’s Works 26, 15) No person on earth rightly knows and understands how to distinguish between Gospel and Law. (WA, TR 2.4)

Presuppositions Luther’s Reformation tractate, The Freedom of the Christian, is the work of a pastor and biblical theologian. Unlike his Ninety-Five Theses, it was not published to set up an academic discussion but to defend what he saw as the essence of theology—the saving truth of the gospel. Luther wrote out of a passionate pastoral concern—not just for the truth of the gospel, but for the truth as a living reality in the hearts and minds of his German people. Of course, he did this as a professor of biblical theology. His scriptural starting point becomes evident when we note how often Luther cites or refers to the Scriptures—over one hundred times in a short document. One could rephrase the title of this talk: Luther’s ‘reading’ or ‘interpretation’ of the Scriptures. However, the choice of the wording, ‘listening to the Scriptures’, is quite deliberate and totally appropriate. For Luther, the Scriptures are properly understood with the ear of 81

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faith rather than the eye of critical judgment. The word that is heard produces the response of faith in the heart as the core of the human being. So, the path to faith is not via the eye to the mind, but from the ear to the heart. Faith comes from hearing the word (fides ex auditu; Gal 3:2 and Rom 10:17). This presupposes that God’s word is God’s living voice (viva vox Dei) that addresses us personally in the concrete realities of our existence. It is the preached or proclaimed word (verbum praedicatum) rather than the written word. Luther can even suggest that oral proclamation is to be ranked above the written word. ‘The Gospel should really not be something written, but a spoken word . . . That is why Christ himself did not write anything, but only spoke’ (LW 35, 123). Of course, the Scriptures provide information and instruction, so there can be no proclamation without the written word. Yet it is the message (res) contained in the words (verba), the text within the text that produces faith. Faith comes not from data that can be objectively observed and evaluated. Mere information about Christ would at best produce ‘historical faith’ (fides historica). True faith hears the Word of the living Christ himself enlivened by the Holy Spirit and trusts God. Whether interpreting the psalms or the gospels or any other biblical book, Luther is intent on hearing the voice of Christ himself. His judgments on the christological heart of the Scriptures are famous: ‘Take Christ from the Scriptures and what else will you find in them’, and ‘Everything in the Bible deals with Christ’.1 That is one of the reasons why Luther so highly valued the Gospel of St John; its long discourses allowed him to hear the voice of Jesus—both the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith. (With typical exaggeration, Luther can even call the synoptic evangelists ‘simply German history writers’ in comparison to John!) This may be the reason why Luther loved to preach on St John but never wrote a commentary on the Fourth Gospel. Its message of new life in Christ was to be proclaimed, not explained. Luther does not use the language of modern linguistic theory, but it would be true to say that he sees the word of proclamation as performative word. Whether seen as law or gospel, the Word does, enacts, and performs what it says. That is because the biblical Word is not past but present event as it is proclaimed. All this must be kept in mind as we study the distinction between law and gospel, while insisting on their inseparability. 1. WA 18:606 [Bondage of the Will] and 7:600.

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Thinking in Antitheses: Anthropology Luther’s anthropology, like his law/gospel hermeneutic, is expressed in antithetical form. It is an anthropology formed in the light of God’s Word, that is, a description of a person from the standpoint of the regenerate Christian. He contrasts the external person with the inner person, the fleshly and the spiritual, the visible and invisible, the earthly and the heavenly, present and future, works and faith, the letter and the Spirit. Thus, very early in Christian Freedom Luther contrasts the spiritual and physical aspects of human beings. Our physical or external nature is what can be seen in terms of what we say and do. Our spiritual or inner nature is not visible; it is what we can call the soul, or what Luther more often refers to as the heart. People have a twofold nature, a spiritual and a bodily one. According to the spiritual nature, which people refer to as the soul, they are called spiritual, inner or new people. According to the bodily nature, which people refer to as flesh, they are called carnal, outward, or old people, of whom the Apostle writes in II Cor. 4[:16], ‘Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day.’ Because of this diversity of nature, the Scriptures assert contradictory things concerning the same person since these two natures in the same person contradict each other, ‘for the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh,’ according to Gal. 5[:17].2

In speaking of ‘contradictory things’ Luther is here referring to his thesis, which is itself formulated as an antithesis: • •

Christians have complete freedom and power over everything and are under no obligation to anyone. Christians are servants of all and are under complete obligation to serve everyone.

The first statement is true only for faith that resides in the inner person, the heart. The second statement is true of the outer person, as Luther says later in the tractate. Good deeds can be seen, even if their genuineness can be judged only by God.

2. Freedom of the Christian, LW 31:344; slightly altered translation.

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Like many of Luther’s antitheses, the one between the outer and inner self is reminiscent of St Paul’s language. A person who is in Christ and thus a ‘new person’ with a new nature (Eph 4:24; Col 3:10) can speak about the ‘old person’ and the old nature (Eph 4:22; Col 3:5– 9). Similarly, St Paul contrasts the ‘natural person’ with the ‘spiritual person’ (1 Cor 2:14,15). The former is the corruptible person under the rule of the flesh; the second is the person under the renewing power of the Holy Spirit. Again, St Paul contrasts the ‘external/outer person’ with the ‘inner person’ (Rom 7:22; 2 Cor 4:16; Eph 3:16). All his statements about life without Christ are made in the light of the new creation/creature. Luther’s prime concern in the tractate is not so much with the external and internal aspects, as with the old person subject to the sinful ‘flesh’ and the new person being created by the Spirit. While Luther’s contrast between physical and spiritual, between the outer and inner person, recalls St Paul’s language in Romans 7:22,23, his point is different. In the Freedom tractate he is not concerned either with depicting the movement from law to gospel in conversion or the inner struggle between flesh and Spirit in the person of the believer. His argument is that outward physical actions do not affect one’s standing with God in the sense of making us spiritual. That is true also for the Christian as a new person in Christ, not only for the old person under the law. The vital contrast is between external good works and the internal faith that resides in the heart or conscience. So, the second half of the tractate that develops how good works are the fruit of faith, deals with what Luther calls the ‘outer person’ of the believer. Even there, external actions do not make us right with God. In modern terms, ‘works’ equals religious performance or the effort to achieve a good standing with God. Outward acts of piety and devotion may be indicators of the state of the ‘heart’ (a good tree produces good fruit), but religious performance does not effect a change of the heart. One cannot put the cart before the horse! In simple terms, performance does not produce faith and a good conscience. Luther obviously rejected the popular medieval view expressed in the axiom of Duns Scotus: ‘God will not deny grace to anyone doing their best’!3 3. See Heiko A Oberman, ‘Facientibus quod in se est Deus non denegat gratiam: Robert Holcot, O.P. and the Beginnings of Luther’s Theology’, Harvard Theological Review, 55.4 (1962): 317–42.

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Law and Gospel: The Two ‘Voices’ of God How is faith produced? How do we become free? The simple answer is: Through God’s Word—the one thing we cannot do without. But, as Luther must admit, God speaks many ‘words’. Scripture contains many messages. Yet there are two ‘words’ that get to the heart of the origin of faith and freedom; they are law and gospel. Law and gospel are not literary forms, nor are they always discernible in terms of grammar— for example, as imperative or indicative statements. Again, Scripture cannot be neatly divided into texts that have law content and others that speak only the gospel. Some messages can be heard as both law and gospel, for example, the preamble to the Ten Commandments: ‘I am the Lord your God’, or ‘Jesus died on the cross for you’, or ‘Believe in the Lord’! Nor are law and gospel chronological distinctions whereby the law equals the Old Testament, the Gospel the New Testament. Luther can speak of the law as the Ten Commandments given on Mount Sinai, whereas the gospel was already announced in Paradise!4 Luther’s law/gospel antithesis can be expressed in other contrasting terms: • • •

letter and Spirit (based on 2 Corinthians 4:3-6: ‘The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life’) command and promise, the latter not the assurance of a future but of a present reality demand and gift

This contrasting distinction was not a late development in Luther’s approach to the Bible but goes back to his early lectures on the Psalms (AD 1513–15). Thus, ‘in the Holy Scriptures it is best to distinguish between the Spirit and the letter; for it is this that makes a true theologian’.5 The word that is heard outwardly must be understood inwardly, in the heart, by the working of the Spirit. The letter speaks a word from the past, while the Spirit speaks a present word. However, Luther extends Paul’s antithesis of letter and Spirit into a hermeneutical principle whereby ‘letter’ no longer merely stands for the Mosaic code, as in Second Corinthians 4:6, but for the antithesis of the gospel. 4. Sermon on Gal 3:23,24, in 1532. 5. See Gerhard Ebeling, Luther: An Introduction to His Thought (London: Collins Fontana, 1972), 98.

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The language may vary but the antithetical contrast between law and gospel is constant. • • • •

The law demands everything and gives nothing; the gospel gives freely and demands nothing. The law demands perfect obedience and service; the gospel offers the obedience of Christ. The law demands achievement; the gospel creates the obedience of faith. The law convicts of guilt, enslaves and kills; the gospel announces forgiveness, gives life, and frees.

In Freedom of the Christian, Luther shows how careful attention must be given to the fact that the Scriptures have two voices, as it were. They speak in two ‘keys’, the one of threat and the other of assurance. In one message, . . . you hear God speaking to you, that your whole life and all your deeds count for nothing with God, and that you and everything that is yours must eternally perish. If you rightly believe that, as you are bound to do, you must despair of yourself. But . . . God places his dear Son Jesus Christ before you, and says to you through his living, comforting word, Surrender yourself to him firm in faith and cling to faith in him. Because of this faith all your sins are forgiven, your ruin is averted. You can live in true peace and piety, fulfilling all the commandments, and be free of all things, as St Paul says in Romans 1 [:17]: ‘A justified Christian lives by faith alone’, and in Romans 10 [:4]: ‘Christ is the end and the fulfillment of all commandments for those who believe in him.’6 All of Scripture is divided into two parts: commandments and promises. Although the commandments teach things that are good works, the things taught are not done as soon as they are taught, for the commandments show us what we ought to do but do not give us the power to do it. They are intended to teach people to know themselves, that through them they may recognize their inability to do what is good and may despair of their own inability. Here the second part of Scripture comes to our aid, namely the promises of God . . . saying, ‘If you wish to fulfill the law 6. My translation from the original German.

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and not covet, as the law demands, come, believe in Christ in whom grace, righteousness, peace, liberty and all things are promised you. If you believe that you have all things; if you do not believe, you shall lack all things. . . God our Father has made all things depend on faith, so that whoever has faith is saved, and whoever does not have faith will have nothing. ‘For God has consigned all people to disobedience, that he may have mercy on all,’ as is stated in Rom. 11[:31]. Thus, the promises of God give what the commandments of God demand and fulfill what the law prescribes, so that all things may be God’s alone, both the commandments and the fulfilling of the commandments. (LW 31, 348–49)

The only message that feeds us inwardly or spiritually, that sets us right with God, that makes us free from the demands of the law and its damning judgment on us as sinners, is the gospel as the good news of God’s gift of life in Christ. ‘Gospel’ for Luther does not mean a specific formulation, although he later spoke of ‘rediscovering’ it in its forensic form in St Paul’s epistle to the Romans. That Luther was not tied to a static formula is shown by the observation that he considered the evangelist St John a master of the chief article of the justification of the sinner by faith (LW 23, 129). The Fourth Gospel does not even hint at the Pauline teaching on justification, but its message of union with Christ through faith is quintessentially gospel. Thus, also in Christian Freedom Luther can describe the gospel in terms of the union of the soul with Christ its bridegroom. We see more sharply what gospel means when we look at the other word of God, the law. It is only those who believe the gospel who can dare to understand and therefore stand under the law. Law is everything that God demands of us—total obedience, including total trust (first commandment). God’s claim on us meets us in the Scriptures but also in the natural law and in our conscience. The law can be inferred from our natural state; the gospel cannot. The gospel proper is the announcement of grace found only in Christ. In the gospel God graciously obligates himself to us rather than demanding anything of us. So, Luther can call the Creed the gospel because it is not comprehended by human intellect or wisdom, but is truth graciously revealed by the Holy Spirit.

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Within the ‘twofold use’ (duplex usus) of the law there is also the function of maintaining order in society, of curbing all wrongdoing for the safety of citizens. Yet the law in its proper function (usus theologicus) ‘does nothing but reveal sin, engender wrath, accuse, fill with terror and almost leads minds to despair. Conversely, the gospel is a light that enlightens, revives, comforts, and raises up fearful minds’ (on Galatians 3:19 in 1531). Trying to keep the law, says Luther, is like paying from an empty purse, or drinking from an empty tankard. More importantly, it fails to allow the law to carry out its proper function of directing sinners to Christ. The Holy Alliance The two ‘voices’ of God—the two ‘contrary doctrines’ as Luther calls them in his Galatians commentary (1531)—are to be distinguished but never separated. Law and gospel have completely different functions and yet the law serves the gospel. By itself, the attempt to live by the law leads to one of two possible results. It can lead to presumption, to the dishonest pride in one’s own piety, to pretense, to a show of goodness to impress others, if not God. On the other hand, it can lead to despair, to the honest admission of our inability to meet all God’s demands. This second result is the one Luther highlights in the Freedom tractate. Continuing despair is the result of separating gospel from law. Separating law from gospel leads to presumption and spiritual ‘security’ and eliminates the need for a Saviour and thus dishonors God. Both must be preached. Christ . . . not only said, ‘Repent’ [Matt. 3:2; 4:17], but added the word of faith, saying, ‘The kingdom of heaven is at hand.’ We are not to preach only one of these words of God, but both . . . We must bring forth the voice of the law . . . But we must not stop with that, for that would only amount to wounding and not binding up, smiting and not healing, killing and not making alive, leading down to hell and not bringing back again, humbling and not exalting . . . Repentance proceeds from the law of God, but faith and grace from the promise of God, as Rom. 10[:17] says, ‘So faith comes from what is heard, and what is heard comes by the preaching of Christ.’

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Accordingly, a person is consoled and exalted by faith in the divine promise after he has been humbled and led to a knowledge of himself by the threats and the fear of the divine law.7

God is not two-faced, saying one thing one moment, another thing the next. While law and gospel stand in tension, indeed, in seeming contradiction, they are the one word of God, serving the one saving will of God. The law must never be separated from the gospel since it is meant to serve the gospel. How this takes place is nicely described by Luther also in his vitriolic defense against Emser of Leipzig in 1521. • • • • • •

God kills to make alive (occidendo vivificat) God wounds and heals God destroys and builds up God condemns and pardons God brings low and builds up God shames and brings honour (see Deuteronomy 32:39; Psalm 118:17,18).

Saints and Sinners It is the inseparability of law and gospel in the one revelation of God that results in the view of the believer as saint and sinner at the same time (simul iustus et peccator). We may put it this way: God’s total word addresses the whole person all the time. There is an important truth in Melanchthon’s famous phrase: ‘The law always condemns’ (lex semper accusat). The gospel as God’s ‘last word’ frees from the compulsion to perfectly obey the law and from the law’s curse, but never negates the law itself. Thus, the whole life of the Christian remains one of repentance. The Apology of the Augsburg Confession, IV In his study of Luther’s theology, Oswald Bayer correctly comments that to understand law and gospel is not to define them in neat doctrinal formulations. A proper theological understanding finally 7. LW 31:364.

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comes from hearing oneself personally addressed by God’s command and promise and answering in repentance and faith. Thus, one is continually learning to discern the difference between God’s commands and his promises.8 Likewise, the task of the preacher is not to teach the difference, but to preach in such a way that both law as the word’s alien function and gospel as its proper function do what they are meant to do: convict and comfort. The law/gospel antithesis has become a touchstone of Lutheran confessional theology so that the Apology of the Augsburg Confession, in defending the article on the justification of the sinner by faith, can say: ‘All Scripture ought to be distributed into these two principal topics, the law and the promises.’ (Apology IV.5) Again, ‘The distinction between law and gospel is an especially brilliant light which serves the purpose that the word of God may be rightly divided, and the writings of the holy prophets and apostles may be explained and understood correctly’. (Formula of Concord SD V.1) One can hear the voice of Luther as we read such statements. Our inability to keep law is not the whole story. Those who reject ‘by faith alone’ and seek to merit or achieve something with God ‘obscure the glory and the blessings of Christ’, quite apart from robbing troubled consciences of the comfort offered them in the gospel (Apology IV.3). They ‘bury Christ!’ (IV.8). This thought is echoed in the Formula of Concord: We must therefore observe the distinction [between law and gospel] with particular diligence lest we confuse the two doctrines and change the gospel into law. This would darken the merit of Christ and rob disturbed consciences of the comfort which they would otherwise have in the holy gospel when it is preached purely and without admixture . . . (FC SD V.1)

Exegesis and the Law/Gospel Hermeneutic It is advisable to distinguish between exegesis and interpretation. Reading the Scriptures through the lens of law and gospel does not necessarily or always lead Luther to sound exegetical results when looking at specific texts. In many instances we can be very critical of 8. Bayer, Oswald. Martin Luther’s Theology: A Contemporary Interpretation (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2008).

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his exegetical comments. If we want to find an exegesis that carefully explains the text in terms of historical and literary context, grammar, and logical progression of thought, we often do better to turn to Calvin rather than to Luther. But if we want to get to the nut, the kernel, the substance of a text, and to hear the Spirit of God speaking, we do well to read Luther. Luther is a man of his times. Like his contemporaries he does not distinguish between literary genres, between historical narrative and folklore. He reads the patriarchal accounts in Genesis as historical narratives whose heroes are not far removed from his late-medieval fellow Germans. There is, for Luther, a clear progression from the patriarchal saints, as heroes of faith, to the New Testament church and to the Reformation era. Luther can thus read the agenda of his own day back into the stories of Genesis. So, Genesis ‘is made up almost entirely of illustrations of faith and unbelief, and of the fruits that faith and unbelief bear. It is an exceedingly evangelical book’.9 Peter Lockwood has shown how Luther’s reading of the early Genesis narratives is warped by his desire to picture the patriarchs in a good light, as he continually defends their actions as the actions of men and women of faith, despite their sinfulness, even before the giving of the Mosaic law.10 Exegetical detail suffers when texts are forced to speak to issues of Luther’s own day, when the heroes and villains of his own day are paralleled by the heroes and villains in Genesis! Here Luther was not alone. One need only look at the biblical illustrations of Luther’s day to see how the Old Testament was easily contemporised! It is sometimes claimed that Luther reduced the traditional fourfold interpretation of Scripture—the literal, allegorical (pointing to the church and its dogma), tropological (pointing to individual morality) and anagogical (indicating eschatology)—to the literal alone. This is dubious not only because Luther can still allegorise freely, but especially because he is intent on a spiritual interpretation. Already in his early interpretation of the psalms, the literal, grammatical sense is now not the original historical meaning that can be reconstructed by exegesis, but its christological sense. Thus, his listening to the 9. From ‘Prefaces to the Old Testament’, LW 35:237. 10. Peter Lockwood, ‘Tales of Evangelical heroes and Catholic villains: the Jacob stories according to Luther’, Perspectives on Martin Luther: Papers from the Luther Symposium. . .1996, edited by Mark Worthing (Adelaide: Faculty of Luther Campus, 1996), 105–15.

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psalms is listening for the voice of Christ himself. The external letter of the word must be cracked to hear the word of Christ through the Spirit who creates faith. Thus, Luther’s starting and finishing point is Christology. It is here that an obvious question must be faced. Can we still so easily find Christ in the Old Testament? The immediate answer is No. Old Testament texts come in specific literary forms and reveal specific life-settings (Sitze im Leben). So, the psalms have their own integrity without having to be immediately ‘christologised’ to gain some meaning. Genesis 3:15 (the crushing of the serpent’s head) has a meaning in its own literary context before being read as a so-called proto-evangelium. An enthronement psalm or a psalm of ascents has an original significance in history that can and should be examined without ‘interference’ from later perspectives. Messianic prophecies are seen as such post eventum; before that they have ‘a life of their own’. On the other hand, we can find Christ in the Old Testament. Apparently, our Lord himself did, as did the apostles who were probably following his example in doing so. So also did the early church when it confessed that Christ died and rose ‘in accordance with the Scriptures’ (Nicene Creed). This last phrase does not mean ‘according to a collection of messianic proof passages’, but in agreement with the plan and will of God as revealed in the old covenant as a covenant of promised grace. Luther’s exegetical comments on New Testament texts can lead to very predictable results. We begin with the simple example from Luther’s early sermons (LW 51). Preaching to Wittenberg students on the man born blind (John 9:11–38), Luther hardly refers to the text, nor does he deal with the miracle itself. Rather, he dwells on the paradox of the gospel where only the inner eye of faith sees what God sees, namely, that ‘everything that is high and praised by people is disregarded and abominable in the sight of God’. Faith can dare to allow the law to stand in its condemnation of human pride. That the blind man sees and that seeing are declared blind is indicative of a final truth—the upside-down judgment of God that declares all natural seeing blindness and the blindness of faith true seeing. Luther reads into the story the gospel contained in the paradoxical theology of the cross.

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A sermon two days later, on the raising of Lazarus in John 11, presents us with an odd piece of spiritualising. Luther can read law from the state of Lazarus in the tomb. The dead man symbolises those who are totally lost in sin. ‘They know nothing but sin; they stink and are buried in sin’ (45). Luther then highlights the gospel implied in Jesus’ love for Lazarus. This is the gospel to be proclaimed: love for stinking sinners like us. Again, the miracle recedes into the background as we hear how Christ loved the sinner at the command of the Father, and how ‘Christ is the real epistle, the golden book, in which we read and learn how he always kept before him the will of the Father’, that is, for us (46). But what about the miracle itself, especially as a signpost to Jesus’ own death and resurrection? Luther does not follow up this point as we would expect a modern exegete and preacher to do, though he does what the evangelist would want his reader or audience to do; he hears the whole narrative not as past event but present work. It speaks of Christ’s work now. The quest to find Christ as the answer to the law can sometimes produce surprising results, even given that we are looking at sermons rather than exegesis. The point of the comparison between Christ and the bronze serpent in John 3:15 is that both were lifted up to be looked at in faith to save the dying. Luther goes much further and finds in verse 14 a picture of Christ who ‘. . . hung on the cross like a poisonous, evil and harmful worm. Yes, he resembles the serpent which got us into trouble in Paradise, that is, the devil . . . Christ must be a veritable bronze serpent, that is, a most despised person, but a serpent which does us no harm with its venom; for this is a healing serpent’.11 This is a good example of faith’s view of Christ ‘for us’ because he has taken our place—in this case, by becoming an object of scorn and horror like a serpent. In being ‘for us’ Christ can even look like the devil! Yet God has wounded Christ in our place so that we might be healed. The Jesus of the Fourth Gospel is always the Godman for us, which would also explain Luther’s preference for this Gospel. ‘A Christian must learn to say, “I know no other God than the one God who is called Jesus Christ”’ (LW 24: 140). Again, ‘Outside this man Christ I must not search for God, and I will find no God’ (LW 23: 89). 11. LW 22:341,342.

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John the Evangelist ‘bakes the two persons, the Father and the Son, together as solidly as possible. For Christ says: “Where you find me you find the Father also”. He forbids our eyes to wander any further into heaven . . . Do not search for God the Father outside or beside Christ’ (LW 23: 54, 55). Here there is no room for medieval or philosophical speculation about other ways of knowing God. There is only the one saving vision of God in Christ. Luther’s rejection of the ability of human reason to find God, his stress on absolute grace, on the efficacy of the external word and sacraments, and on the theology of the cross must be viewed against the background of the law/gospel hermeneutic as the central way of focussing on Christ. Of course, it must be granted that Luther’s approach to Scripture is thoroughly Pauline. And even when dealing with his favourite texts from Romans or Galatians, he is not concerned with literary and contextual meanings. Perhaps his greatest exposition of law and gospel is a sermon on Galatians 3:23,24, preached on January 1, 1532.12 While one cannot expect from a homily a detailed exegesis, it is still noteworthy that Luther bypasses the obvious questions we would seek to answer in an exegesis. What is the law here, God’s law generally or the Mosaic Law? What is the point of picturing the law as a schoolmaster (paidagogos)? Is Paul speaking of a covenantal progression from living under the law to living under Christ, or to a personal experience of law and gospel? Luther’s law/gospel hermeneutic may often impose strictures on biblical texts, but its intentions are theologically legitimate, and its outcomes pastorally precious: Christ is praised, and troubled consciences are comforted, all to the glory of God. What Faith Does According to The Freedom of the Christian Over half of the tractate develops the fourth result of faith, the life of the Christian as the practical fruit of faith. Faith is freely active in love because it seeks no reward other than the joy of service. Luther here gives a good explication of St Augustine’s dictum: Love and do what you want to (ama et fac quod vis)! 12. See ‘The distinction between law and gospel’, appendix to John T Pless, Handling the Word of Truth: Law and Gospel in the Church Today (St Louis: CPH, 2004), 115–28.

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But first, faith frees the believer from the law. The law is God’s good and holy will since it serves the gospel. The obedience of faith in Christ is perfect obedience and frees us from the law. It is clear, then, that Christians have all they need in faith and need no works to justify themselves; and if they have no need of works, they have no need of law; and if they have no need of law, surely they are free from the law. . .This is that Christian liberty, our faith, which does not induce us to live in idleness and wickedness but makes the law and works unnecessary for any person’s righteousness and salvation. . . (LW 31: 349)

Then faith honours God who honours us. To distinguish law and gospel without separating them is, in fact, to preserve God’s honour. It is to take God at God’s word, to ‘let God be God’, to borrow Philip Watson’s phrase. Faith ‘honours him whom it trusts with the most reverent and highest regard since it considers him truthful and trustworthy . . . Nothing more excellent can be ascribed to God. The very highest worship of God is this, that we ascribe to him truthfulness, righteousness and whatever else should be ascribed to one who is trusted. When this is done, the soul consents to his will. Then it hallows his name and allows itself to be treated according to God’s good pleasure for, clinging to God’s promises, it does not doubt that he who is true, just and wise will do, arrange and provide all things well . . . When God sees that we consider him truthful and by the faith in our heart pay him the great honour that is due to him, he does us that great honour of considering us truthful and righteous for the sake of our faith . . . (LW 31: 350, 351)

Ultimately, faith unites us with Christ. Luther develops this point with the image of the ‘happy exchange’ that results from the marriage of Christ and the believer. Everything that is ours as sinners is taken on himself by Christ. Everything that is Christ’s becomes ours. (LW 31: 351)

The Power of the Holy Spirit: Comments on the Mission of the Church with Special Reference to the Lausanne Covenant

First published in Evangelium/Gospel/Euangelion, 1 (1965): 5–17

The Unfinished Doctrine Looking at our own times and back through the history of the church, one might be tempted to draw the conclusion that the Holy Spirit has always constituted something of a problem for Christendom. Church historian Hermann Sasse was surely right in tracing some of our modern theological controversies back to the fact that the doctrine of the Holy Spirit remained one of the ‘unfinished doctrines’ of the ancient church.1 The great ecumenical councils of the fourth and fifth centuries, while developing the doctrine of the second person of the Trinity, had time and energy for little more than elementary statements on the person and work of the Spirit. The Spirit was never entirely neglected in the church. The Fathers, like the great Cappadocians in the East and St Augustine in the West, reveal an intense wrestling with the truth of the Spirit. And the ‘frozen dogma’ of the church contained in its liturgies and hymns down through the ages likewise betrays, from time to time a deep understanding of the mystery of the Spirit. Why then, we might ask, has there been so much confusion, error, and controversy in this area, reaching from the Gnostics and the Montanists of early centuries down to the ‘enthusiasts’ of our own day, in whatever form they might 1. See the illuminating article, ‘Zur Lehre vom Heiligen Geist’, in De Fundamentis Ecclesiae, Gedenkschrift für Pastor Dr theol H Lieberg (Braunschweig, 1973), 194– 209.

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appear. Is it because the biblical witness is itself less than clear? Might it be that the church has heard the promise and seen the gift of the Spirit but failed to cling to the promise and be open to the gift of the fullness of the Spirit? Granted that the biblical witness to the Spirit is not a complete compendium of dogmatics on the locus of the Spirit, and that the church was left with the task of drawing out the significance of what is stated in little more than hints and allusions, it is incorrect to infer that the Bible is unclear on the person and role of the Spirit. Here, as elsewhere, the problem of understanding lies not with God the Revealer but with human beings as the recipients of revelation. Yet it is worth suggesting that the New Testament witness to the Spirit is perhaps less full and explicit than it might be for the simple reason that its writers did not have to argue for spirit as a reality in contrast to matter, for the Spirit of God in contradistinction to the human spirit. They could presuppose not only the witness of the Old Testament to the power of God’s ruach, but also the acceptance of the spiritual world and spiritual power by their contemporaries. GrecoRoman culture had a long history of ecstatics and mantics, of prophets and priests who mediated the world of spirits to humankind. Down to New Testament times the popular oracles and mystic Sibyls were well known. It could be presupposed that the empirical world was not the only world. The important question for New Testament witnesses was not whether there were spirits, but rather: By which Spirit are people to live and be directed. This is the question behind both 1 Corinthians 12:1-3 and the lengthier discussion on life in the Spirit in Romans 8. In its proclamation of the gospel the church can no longer make some of the assumptions that were possible in earlier centuries. The pervading influence of materialist worldviews in both East and West has necessitated even the argument for spiritual realities and values behind the purely material; we say ‘purely material’ since, for Hellenistic ears, Paul’s contention that the Spirit cannot be divorced from matter, that the Spirit’s presence and work in people has somatic significance, is rather shocking.2

2. See 1 Cor 6:19 and Rom 12:1.

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The Two Poles The ‘problem’ of the Spirit is constituted not only by the different setting in which we today preach the gospel. Also, within Christendom the question of the person and power of the Spirit continues to be acute. This is reflected in a wide variety of contemporary theological issues. Here we need only note two developments. On the one hand there are those who again stress the supernatural element in the quest for the Spirit and charismatic renewal. At the opposite end of Pentecostal enthusiasm is another ‘enthusiasm’ that accompanies the Theology of Development. Those espousing this concept of the church’s mission can still speak in traditional terms of the Spirit’s activity in the word and sacraments but understand the gospel as an instrument in the universal humanising process that has as its goal a just and peaceful human society. Here the freedom of the Spirit to work ‘where and when it pleases God’3 is not related to his sovereign freedom to elect and effectively call to faith those who hear the gospel, but to his freedom to move beyond the traditional structures of the church, beyond the means of grace. Leaving aside the question of the personhood of the Spirit, the other question is as acute today as it was in St Paul’s time: How does the Spirit of God work, and when and where does he demonstrate his power? It appears that whenever this question has become a live issue in the church it has met with two answers which appear as opposites or extremes. Paul had to struggle on the one hand against the legalists who linked the Spirit’s work with obedience to the law (Gal 3:2) instead of with the hearing of the gospel which leads to faith. On the other hand, he had to contend with the spiritualists, the pneumatics of Corinth and elsewhere, who claimed the power of the Spirit for their libertinism, who turned the Spirit and his gifts into a source of personal pride and boasting. They claimed that this same Spirit led them to a deeper knowledge of the truth of Christ that allowed them to leave the cross and the offensiveness of the particularity of history behind them. The two fronts on which Luther carried his Reformation struggle for the gospel likewise represented for him two extreme answers to the question how and where the Spirit works. In contrast to the 3. Ubi et quando visum est Deo, citing article V of the Lutheran Augsburg Confession of 1530.

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‘Theologie der Innerlichkeit’, the subjectivism of the Schwärmer (Enthusiasts), there was the absolute objectivism of Rome with its teaching authority over the truth given by the Spirit, and its offer of objective grace received ex opere operato in the sacraments. A Changed Concept of Mission Facile comparisons apart, there is certainly some similarity in the contemporary theological scene to that existing at the time of the Reformation. Since it can be presupposed that the Lausanne Covenant, drawn up at the International Congress on World Evangelism (July 16-25, 1974) had similar fronts in mind we should comment on them a little further. Since the World Council of Churches Assembly at New Delhi in 1961 there had arisen, or rather developed, a new concept of mission which sees the task of the church to act as a catalyst in the process of humanising people and human society. The gospel of universal grace has become the gospel of universal redemption based on the cosmic significance of Christ and his death and resurrection. Here is the new objectivity of the gospel and of grace that finishes with such well known slogans like ‘anonymous Christians’. The power of the Spirit is no longer seen merely in the creation of a new humanity in faith, in the hearing of the gospel, but rather in the realisation of a new humanity and society founded on justice and peace. Statements such as ‘Renewal in Mission’, issued by the WCC at Uppsala in 1968, reflect the new understanding of mission and the gradual abandonment of the old as evangelisation. They form the background both to the Lausanne Covenant but also to the Frankfurt declaration of 1970 that called for a return to the old concept. Thus, the quest for the Spirit’s power is inseparably bound up with the quest for a correct understanding of the mission of the church. On the other hand, while only indirectly polemicising, against certain untenable theological positions, the Covenant also reflects the widespread ‘shakeup’ caused within Christendom by the charismatic movement. This movement has taken on so many diverse forms that generalisations are often unfair and misleading. Yet it remains true of the whole movement that we find here once more a return to the subjectivism and theology of experience which we find with the Enthusiasts at the time of the Reformation. Most interesting at this point is the claim that a special outpouring of the Spirit on each

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believer, the so-called ‘baptism of the Spirit’, is required to empower people for witness. It is this ‘second blessing’ after conversion which all Christians need before the task of the church’s witness to the world can be fully met. This means that Pentecost is an unfinished event, a promise of continual outpourings of the Spirit on believers. What the churches need today is the fullness of the Spirit with all his gifts for service and ministry. But traditional Christianity has quenched the Spirit in formalism, ritualism and sacramentalism; it has failed to seek the Spirit’s gifts, especially the supernatural charisms that demonstrate his power: speaking in tongues, interpretation of tongues, prophecy, and healing. The Pentecostal4 movement with these claims continues to issue a challenge to all Christian denominations to show that they are Spirit-filled. This is not the place to undertake a fuller discussion of the challenge posed by the new understanding of mission and by the Pentecostal movement. In what follows we will only take up the central question of the location of the Spirit’s power and relate the New Testament evidence to article 14 of the Lausanne Covenant. The discussion will hopefully indicate where weakness and errors lie. The Text of Article 14 Lausanne Covenant’s article reads as follows: The Power of the Holy Spirit We believe in the power of the Holy Spirit. The Father sent his Spirit to bear witness to his Son, without his witness ours is futile. Conviction of sin, faith in Christ, new birth and Christian growth are all his work. Further, the Holy Spirit is a missionary Spirit; thus, evangelism should arise spontaneously from a spirit-filled church. A church that is not a missionary church is contradicting itself and quenching the Spirit. Worldwide evangelism will become a realistic possibility only when the Spirit renews the church in truth and wisdom, faith, holiness, love, and power. We therefore call upon all Christians to pray for such a visitation of the 4. I distinguish between the Pentecostal churches and the charismatic movement which seeks renewal within the mainline churches while holding to their doctrinal positions.

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sovereign Spirit of God that all his gifts may appear in all his people and that all his gifts may enrich the body of Christ. Only then will the whole church become a fit instrument in his hands, that the whole earth may hear his voice.5

The Covenant contains passing references to the Spirit in earlier articles. We should note the statements in articles 1 and 2 which remind us that the treasure of the gospel is made known only by the power of the Spirit. ‘Through it’ (God’s revelation) ‘the Holy Spirit still speaks today. He illumines the minds of God’s people in every culture to perceive its truth freshly through their own eyes and thus discloses to the whole church ever more of the many-coloured wisdom of God’ (end of article 2). From the outset we gladly note that the Covenant makes the revealed word of God the real ‘home’ of the Spirit. From the beginning the power of the Spirit is related inseparably to the gospel itself, not to any form of visible authority or power vested in human beings, whether human authority or ecclesiastical structure. The document thus rightly reflects the central biblical truth that the potestas Dei propria (the proper power of God) is his power to save. This is clear already in the Old Testament—we need merely recall the standard Deuteronomic recitation of God’s saving action in leading Israel out of Egypt with his mighty hand. The confession of God’s power thus always issues in doxologies such as at Psalms 145:4 and 21:14. The vital power of the church is the potestas evangelii (power of the gospel) and this is Spirit-worked. It should also be observed that just as the Spirit’s power is not invested in ecclesiastical structures and leadership which exists merely de iure humano, so also spiritual power is not located in natural human disposition and talent by themselves. In First and Second Corinthians Paul negates all human wisdom, oratory, powers of leadership and the like as sources of the Spirit’s power. First Corinthians 3 and 4 certainly go on to show that the power and authority of the gospel are placed in the hands of special ‘servants’ and ‘stewards’ (1 Corinthians 4:1, 2), but the spiritual power that is found in ministerial authority is again no more or less than the potestas evangelii. 5. Texts listed in support at this point are: 1 Cor 2:4; John 15:26,27; 16:8–11; 1 Cor 12:3; John 3:6–8; 2 Cor 3:18; John 7:37-39; 1 Thess 5:19; Acts 1:8; Ps 85:4–7; 67:1–3; Gal 5:22,23; 1 Cor 12:4–31; Rom 12:3–8.

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Power in the church is always (or should be) God’s dynamis. His power is so closely associated with the Holy Spirit in the New Testament that we find not only the phrase ‘Spirit of power’ (2 Tim 1:7, 8) or ‘power of the Spirit’ (Luke 4:14; Rom 15:13; see also 1:4) but also dynamis as shorthand for the Spirit (Luke 24:49; Acts 1:8; 1 Cor 2:5; 4:20). The identification of divine power with God’s Spirit is underlined by the hendiadys ‘Spirit and power’ (Luke 1:35; Acts 10:3; 1 Cor 2:4; 1 Thess 1:5). These observations are made to underscore what has been stressed above: the power of the Spirit is God’s power at work in and through the gospel. Why make such a point of this? Simply because Pentecostal theology places great stress on the second baptism which, it is claimed, endows believers with special power for witness. By an odd reconstruction of New Testament anthropology in which the human pneuma becomes the natural contact point for the Spirit of God, spirit-filled persons are seen as filled with power in themselves. It has been frequently pointed out by scholars taking issue with the Pentecostal argument, that the key passages in Acts which picture the gift of the Spirit (Acts 2, 8, 9, 10, 11, 19) do not speak of the Spirit as empowering for witness but as confirming of the gift of salvation itself. External signs sometimes appear, such as tongues, simply to confirm for believers the reality of the gift of grace (Acts 10:45). Certainly, Luke does picture the apostles as filled with boldness (parrhesia) to witness (Acts 2:29; 4:13,29,31; 28:31) since Easter morning and the day of Pentecost. But it is just Luke who links both witnessing and power for witness with the first apostles. Paul’s ministry is also accompanied by dynamis, but he repeatedly affirms that the gospel is the power of God for salvation (Rom 1:16; 1 Cor 1:18,24). When he does speak of the power of God in the life of believers, he rather speaks of the power of the Spirit applying Christ’s resurrection life to them and leading to a life of holiness (Eph 1:19; 3:16, 20; Phil 3:10; Col 1:11). If the Theology of Development shows a preoccupation with the freedom of the Spirit to work outside the means of grace, beyond the gospel, even where it is understood as a new law by which human society must be refashioned, Pentecostal theology shows a preoccupation with the Spirit and power as invested in the individual instead of in the means of grace. It may be that the formulators of article 14 have this in mind when they insist that all the church’s

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witness is finally the work of the Spirit through the word. It thus speaks not of individual experience or of the need for a ‘second baptism’, but of the need for the whole church to be renewed by the Spirit, for the whole body of Christ to be enriched by the Spirit’s gifts. There is here a healthy corporate stress (see 1 Corinthians 12 with its image of the body!) in the place of any individualism. New Testament writers, Paul least of all, show little interest in the question of human dignity and personal power or authority, apart from the authority that is vested in secular powers according to the ordinance of God (Rom 13). Paul’s ministry included a long struggle for recognition of his apostolic authority, but he was not interested in personal power; his concern was that his office and authority be acknowledged as coming from the Risen Lord. It is just in his greatest defence of his apostolic authority that he insists that God’s strength is made perfect in human weakness (2 Cor 11:30; 12:9,10). He could claim that the Spirit had indeed worked powerfully through him and could cite ‘signs and wonders and mighty works’ (2 Cor 12:12), but he continued to make his boast only in the gospel. There is no confusion of the Spirit’s power with human zeal, emotional piety, or oratory. The Spirit’s work is always the extension and continuation of the work of Christ himself (John 16:14), so that his greatest glory is to point away from himself to the Son and the perfect gift of life in him. From beginning to end, as the Covenant infers, the work of the Spirit is Christ-oriented and directed to Christ. Thus, the experience of the Spirit is the experience of the joy of salvation, as much as it remains true that his special gifts are given for service to others. These charismata are simply concrete, personalised manifestations of grace (charis). Romans 6:25 speaks of the fundamental charisma of the Spirit as ‘eternal life in Christ Jesus’. Those who have the certainty and joy of this gift have experienced the power of the Spirit. Questioning the Covenant Most, if not all, of what has been said above would no doubt meet with complete approval on the part of the formulators of the Lausanne Covenant and may have formed the background to some of the statements in article 14. In conclusion we may raise a few questions about the Covenant, while granting that it could not include anything but a brief statement on the power of the Spirit and that those who

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adopted it represented a broad spectrum of Christianity. There are chiefly three questions to which we might direct attention. First, the Lausanne Covenant breathes its own spirit of enthusiasm. It rejoices that a new missionary era has dawned (article 8) and reflects the confidence that the church by God’s Spirit can meet the challenge of evangelising the whole world. We became used to hearing slogans suggesting that the world was to be won for Christ soon or at least in the twentieth century. How much of this was realistic? How much issued from a triumphalism that works with a theology of glory rather than a theology of the cross? Church assemblies and conferences can issue grand sounding pronunciations on the task of the church and how this task can be most effectively accomplished. But the program of the Spirit (as church history teaches us) is often markedly less grand, certainly less grandiose. Christians would often do better to resolve less and listen and pray more! They would do better to stay close to the ‘home’ of the Spirit, to let the gospel truth sink into their hearts and minds with all its transforming power and joy. Living and speaking a witness will indeed then follow ‘spontaneously’. Hymns and church prayers have often included the plea for a new outpouring of the Spirit. Article 14 also includes a summons to ‘all Christians to pray for . . . a visitation of the sovereign Spirit of God’. We do well to remember that this Spirit has already been poured out already on the church. His coming marked the inauguration of the last times (Acts 2:17). There is church as the new people of God only because the Spirit to whom we pray Veni Creator Spiritus (Come, Holy Spirit!) has already come. To pray for a new outpouring is not to suggest the Spirit is lacking but that we are lacking. It is not that the Spirit is ever unavailable, but a question whether we will avail ourselves of the Spirit. We also remember that the Spirit is indeed the ‘sovereign Spirit of God’. We cannot speak of the power of the Spirit without at the same time acknowledging the mystery of divine election on the one hand, and the mystery of human rejection on the other. It is mere wishful thinking to suggest that a grand program of world evangelism will win the world for Christ overnight. The great truth remains: The Spirit works when and where he wills. Secondly, the Covenant rightly presupposes that the Spirit is at work wherever there is testimony to Christ. ‘Without his witness ours is futile.’ It is the Spirit of God that produces the confession to the

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Lordship of Christ (1 Cor 12:3) One cannot help noting, however, that the statement speaks only of the spoken word through which the Spirit evinces power. There is no clear reference to the sacraments. We have only such phrases as ‘incorporation into his church’ (article 5) and ‘new birth’ (article 14), both of which need not be understood in a sacramental sense. There is clear biblical witness that baptism is not simply a sign of the Spirit’s previous regenerating work but is itself that work (John 3:5; Titus 3:5). Thus ‘baptism . . . saves’ (1 Pet 3:21) since it carries to completion the perfect gift of Christ. It is perhaps less easy to demonstrate from explicit New Testament texts that also the Eucharist is the ‘home’ of the Spirit where he demonstrates his power. Quite apart from the difficulties posed for exegetes by John 6:63 (‘It is the Spirit that gives life, the flesh is of no avail’), there is the evidence of First Corinthians 10. For Paul, the eating and drinking of the body and blood of the Lord was a participation in spiritual food and drink, whereby ‘spiritual’ hardly means non-material but rather ‘Spirit worked’ or ‘Spirit endowing’. In passing we can note that the English Revised Standard Version translation of pneumatikon in First Corinthians 10:3,4 as ‘supernatural’ is unfortunate. Paul’s argument at the beginning of the chapter makes sense only if it is seen that the apostle is arguing against those at Corinth who regard themselves as safe and secure in their possession of the Spirit and his gifts. Indeed, their great sin is presumption of God’s grace. Their characteristic lovelessness arises from this prior sin. With his use of Exodus typology, Paul wants to remind his readers that the mere possession of pneumatika is no guarantee of security. His argument presupposes that both the Corinthians and Paul accept the fact that the Spirit is at work in the Eucharist. There is, however, no hint that the Spirit effects the presence of Christ. Christ’s presence is simply assured by the words of institution as a word of promise within the whole celebration (in actu). Because the promise of grace is there, the Spirit must be there. Even the epiklesis of the ancient liturgies is not a prayer to effect the presence of Christ. It is a prayer directed to the Father to send the Spirit upon the church rather than a prayer directed immediately to the Spirit. It is understandable that Christians who share a common evangelistic zeal but who come from diverse denominational backgrounds should omit any explicit reference to the sacraments as means of the Spirit. But the absence of any reference to baptism

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is even more regrettable since God’s covenant with his saints always precedes any human covenant with God. Thirdly, it is perhaps because of the lack of a sacramental approach to the question of the Spirit’s power that the statement also makes no reference to liturgy and worship as the locus of the Spirit’s work in the church and where the evangelistic mission begins. The document tends to see the power of the Spirit in verbalised form, if we may put it that way. It is a dramatic event; it is celebration with multiple actions. It involves both the ‘acted word’ of the sacrament and the actions of the worshipping people of God. Before there can be a witnessing people there must be a worshipping people. For worship includes both God’s witness to his people and their witness to his mighty acts. One might go so far as to say that the first step in reviving the church’s missionary fervour and mission might be the continual renewal of its liturgical life as a joyful celebration of salvation and the presence of God among his people, who exist for the whole world, animate and inanimate. Before the church can witness to the Son effectively it must again and again hear the witness of the Spirit to the Son. Christians must learn ever and again that liturgy is the corporate ‘work of the people’ without which any individual witnessing remains an isolated and fragmentary event.

The Quest for the Spirit—Then and Now

First published in Led by the Spirit. How Charismatic is New Testament Christianity? (Adelaide: Lutheran Publishing House, 1976), 1828 It took the Christian church some three centuries to establish the place of the Holy Spirit in trinitarian theology. Even then the Spirit seems to have remained the forgotten or taken-for-granted member of the Trinity in the long history of faith, worship, and piety down to the last century. Certainly, the early church made a clear confession to the person and work of the Spirit, as clearly as it confessed its faith in Jesus as Lord and Christ. It is also interesting to note that early Christians were not restricted to the usual trinitarian order to which we are accustomed in the three historical symbols of the church— the Apostolic, Nicene, and Athanasian creeds. As well as the order Father-Son-Spirit (Matt 28:19), we also find the order Spirit-LordGod (1 Cor 12:4–7; Eph 4:4–6) and Father-Spirit-Jesus (1 Pet 1:2). It cannot be maintained that the early church was responsible for pushing the Spirit into the background, into a kind of third-class membership in the Trinity. The Neglected Doctrine And yet the Spirit remained neglected in Christian theology in subsequent centuries. This can only partly be explained by the fact that in the New Testament (as well as in the Old Testament) the Spirit remains very much a mystery. Jesus is acclaimed with many Christological titles (such as Messiah, Lord, Prophet, Priest, King, Saviour, Shepherd), and some could claim to have seen him in the flesh (John 1:14; 1 John 1:1); the Spirit attracts no such attention. The 109

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Spirit is given no great array of new titles but is simply known as God in his saving and life-giving presence, with certain signs of that presence. The only new title given to the Spirit in the New Testament is that of Paraclete in the Gospel according to St John. But the exact meaning of that title is not even clear. Does it mean Admonisher, Comforter or Advocate—or a combination of all three ideas? However, despite the mystery of his person and the mystery of his coming at Pentecost, one thing is certain: the early church knew itself to be God’s people in possession of the promised Spirit of God. Everything that they were, all they possessed and hoped for as God’s saints, came to them via the Spirit who was also the Spirit of Christ. The well-known New Testament scholar, CK Barrett, went so far as to say, ‘No more certain statement can be made about the Christians of the first generation than this: they believed themselves to be living under the immediate government of the Spirit of God’.6 Why, then, did it take the church so long to develop a doctrine of the Holy Spirit? The first ecumenical council at Nicaea in AD 25, while developing a doctrine on the equality of the Son with the Father (‘of one substance with the Father’), did not yet develop any parallel statement about the person of the Spirit and his relationship to the other persons of the Trinity. There was yet no actual Third Article as found in the western creed, based on the old Roman baptismal confession, and which became known as the Apostles Creed. The original Nicene Creed simply confessed at the end: ‘And [we believe] in the Holy Spirit’. It was only at the second ecumenical council at Constantinople in AD 381 that this brief statement was lengthened to the form of confession familiar to us today: ‘And I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord and giver of life, who proceeds from the Father. . . who together with the Father and the Son is worshipped and glorified, who spoke by the prophets.’ The only later addition to this brief confession was the famous filioque which confesses that the Spirit proceeds from the Father and the Son—an addition not accepted by the Eastern Orthodox churches. That the person and work of the Holy Spirit were not entirely neglected in the early centuries of the church can be seen from the ‘frozen dogma’ contained in the church’s liturgies, hymns, and prayers. But even here it is worth noting that the Eastern Orthodox 6. CK Barrett, The Holy Spirit and the Gospel Tradition (London: SPCK, 1966), 1.

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churches still do not have any solemn liturgical prayers directed to the Spirit. Even the so-called epiklesis, the calling on or summoning of the Spirit in the Eucharistic liturgy, is really a prayer directed to the Father to send down the Spirit with all his gifts. It is consequently with good reason that one church-historian, Hermann Sasse, spoke of the teaching on the Holy Spirit as one of the uncompleted doctrines of the church. It is interesting to speculate whether later ecumenical councils (at Ephesus in AD 431 and at Chalcedon in AD 451) would have developed more fully the doctrine of the Spirit if the church at that time had possessed more theological energy instead of being enervated by the political events of the time, especially the Germanic invasion of the Roman Empire. The Quest for the Spirit in the New Testament World Historians and students of New Testament times might argue that the early Christians did not feel called on to explain what they meant by the Spirit, and this for several reasons. After all, outsiders looking into the church could see that here was spiritual power at work among these Christians, a supernatural power without which the growth of the church could not adequately be explained. All they had to do was to join these Christians to experience the power of the Spirit! And since the early church gained many of its converts either from the Jewish synagogue or from those pagans who had come under the influence of the synagogue, there was little need to explain who the person of the Spirit was. This could be presupposed from their knowledge of the Old Testament. In the New Testament these converts are called ‘God-fearers’, converts who had first accepted the Old Testament monotheism and the Jewish ethical system. On the other hand, the early missionaries like Saint Paul could just as easily presuppose that their pagan hearers would not question the reality of a spiritual world and of spiritual powers. It could indeed be—and this seems to have been the case in the congregation at Corinth—that some of the confusion over the Spirit arose because converts did not easily and immediately shake off the heathen ideas of supernatural power which belonged to their former life. This much is at least clear. The religions and philosophies of the Greco-Roman world, the world of New Testament times, accepted and presupposed far more readily than does our present world the existence of spiritual reality in contrast to material reality.

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It is important that we read New Testament teaching on the Spirit within the context of the contemporary world and its ideas. The Greek word pneuma can mean wind, breath, or spirit (English words such as ‘pneumatic’ and ‘pneumonia’ are derived from the Greek word) and was used from early Greek times to describe the breath of life in animate creatures. In contrast to the body, it denoted the psychological or spiritual entity in humans. Classical Greek literature does not know the phrase ‘holy spirit’, but in later Hellenistic7 literature, pneuma was used to describe the highest divine being, the ultimate spiritual power, as well as other non-corporeal, supernatural beings, whether good or evil. Hellenistic and Jewish thought in New Testament times showed a special interest in the spiritual world—a development that can be explained in the following way. The old gods of Greek paganism had been conceived as super-humans, but closely related to humankind. They had lived close to earth on Mount Olympus, and even behaved like humans with all their foibles and failings. However, in Hellenistic times these ancient gods no longer possessed any real power or reality in the minds of the average person. The course of history with its endless human wrangling for power, rather suggested that this world was subject to other powers such as fate and fortune (tyche in Greek, fortuna in Latin). No wonder, then, that Fortune was one of the most important deities in the Greco-Roman world and the official guardian of many a city. No wonder that people, even emperors like Tiberius, in whose reign our Lord lived and was crucified, turned to astrology and magic to discover the purpose of life and its control. At the same time philosophers were increasingly speculating about a highest spiritual being (just as early philosophers like Socrates and Plato had been able to speak of ‘god’ as an ultimate reality and power). But—and this is an important point—the world of ultimate reality, of final truth, of the spirit, was seen as far removed from this world. Where previously the gods were immanent (close to human beings), they now were viewed as transcendent (far removed). Thus, Hellenistic religions and philosophies were all engaged in a quest for union with the spiritual world to bridge the great chasm between the 7. Hellenistic in contrast to Greek, denotes the culture which was an amalgam of Greek and Eastern civilisation which resulted from Alexander the Great’s conquest of the eastern Mediterranean world as far east as India.

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divine and the human. Truth was seen not so much as that which could be discovered by reason or philosophy, but as that which had to be revealed. Revelations from such famous oracles as the Sibyl at Cumae or the prophetess of Apollo at Delphi, assumed great importance, and were gathered into large collections. Even the most popular philosophy in the Roman Empire in New Testament times, Cynic-Stoic moral philosophy, while seeming to base all its arguments on human reason, still illustrates the quest for the spirit that we have been talking about. Here the problem of divine transcendence is wiped out with one stroke. ‘God’ is nothing else than ‘nature’ or the natural law of reason which pervades the whole universe, and which is found as a spark of the divine in each person. People find their role and purpose in life by learning to follow the spirit of the divine within them and to live in harmony with nature. This is pantheism in its classical form. The spirit is naturally within people. That this picture of humanity has nothing at all in common with the biblical picture of human beings who are naturally ‘flesh’ and without the Spirit of God is obvious. In general, it can be said that in Hellenistic dualistic thinking human beings are composed of two parts: flesh and spirit, or body and soul. The moral philosophy of Paul’s day, as well as the many mystery cults that sprang up in Hellenistic times and earlier, saw a human being as a miniature of the universe in which spirit is to be contrasted with matter. The body could be viewed as the prison of the soul or spirit which was the noble element in human beings, directly related to the world of ultimate spiritual reality. In the mystery cults the spirit was often viewed as a kind of supernatural substance which took hold of people to renew them and stamp them as divine, assured of immortality. The human spirit is ultimately divine and needs to be released from the shackles of matter, of fate, and of the body with its desires and passions. Some of this dualistic thinking lay behind the problems at Corinth which St Paul had to set in order and influenced how he spoke of the Spirit of God in that context of spiritual enthusiasm.8 The union of the human spirit with the divine was also seen as the highest goal by the Hellenistic Jewish writer, Philo of Alexandria. For 8. Whether this was an early form of Gnosticism, as has been frequently assumed, remains in debate.

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Philo, of course, the highest good with which people are to be united is the God of the Old Testament. Yet the influences of Hellenism on Philo are strong. The gap between humanity and the transcendent God is so great that it must be bridged by intermediaries. In Jewish intertestamental thought, there is a new (compared with the Old Testament) interest in angelic and demonic beings, probably because of eastern dualistic influences. In Philo, and even in Rabbinic literature, God is seen as being so far removed from humankind that even the law had to be given to Moses on Mt Sinai through intermediaries, through the agency of angelic beings. Paul reflects this view in Galatians 3:19, 20.9 The above sketchy comments will be enough to suggest that St Paul made statements about the Holy Spirit which have a significance that is greater than we might suspect. Indeed, his teaching can often be fully understood only if seen against the background of Hellenistic thinking and in contrast to it. For example, imagine how startling some of his statements would have sounded to the ears of his contemporaries: that the Corinthian Christians’ bodies were members of Christ, not just their renewed spirits (1 Cor 6:15), that the body of a believer is a temple of the Holy Spirit, and not some shackle that the soul or spirit must cast off or escape to gain eternal life (6:19)! How un-Hellenistic was his appeal to the Romans: ‘present your bodies as a living sacrifice . . . which is your spiritual worship’ (Rom12:1). With Paul, as with the rest of the New Testament, the work of the Spirit is never linked with the human spirit as the better, higher, nobler, or purer part of humankind. Without the Holy Spirit of God, people in their humanity as body, soul, and spirit, are totally ‘flesh’ (sarx), and that means, in Pauline diction, sinners under divine judgment of death. Paul’s teaching on the Spirit is strikingly bodily (somatic). The Spirit binds believers into the Body of Christ (1 Cor 12:13) and shows his presence in tangible ways in the physical, corporeal world, in a life of obedience. He will also be active at the resurrection in the creation of new ‘spiritual bodies’ in contrast to the old natural bodies’ (15:44– 46). The experience of the Spirit and his power does not lead to mystical flights into the supernatural, away from the material world, 9. See also Acts 7:38 in Stephen’s speech, and Hebrews 2:2.

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but places the believer under the lordship of Christ within the normal conditions of physical existence. The Question of Religious Experience We have several times used the phrase ‘experience of the Spirit’. New Testament Greek has no word for ‘experience’. The Authorised Version does use this term to translate the Greek word dokimē in Romans 5:4, but the RSV translation ‘character’ is far better, since the original suggests that which has been tried, tested, and found to be true. Paul certainly had an important experience on the Damascus Road, one which changed the entire course of his life. His vision of the risen Lord meant both his conversion and his call to be an apostle to the Gentiles. But he never used this experience to prove anything but his call to be an apostle (see 1 Cor 9:1; 15:8–10; Gal 1:16). To those who, like true Hellenists, demanded proof of his spiritual authority with demonstrations of supernatural power, he boasted of his weakness in order that God might be glorified. He even refused to make anything of that (probably ecstatic) experience which he had been granted but spoke instead of his ‘thorn in the flesh’ (2 Cor 12:1-10), boasting only of God’s ‘power made perfect in weakness’. The Corinthians expected from him a message of obvious supernatural wisdom and power and expounded with brilliant oratory; Paul continued to point to the message of the cross as the power of God through the Spirit (1 Cor 1:18–2:16). When they demanded proof (dokime again) that Christ was speaking through him, he pointed only to the crucified Lord as the source of power and suggested that (as in his own case) his readers would be powerful only as long as the crucified Christ lived in them (2 Cor 13:3–5). Though he worked wonders, could speak in tongues, and cite visions, Paul never saw or used these experiences as confirmation of the truth of his message. His gospel was the same as other apostles preached. He stood within the teaching tradition of the early church and from time to time could cite that tradition to remind his readers of a forgotten truth. First Corinthians 11:23 and15:1 introduce such fixed pieces of tradition and use the standard technical terms, also found in rabbinic teaching, to introduce a tradition passed on in unbroken succession. For him, power was not what God had invested

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in him, but rather that which the Spirit had vested in the message of the gospel (1 Cor 1:18; 2:4,5). These comments on the New Testament setting open up new insights as we attempt to understand the quest for the Spirit and the experience of his power in our own age. It can quickly be demonstrated that the charismatic movement owes much (if not most) of its appeal to the claim that the experience of the Spirit in a tangible way transforms a Christian’s faith and life. Two quotations will suffice to illustrate the point. Dennis Bennett, the American Episcopalian minister whose writings had a great impact also in Australia,10 wrote, The church is in a mess, organized Christianity a failure. Why? Because the Holy Spirit has not had a chance to work experientially in the church . . . It is time to stop relying on intellectual analysis and to start relying on spiritual experience. After all, Christianity is not an intellectual matter at all. It is a purely personal and spiritual matter. (emphasis added)

Ignoring for the moment the more than doubtful definition of Christianity in the last sentence, what is interesting here is the stress on experience. This view is underlined by the equally noted American Lutheran charismatic, Larry Christenson, who wrote,11 The experience of speaking in tongues has intensified the sense of the presence of God; the Word of God has become more contemporary, believable; Christ the Lord has become more real—in a word, faith has been strengthened. (emphasis added)

Now we should not cheaply attack the appeal to Christian experience as such. Christian faith is, certainly, more than intellectual assent to a series of doctrinal propositions; it means trust, a personal relationship with God and with Christ, which involves the experience of grace. What is disconcerting and certainly not found in the New Testament is the idea that experience substantiates the truth and reality of faith. 10. Especially through his books Nine O’clock in the Morning (Logos International, 1970) and (with Rita Bennett) The Holy Spirit and You. A Study Guide to the Spirit-Filled Life (Logos International, 1971). 11. Larry Christenson, Speaking in Tongues. A Gift for the Body of Christ (Fountain Trust, 1963), 14.

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In the New Testament faith is always directed to Christ who is found in the Word, not to Christ found in a personal and private experience. The question is not whether experience is real or not, but rather how it is evaluated and what role it plays.12 Before we analyse charismatic experience more closely, we should note that the appeal to experience is a phenomenon of our age. It is completely understandable that the charismatic quest for an experience of the Spirit’s power and gifts should have arisen, and continue to arise, where spiritual apathy and sterile dogmatism prevail, unrelieved by powerful gospel preaching, joyful sacramental celebration, and liturgical richness. Our age, as perhaps none before, has seen a revolt against rationality in favour of experience and the appeal to the emotions. Whether in the field of politics, business, or religion, the emotive appeal often carries more weight than a carefully presented logical argument. Ours is an age of catchlines in advertising, slogans in politics and subjective experience in religion. Contact with the divine or supernatural world through ecstasy13 or some other metaphysical experience is a phenomenon claimed by many cults and religions throughout the world from ancient to modern times. Although some things remain unexplained, we now know more about the physical and psychological factors involved in such experience. Psychology and medicine have done much to uncover the power of the mind over the body, and the interaction of body and mind in some mental disorders. Religious experience can sometimes be analysed in objective psychological terms, even though the experience may be subjectively very real. Trances, dreams, visions, revelation experiences and the like can all be induced by a variety of means. The prophets of Baal, prancing around their altar on Mount Carmel, calling on their god while slashing themselves with sharp instruments, probably to the accompaniment of frenzied musical tones (1 Kgs 18:26–29) were simply using a standard technique to induce a state of ecstasy in which Baal would communicate with his devotees. Similar states in which a prophet, seer, or shaman sees a ‘vision of the divine’, experiences a ‘celestial journey of the soul’, or in some way communes with the infinite, are known 12. This sentence has been added to the original text for the sake of clarity. 13. The word comes from the Greek ek and stasis, literally meaning the state where one stands outside of oneself. Ecstatics are, literally, ‘beside themselves’. Seen from a different angle, they are people under an outside power or influence.

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from many cults and religions, especially in Asia. Self-inflicted pain by flagellation, the droning tones of instruments and monotonous chants, frequent repetition of sacred formulas, meditation, fasting, asceticism, and drugs are some of the means used to induce religious experience. Anyone who has been to a pop-festival or concert and seen the almost religious fervour (if not mania!) of screaming, clutching, frenzied young people who have been whipped up into a state of extreme excitement in which they openly worship their idols, will appreciate the role of appropriate music in religious experience. One can also cite the music with immediate appeal to the emotions which is characteristic of some mass-revival meetings. Our western world has become familiar with the use of meditation and drugs to induce a religious-like state, especially with the encroachment of various forms of eastern mysticism into the West. Not so long-ago Zen Buddhism was a popular philosophy or practice among young people, offering one way of revolting against western secularistic ideals and materialism. Various maharishi (literally ‘great inspired seers’) appeared in the western world from the east, offering new versions of mystic experience and a gospel of peace, self-realisation, and union with the inner divine through meditation. Many international figures, for example the Beetles, dabbled in ‘transcendental meditation’. And how many people in suburbia have diligently gone through their yoga course, faithfully completing their exercises, without realising that yoga is an important part of Hindu mysticism? Walking down the main streets of cities, whether in Australia, Europe or America, people were frequently confronted by the saffron-robed adherents of Krishna ringing bells and chanting their monotonous litanies. What also the Divine Light Mission offered was the experience of ‘divine light’, the vision of the god within. It claimed to offer what Christians did not have: the proof of the existence of god through actual sight and experience. While drugs are a tragic part of our society, they represent more than an easy escape from reality which is too harsh to face without them. Drug usage is a common feature in both ancient and modern religions, whether in Egypt, Arabia, India, China or the two Americas. There still exists in North America a legally incorporated church, known as the American Native Church, numbering some 250,000 native Indians and some Whites, who commune with the

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spirit of god through the ‘sacramental’ use of the drug peyote (thus called Peyotism).14 The use of drugs by holy men can be documented from early times, centuries before Christ. Experiments have shown that such drugs as LSD, psilocybin, and mescaline can produce mystical, visionary experiences of a religious nature of great intensity and reality.15 The report of some of these experiments in the book just cited quotes one subject as saying after such an experience under drugs, ‘I felt a deep union with God . . . I carried my Bible to the altar and tried to preach. The only words I mumbled were peace, peace, peace. I felt I was communicating beyond words.’16 The use of psychedelic drugs became so widespread, even beyond the United States (where anything is possible), that it was suggested that their use, as the means to religious experience and the perception of supernatural reality, could lead to the formation of a future world religion! Other dead-end streets have been followed in the renewed interest in the spiritual and supernatural, in a quest for the spirit that is in no way related to the Christian gospel. Both white magic in the form of Spiritism or Spiritualism, and black magic in the form of Satanism and the occult, hold many people fascinated—witness the number of books and films that followed William Blatty’s The Exorcist. All this should be enough to show that the appeal to religious experience as the verification of one’s religious belief can be a very dubious matter indeed. The point being made is not that all religious experience, including Christian, must be questioned. Experience is also an important aspect of Christian faith; that it involves emotions and not just the intellect and will is beyond argument. The real questions are: On what is Christian experience based? How does it relate to faith? How is personal experience of the Christian to be evaluated? Supernatural signs and experiences, as demonstrations of the Spirit’s presence and power, in the form of speaking in tongues, visions and miraculous healings, can be claimed by Christians. However, many such phenomena exist also in non-Christian religions and cults. Christians need to be open to an examination of the subjective 14. See REL Masters and Jean Houston, The Varieties of Psychedelic Experience (London: Turnstone Books, 1966), chapter 2. 15. Research has indicated that drugs and chemical changes in the human body brought about by internal and external stimuli work on the pineal gland to produce ‘supernatural’ states and visions. 16. Masters and Houston, Varieties of Psychedelic Experience, 254.

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element in personal experiences, no matter how much they believe that the Spirit of God is a work in them. Above all, they need to point to something outside of our subjectivity as the basis of faith and hope, namely, the objective messaged of God in the promise of the gospel. The Criteria of Truth In the search for the Spirit, it cannot be taken for granted that charismatics and non-charismatics share the same criteria of truth or the same use of sources. Though both sides cite the Scriptures (Protestant charismatics also insisting on the principle of Scripture alone) the question remains whether the Scriptures are used and understood in the same way and whether there are other courts of appeal for charismatics. In the first instance, much is made in Pentecostal literature of the success story of the charismatic movement. While there are signs that the original enthusiasm has died down in parts of the world, it is true that the movement of the Spirit has swept the Third World as the so-called third force in Christianity. The many millions of charismatics in Africa and South America constitute the most active and potent Christian presence. Quite apart from the many Pentecostal churches that have come into being, the movement has left its impact on all mainstream Christian denominations, especially in public worship. However, success in terms of numerical growth is not necessarily a test of truth. If that were the case one would have to conclude that various sects, Islam with its spread into the western world, and atheistic materialism in both capitalist and communist lands, can claim to represent the truth. The latter cannot be determined by an appeal to documented success in the form of growth. On the other hand, non-charismatics run the danger of arguing on the basis of tradition and even prejudice against the term ‘Pentecostal’. While the term has taken on a pejorative sense for some, one would hope that all Christian churches represent the church of the Holy Spirit, as heirs of Pentecost. The debate is not over a name.17

17. It is probably best to distinguish between specifically Pentecostal churches on the one hand, and on the charismatic movement in the mainline churches which have retained their traditional theology. The latter movement is often called NeoPentecostalism.

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Second, we have noted that questions can be raised about personal experience and the relevance of observable experiential data. Speaking in tongues and faith healing are in themselves not uniquely Christian phenomena. Even the demonic can produce signs and tongues; this is the implication of Paul’s words in First Corinthians 12:2 where the apostle speaks of the readers’ pagan past. We are entitled to suspect the presence of the demonic in some of the strange supernatural phenomena produced by Spiritualism and the occult. It will certainly not do to offer a psychological explanation for every subjective experience, no matter how much we believe that such things as mass hysteria and auto-suggestion do play a role in some forms of charismatic enthusiasm. But, by the same token, we are not entitled to claim that it is always the Holy Spirit at work where there are claims to supernatural gifts. In First Corinthians 12 to 14 Paul focuses not on the supernatural nature of gifts, but on the goal they are meant to serve: the confession to Christ and the building up of the church. Paul is not concerned with the phenomena as such, but with the question of their use, the way in which they are employed (12:31; 13:1). Jesus himself sounds a clear warning against false prophets and deceivers who will appear in the future, mouthing the confession to Christ and producing signs and wonders (Matt 24:24; 7:22,23). As we see from Jesus' own ministry, the matter of signs is a very dubious area when it comes to proving anything. Only the person who knows the truth of Jesus can understand the truth of a sign, just as only a person who has the Spirit can test the spirits. Lest this point is misunderstood, it must be repeated: the issue is not whether there are signs and supernatural events either in the New Testament or today. The question is: How are signs and wonders to be interpreted, since by themselves they prove nothing? Third, there seems to be general agreement that the history of the church is not an absolute criterion of truth. It is certainly so that various unorthodox movements have made special claims on the Spirit, whether early Gnosticism, the Montanist movement of the second century, the Enthusiasts (in German, Schwärmer) against whom Luther fought. We could also find sufficient evidence in church history of a quenching of the Spirit and his gifts. The past cannot be used to argue for or against the possibility of a reappearance of charismatic gifts in our day, even if we maintain that it is God’s prerogative to withdraw his gifts in judgment against a quenching of

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the Spirit. There can be a poverty of the Spirit which may be a sign of divine judgment (Amos 8:11). Fourth, the only sure criterion of truth is the written Word of God, the revelation, given through the Spirit and used by the Spirit to create and sustain faith. We are to look nowhere else for the full truth of the Spirit. First Corinthians l4:39, 40 warns that ‘all things should be done decently and in order’, but only after Paul has first written, ‘Earnestly desire to prophesy and do not forbid speaking in tongues’. These words have their close parallel in First Thessalonians 5:19–21, where Paul says, ‘Do not quench the Spirit, do not despise prophesying’, but goes on to add the important injunction, ‘Test everything’. It is always possible that, in its eagerness to avoid the errors of Corinth, the church has fallen into the opposite error of blocking the path of the Spirit and rejecting his special gifts, all in the name of good order. God gives gifts of grace (Greek charismata), but they can be abused and neglected. Here the old Latin saying applies, ‘Abuse does not negate use’ (Abusus non tollit abusum). Even the possibility of abuse cannot be used to argue against right use. However, the basic question remains. How is it that Christians read these passages containing encouragement and warning and come to different conclusions? Obviously, people read the relevant texts with different eyes, a point correctly highlighted by two Anglican writers in Australia, Paul Barnett and Peter Jensen.18 Lutherans in approaching the Bible look for Christ, for the gospel of free forgiveness in Christ as the heart of the New Testament, the key which unlocks the truth of Scripture. This means that anything that is claimed as gospel must be tested according to the heart of the Scriptures. The real issue with respect to the Spirit and spiritual gifts is not the use of a few orthodox sounding phrases, but presentation of the Good News in consistent gospel terms. It is a matter of understanding what being baptised by the Spirit or filled with the Spirit means within the context of the gospel of grace. Pentecostals seem to present us with a new gospel. This claim is supported by some Pentecostal denominations calling themselves the church of the ‘Full Gospel’ or ‘Four Square Gospel’ or ‘True Gospel’. 18. Paul Barnett and Peter Jensen, The Quest for Power. Neo-Pentecostals and the New Testament, Chapter 2: Reading the Bible (ANZEA, 1973), 7-16, and Both Sides to the Question. Official Enquiry into Neo-Pentecostalism (Church of England, Sydney Diocese, 1973), 6–9.

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It is reflected in the name of the influential Interdenominational organisation, ‘The Full Gospel Businessmen’s Fellowship International’. Neo-Pentecostals, while rejecting the legalism of Pentecostal theology, still often claim the ‘plus’ of the Spirit, something higher and greater after conversion. We must ask whether this something extra is consistent with the gospel at all points or whether it detracts from it. But back to the question of hermeneutics, or the way in which we read the Bible. The trouble with Pentecostal interpretation is not that it is too literal; it is not literal enough! It insists on using phrases like ‘baptised with the Spirit’ or ‘baptism with the Spirit’ (though the noun nowhere appears in the New Testament) without understanding these expressions in consistent gospel terms. Thus, the gift of the Spirit which is gospel is turned into the necessity to seek something extra from the Spirit, which is law. With this false literalism which absolutises a genuine biblical expression, other phrases or passages which have nothing to do with a ‘baptism with the Spirit’ are pressed into service of the new ‘full gospel’. This can be seen where First Corinthians 12:13 and Hebrews 6:2 are wrongly interpreted as teaching two baptisms, one with water and one with the Spirit. The right distinction between law and gospel, between gift and prescript, highlights the Pentecostal doctrine of subsequence, as Frederick Dale Bruner has documented in his outstanding Theology of the Holy Spirit.19 It maintains that there is a divinely ordained sequence of events according to which Christians reach spiritual maturity and fullness in Christ. First, they are reborn by the Word in conversion; then there is the outward sign of this rebirth with water baptism as their confession; then follows total obedience and the baptism of the Spirit. Neo-Pentecostals do not always share this non-sacramental understanding of baptism, nor do they always make sanctification a prerequisite of Spirit-baptism. Nevertheless, they share the view that there is a progression in Christian experience which should follow the pattern or model established in Scripture. Events in Jesus’ own life are used to establish this precedent. Just as Jesus was anointed with the Spirit after his baptism in the Jordan, 19. FD Bruner, A Theology of the Holy Spirit. The New Testament and Pentecostal Experience (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1970).

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so all Christian should experience the second blessing of the Spiritbaptism after water-baptism. The book of Acts with its conversion scenes is central to this argument because it is there, so it is claimed, that we find the precedent established in the early church. The conversion scenes in Acts20 do not, in fact, set a precedent for a rigid sequence of experiences. Apart from this, precedent is not the same as precept. Precedent has led some churches to decry the use of any musical instruments in worship apart from the human voice. It is the same approach that legislates on matters relating to the administration and celebration of the sacraments, trying to determine by biblical precedent whether the bread of the Eucharist must be leavened or unleavened, or whether baptism is to be by sprinkling or immersion. One could put up a good argument for adult baptism by immersion as the normal practice in the early church. This does not mean that the manner of administration then established a firm rule for now and in all times. If the essence of baptism as a sacrament of regeneration is gospel, then the amount of water used is not important. If we were to work consistently with biblical precedent, we would have to change much in the practical life of the church. We would have to reintroduce a mandatory foot-washing ceremony (John 13) or hold the Eucharist within the framework of an agape or love-feast, as indicated in First Corinthians 11. Some have suggested that believers should have all things in common as did the early Christians, according to Acts 2:44,45 and 4:32–37. Barnett and Jensen rightly warned against the assumption that a practice of the early church must be seen as a command from God for us to follow, thus turning a description (an ‘is’) into a prescription (an ‘ought’).21 To sum up, the central issue here is not an exegetical opinion here or there, or a dispute on a few biblical texts, or different forms of piety. At issue is the preservation of the gospel of grace and the individual’s certainty about that gospel and the life and salvation it freely offers. Wherever we find an addition to the gospel which threatens its objective message, it is to be rejected as another and different gospel coming from a different spirit.22

20. In Acts 2:37–39; 8:34–39; 9:17–19; 10:44–48; 18:24–19:6. 21. The Quest for Power, 14. 22. See Gal 1:18 and 2 Cor 11:4.

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We can be suspicious of any special claim to the Spirit that lives on religious and emotional excitement, where a subjective enthusiasm allows faith, obedience, and piety to set the agenda for the Spirit’s coming and activity. We can be rightly suspicious where the Spirit is ‘used’ to prove what finally cannot be proved, that which remains the object of faith, which simply trusts the promises of God and lives on the ‘internal testimony of the Holy Spirit’. For ‘faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen (Heb 11:1; see also John 2:29). ‘We walk by faith, not by sight’ (2 Cor 5:7).

The Biblical Concept of Truth

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 4/1 (1970): 1-17

The topic of this paper was assigned to me as formulated. It has been necessary to surmise why the assignment was set. Some preliminary comments with reference to the two terms truth and concept are in place, so that we speak to relevant issues. Truth: Objective or Subjective? The theme of truth is here not studied to arrive at an absolute definition of truth in the way in which philosophy has attempted to do so over the centuries. Here it is the question of biblical truth. The Christian faith does not present any new definitions of truth, but it does claim to possess and proclaim the truth of God revealed in Christ. The question of truth is thus for Christians a matter of understanding the nature of revelation, both the way in which it has come to humankind as well as its content. Philosophy can afford to speculate; it may deal with relatives. What is true for one person under certain presuppositions is not necessarily true for another under different circumstances. Such things as varying contemporary moods, the world view (Weltanschauung) or spirit of the age (Zeitgeist) will even determine the way in which the question of truth is put. The rationalist, romanticist, the pragmatist, and the existentialist will each begin to ask questions from a different stance.1 But any religion which dares to claim absolute validity (the 1. See G Gawlick, ‘Wahrheit Philosophisch’, in Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, 3rd edition, Volume VI, columns 1518–1525.

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Latin religio suggests that which is binding) cannot speculate on truth from age to age, cannot give explorative insights in terms of various possible systems of truth. Here we might note the danger of the frequent use of phrases such as ‘the idea of truth in the Bible’, or the ‘idea of justification’, and the like. We are intent on ascertaining the truth in concrete terms of God’s action for humanity in history and in the witness to God’s truth contained in the Scriptures. These comments have already hinted at the immediate setting of our topic. Is the truth of which Scripture speaks objective or subjective in nature, or is it both? To put the question in another way: Does the Bible give us truths which allow us to state them in propositions that are valid, or do we only have Truth as Encounter, to cite the title of Emil Brunner’s well-known book? ‘The erosion of the dogmatic substance of the Christian faith’—to cite a familiar phrase among conservatives—is not a product of the existentialist approach alone but it has hastened this process. There is a kind of ‘kerygmatic theology’ which speaks of truth but only in a subjective sense, in the meetings between the Word and the hearer as the latter is confronted and challenged to faith. Truth is thus something that takes place; it is an event. This became virtually a dogmatic presupposition for some exegetes in the post-Bultmann era who adopted the slogan of the nonobjectifiability of the kerygma. In concrete terms this means that Christological, ecclesiological, or soteriological statements are expressions of truth in a particular situation but cannot be objectified to form binding creedal statements or confessions for us today—at least not necessarily. No one would deny that, in the encounter between the Word and people, truth must be subjectively apprehended, in faith. But the purely subjective approach does not do justice to what is objective and independent of human beings, to what existed before any such encounter: God, the Word, God’s acts in history. Nor would we deny that the Christology of the New Testament, to take one example, uses images chosen because of the precise historical situation; we need only think of the (possibly anti-Gnostic) use of ‘fullness’ (pleroma), ‘head’ (kephale), and ‘body’ (soma) in Ephesians and Colossians. The question is whether the picture itself presents a truth which is not variable but absolute, a constant which is not dependent on time and place, and the language used is independent of circumstances and the people addressed. Is the virgin birth only a theological idea, an

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expression of a profound truth, that the incarnation was the result of divine initiative, one without human cooperation? Is the resurrection an event or an expression of the truth that the cause of Jesus, could not possibly come to an end with such a tragic event as Good Friday. The final questions are, then: Is biblical truth propositional or only where there is faith produced by the encounter with the Word? Is there truth, according to the Bible, which is more than the’ ‘trueness’ or correctness of a statement? Is truth in the biblical sense more than a creedal statement? ‘Concept’ and Semantics (James Barr) Though it may take us some distance from our theme proper, a glance at past debates in biblical semantics is necessary. The legitimacy of speaking of characteristically biblical concepts has long been disputed. In particular, the Scottish Old Testament scholar, James Barr, in a series of books but especially in The Semantics of Biblical Language,2 challenged the procedure by which writers, mainly in the school of Biblical Theology, employed semantic arguments in developing what they considered to be concepts peculiar to the Bible. In particular, he came down hard on Thorleif Boman who, in Hebrew Thought Compared with Greek,3 pointed to the linguistic structure of the Hebrew and Greek languages as already providing a clue to understanding the contrast between modes of thinking in the two languages. This linguistic structure is the basis for the contrast between, for example, dynamic and static thinking, concrete and abstract thinking, as also contrasting ways of viewing time, space, and human beings. What interested Barr was not so much the theological results reached (at times he could agree with conclusions even reached by dubious linguistic arguments) as rather the way in which false arguments and assumptions were used. He wanted to expose the false contrast between a Hebraic and a Greco-Roman mode of thinking. He did not deny that there could be differences, but rejected arguments based on linguistic structure, for example, on the fact that 2. London: OUP, 1961. A good introduction to his thesis and attack on current methodology is contained in his Biblical Words for Time. Studies in Biblical Theology 33 (London: SCM, 1962), and in Old and New in Interpretation. A Study of the Two Testaments (London: SCM, 1966). 3. London: SCM, 1960.

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Hebrew is a language in which the verb is central, or that Greek is rich in abstract nouns.4 One quotation from Barr shows what this means with respect to the concept of truth. He cites TF Torrance as follows: The usual translation of ’emet in the LXX is alētheia, but alētheia is not used to signify abstract or metaphysical truth, but what is grounded upon God’s faithfulness, i.e., truth not as something static, but as active, efficacious reality, the reality of God in covenant relationship. It is the steadfastness of God which is the ground of all truth. Primarily, truth is God’s being true to himself, his faithfulness or consistency. God’s truth means, therefore, that he keeps truth or faith with his people and requires them to keep truth or faith with him. Thus, the Hebrew ’emet is translated not only by alētheia but also by pistis and dikaiosyne. There is no doubt that again and again where we have the words pistis and dikaiosyne in the New Testament we must see behind them the Hebrew words ’emet and ’emunah, and where in the New Testament we have alētheia we must understand that not simply as a Geek word, but in the light of the biblical inclusion of pistis and dikaiosyne in the concept of truth.5

Barr is not denying that there are different ways of looking at truth. Hebrew can speak of truth as something concrete in relationships, and Greek can speak of truth as that which belongs in the realm of the metaphysical. But to suggest that this distinction is implied every time either ’emet or alētheia appear is an exaggeration. Here we must agree with Barr. Shades of meaning and connotations can with certainty only be gained from observing contexts, not from observing the isolated words by themselves. The word ‘truth’, in no matter what language, implies the basic distinction between truth and lie, verity and falsehood. Barr asserts that too much emphasis is placed on etymological arguments, on root meanings. This has led to a failure to recognise that each word has its own history, and its meaning cannot in every 4. For an excellent analysis of Barr’s criticisms see David Hill, Greek Words and Hebrew Meanings. Studies in the Semantics of Soteriological Terms (London: CUP, 1967), especially the introduction. 5. Barr, Semantics, 187,188.

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case be predetermined by recourse to its original derivation from a related verb or noun. In the chapter of The Semantics of Biblical Language where he deals with faith and truth, Barr does not deny the derivation of the Hebrew ’emet, ’emunah, ’amen, ’omen and ne’eman from ’aman, with the underlying connotation of steadiness, firmness and therefore validity. But he protests seeing this root meaning behind all occurrences of these and other related words, especially behind ’emunah which then means faithfulness instead of faith, whereby this faithfulness is seen as properly belonging to God alone. Again, he maintains the simple meaning of ‘believe’ for the hiphil form he’emin against the translation ‘to regard as firm or steadfast’. Barr does not dispute the derivation, but the way in which this has been overstressed to the detriment of seeing each word within its context and current usage. This is Barr’s main point in his attack on the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament. The meaning of words must primarily be gained from the contexts of sentences. Only then will we avoid the danger of reading whole theologies into single words every time they appear. We must first look at the context of the word ‘truth’ and then ask whether there is something characteristic about its use which points us to a special 'concept' which is peculiar to the Scriptures. David Hill reminds us that Barr belongs to one school of semantics, representing an approach by no means accepted by other experts.6 In particular, his stress on context does not fully consider the fact that verbal context is sometimes not enough to give a clear decision on meaning. ‘It is now increasingly realised that the nonverbal elements of a situation and the wider influence of social setting and cultural background are also of direct relevance to the complete understanding of a communication event.’7 Secondly, Barr’s method does not allow enough room for ‘word autonomy’, for the obvious fact that words have a meaning also outside of contexts, before they are used in sentences or larger linguistic complexes. The word is a unit of meaning on its own and does not merely gain significance in connection with other words. A balanced semantic approach will take into consideration all the factors that give clues to the meaning of a word: etymology 6. See note 4. Hill on page 6 cites other critical reviews of Barr’s Semantics. 7. Hill, Greek Words, 6.

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and derivation, the history of a word and the attention to context. The method requiring careful handling is comparative semantics, with the presupposition that linguistic structure reflects thought structure. Here some very dubious conclusions have been drawn. As Hill remarks, ‘Most linguists agree that vocabulary provides an index to cultural emphases and reflects environment and mental set as well; but there is not the same general agreement with reference to grammar and sentence construction.’8 It would be generally agreed that German lends itself well to philosophical formulations and minute abstract distinctions, that English on the other hand lends itself well to precise formulation of legal statements and for sociology. Yet this can hardly mean that parallel conclusions can be drawn concerning the actual grammatical structure of the two languages. Can we, in view of this debate over semantics, still speak of ‘biblical concepts’, or must we simply speak of the way in which words are used in the Bible? The word ‘truth’ must obviously have a meaning that is apparent at once. Truth is the opposite of lie or falsehood. But words can also be semantic markers for fields of meaning’. A word may not always stand for only one thing but by association can recall an entire field of ideas. We thus have truthful statements of the kind ‘to speak the truth’, ‘to do the truth’, and ‘to walk in the truth’, where truth points beyond the facticity of a statement to a unique biblical concept, to a reality beyond the word. In this connection we can cite Barr himself at some length. He says that to the word truth there corresponds a mental or psychological reality or ‘concept’ of truth. To the sentence ‘God is truth’ there also corresponds a mental or psychological truth. But these are different kinds of thing. The ‘inner thought world’ of the early Christians would be formed in the main by the notions of the ‘God is truth’ type. But notions like ‘God is truth’ cannot be lexicographically handled, in the way in which words like ‘truth’ can be listed and handled. They are not linguistic functional units but formulations; they are not interchangeable like words and do not fit freely into contexts such as words do. It is a presupposition of doing any lexicography at all that words differ in this way from formulations such as ‘God is truth’ or ‘Christ is risen’.9 8. Hill, Greek Words, 10. 9. Barr, Semantics, 245, 246.

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In trying to avoid the proposition as the basis of religious truth, biblical theologians often adopted the smaller linguistic unit, words, and then been forced to overload them with meaning to relate them to an ‘inner world of thought’. Words are symbols, but they point to realities, even the subjective realities of a poetic mood or feeling as in verse. We are not involved in a game of word definitions. According to the Pastoral Letters, young Timothy was counselled by his mentor to avoid the person who, despite all his ‘knowledge’ (gnosis) is puffed up with conceit, [but] he knows nothing: he has a morbid craving for controversy and for disputes about words’ (1 Tim 6:4). Again, ‘Avoid disputing about words’ (2 Tim 2:14). Talking about truth involves more than words; it involves the Word. Truth in the Old Testament Of all the words derived from the root verb ’mn, only ’emet can accurately be translated with ‘truth’, although there are three rare words which, used with an adjectival sense, show the same basic meaning of ‘really’.10 Here again there is the normal contrast between truth and falsehood, lie, sham, or pretence. Also the adverbial use of ’emet or be’emet, meaning ‘in truth, indeed, really’, implies the same contrast,11 as does the expression ‘to call on the Lord in truth’ (Ps 145:18), which has its parallel in John 4:23, ‘true worshippers will worship the Father in spirit and truth’, though there is here an added Christological reference, since the Son is ‘the truth’ in person (John 14:6). The same contrast occurs in formulations where ’emet has an adjectival sense when standing as an absolute to a construct, as in the ‘God of truth’, meaning the true God (2 Chron 15:3) and ‘witness of truth’ meaning reliable witness (Jer 42:5). ‘Lips of truth’ are the opposite of a ‘tongue of falsehood’ or ‘lips of falsehood’ (Prov 12:17-22). In phrases like ‘to speak/show the truth’ (1 Kgs 22:11; Dan 11:22) truth is that which corresponds to the facts of the matter. The noun can often be used without implying any special theological sense. Gottfried Quell12 suggests that the Old Testament word for 10. ‘omnah (Gen 20:12; Josh; 7:20), ’omnam (2 Kgs 19:17; Isa 13:18, etc), and ’umnam (Gen 18:13; Num 22:37, etc). 11. For example, Jer 10:10; Isa 43:9, etc. 12. In the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Volume 1 under alētheia. Other texts cited by Quell are Gen 42:16, Ps 14:25; Zech 7:9.

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‘truth’ has its home in legal terminology. This finds some support in Deuteronomy 13:15, 17:14 and 22:20 where truth is established fact in contrast to slanderous or false charges. In view of the above data and the fact that the evidence is spread throughout the Old Testament we cannot read into every occurrence of ‘truth’ (’emet) a distinctive Old Testament concept. Constant is the basic connotation of firmness and validity. Thus, the lexicographer Ludwig Koehler gives ‘truth’ as the last of four possible translations, depending on the context.13 In some instances it means trustworthiness or reliability (for example ‘men of truth’ in Exodus 18:21). Psalm 111:7 speaks of the Lord’s precepts as truth, as trustworthy;14 the context here is interesting because the ‘truth’ of God’s precepts follows from viewing God’s ‘truth’ and ‘justice’ as his faithfulness and justice in his dealings with his chosen people. Again, ’emet may connote firmness in the sense of stability and constancy. A true peace in Jeremiah 14:13 is a lasting, durable peace in contrast to the predictions of false prophets. The reward of truth in Proverbs 11:18 is a lasting, permanent reward. The norm or standard by which something is judged as valid, sure, and trustworthy is sometimes difficult to determine, but the most obvious point of reference according to which people’s truthfulness can be judged is their word (Prov 22:21). We are here in the realm of personal relationships. A Characteristic Concept Here we can begin to speak of a characteristic concept of truth, one that must be seen in terms of relationship. This is suggested by the way in which ’emet stands together with other words used to describe a relationship and its qualities, whether between God and people or between human beings, words such as chesed, shālôm, tsedākāh and ‘emûnāh (loving kindness, peace, justice, and fidelity). As Barr suggests, there is ‘an important area in which they’ [sc. ’emet and emûnāh] ‘were recognizably different in usage’. But he admits that there are many cases where the sense of the two Hebrew words is

13. L Koehler and W Baumgartner, Lexicon in Veteris Testamenti Libros (Leiden: Brill, 1958), 66,67. 14. The LXX thus translates with the Greek pistos (trustworthy).

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not easy to distinguish.15 Assimilation in meaning can be supported with both etymological and contextual theological evidence, but of the two the second is decisive. We begin with an interesting statistic. It is characteristic of the theological concept of truth that when it speaks of God’s words and actions for humankind, the Hebrew Bible some sixteen times couples the two words ‘loving kindness’ (chesed) and ‘truth’ (’emet). In every case, loving kindness appears first, suggesting that the second term must be interpreted in close connection with the first. The NRSV and the Jerusalem Bible are thus justified in translating ’emet with ‘faithfulness’ or ‘loyalty’ We can catch the implied emphasis if we change the word truth to the old English troth. A few examples will suffice to illustrate this and indicate that to which God’s faithfulness refers. The servant sent to find a wife for Isaac, on finding Rebekah, blesses ‘the God of my master Abraham who has not forsaken his loving kindness and his truth’ (Gen 24:27). It is the covenant made with Abraham that is the point of reference. The twin concepts thus bring us into the area of covenantal relationship between God and his elect. Thus God, at the renewal of the covenant at Mt Sinai, proclaims himself to be ‘merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in loving kindness and truth’ (Exod 34:6). Most of the sixteen examples of the coupling of the two concepts occur in the Psalter, and while in most cases the reference is to the covenant is not explicit, it is clear in some cases, as in Psalm 25:10: that the paths of the Lord are loving kindness and fidelity is confessed by those who keep his covenant. In giving his covenant law God binds himself to faithfulness and expects faithful obedience in return. For this reason, Israel can constantly praise God for his chesed and ’emet,16 and call on them in interceding for others (2 Sam 15:20). In Psalm 89:14 it seems to be the exodus and Sinai events that are proof of God’s fidelity and loving kindness, while it is probably the Davidic covenant that is recalled in Psalm 61:7 with its prayer that divine mercy and truth may watch over the king.17

15. Barr, Semantics, 199. 16. In Ps 40:11,12 ’emûnāh and salvation set the context. See also Ps 108:4,11; 115:1; 117:1,2; 138:2. 17. Reference to the Davidic covenant of 2 Samuel 7:13,14 is more explicit in 1 Kings 3:6 where Solomon refers to God’s fidelity (’emet) towards his father David.

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All these passages reflect the faith that the God who bound himself to his people in covenant fidelity in the past will continue to do so in the future, by ‘sending forth’ his chesed and ’emet (Ps 57:3). That God’s fidelity is seen in his acts is nicely illustrated in Genesis 32:10. Here Jacob confesses, ‘I am not worthy of the least of all the steadfast love and faithfulness which you have shown to your servant.’ Striking is the use of the plural chasidim which we could translate as acts or concrete signs of loving mercy. Even where there is no coupling of the twin concepts, ’emet on its own can mean truth as fidelity. This meaning comes to the fore in the phrase ‘to keep truth’, meaning to maintain fidelity (Ps 146:6). In some cases, the Hebrew word carries both ideas: truth and faithfulness (for example, Ps 43:3; 71:22).18 To walk in the truth of God’s revelation in past acts, in the law and in the prophets means life, so death means to be cut off from his truth as covenant faithfulness. In Sheol there is no hope of ’emet, for relationship with God has been disrupted (Isa 38:18,19; Ps 30:10). Yet divine faithfulness remains an eschatological factor. Within the context of the new covenant promised in Jeremiah 32, God promises to plant his people in the land ‘in faithfulness’ (v 41). He will stay loyal to the end. A similar eschatological picture occurs in Zechariah 8:3, 8; in redeeming the remnant, God promises, ‘They will be my people and I will be their God, in faithfulness and righteousness.’ In response, Jerusalem with Yahweh living in her midst will be ‘a city of faithfulness’. While ’emet is characteristic of God and his fidelity contrasts with the sin and perfidy of his people, the Old Testament still speaks of the human response to God’s covenant relationship in the same terms as those used for God, ten times using the twin concepts chesed and ’emet together. But it is always divine mercy and truth that are the basis of the corresponding human response.19 Here again the reference to the covenant relationship is clear. In Hosea 4:1 the basis of the Lord’s complaint is that ‘there is no faithfulness . . . in the land’. Proverbs 3:1-3 shows that chesed and ’emet are bound to the observance of the commandments of the Sinaitic covenant. On the other hand, Micah 18. Covenant fidelity is the more likely meaning in Ps 54:5: ‘In your faithfulness put an end to them’ (the psalmist’s enemies), as in Ps 31:5: ‘Into your hand I commit my spirit, O Lord, faithful God, literally ‘God of truth’. 19. See Gen 24:49; 47:29; Josh 2:14; Prov 14:22; 16:6; 20:28; Ps 26:3; 85:11.

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7:20 looks forward to future deliverance when God will show ’emet to Jacob and chesed to Abraham, thus combining the Sinai covenant with the patriarchal. Since divine fidelity demands that people in turn act ‘in truth’ or faithfulness towards God and other people,20 we can understand the strange formulation to ‘do the truth’ or ‘walk in the truth’. It means to live and act within a relationship. But this human fidelity is always based on God’s faithfulness and his precepts that are true.21 A full study of truth in the Old Testament would have to examine the use of ’amen and alētheia. It would also be informative to study the Septuagint which also offers us an interpretation of the Hebrew Masoretic text, and thus indicates the way in which truth was understood correctly by the translators or where there are shifts in meaning, if not mistranslations.22 Interesting is how the LXX also translates ’emûnāh with alētheia, showing that the translators saw the close association in meaning between ’emet and ’emûnāh.23 False and True Prophecy A message of a prophet, claiming to speak for God, is either true or false. There are no degrees of truthfulness. But God’s active and creative word (Hebrew dabhar) is itself an event; it happens. The truth of a prophetic message can be gauged only against the truth of what happens in history. Truth is here both factuality and faithfulness, where the Word of God corresponds to the deed. But it is just this required correspondence between word and deed that constitutes the problem of false prophecy. The false prophets rightly proclaim that God remains true to his covenant and past faithful deeds, but they promise peace where there is no peace.24 The problem of determining what is true is best illustrated in Jeremiah 28 20. For example, Josh 24:14; Judg 9:15,16,19; 1 Sam 12:14; 1 Kings 2:4. 21. Ps 11:8; see also 2 Chron 31:20,21. 22. An interesting example is LXX Ps 11(12):1 where the natural Hebrew plural is rendered with an odd Greek plural (alētheiai). 23. For further insights into Septuagintal understandings of truth, see Barr, Semantics, 187-89, and Klaus Koch, ‘Der Hebräische Wahrheitsbegriff im griechischen Sprachraum’, in Was ist Wahrheit. Hamburger theologische Ringvorlesung (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1965), 58–63. 24. See Ezek 22:8; Jer 6:14; 8:11; 23:21.

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where the true prophet rejects the false prophets who claim to have been sent by God. Who is right? Finally, the only test of true prophecy is its fulfilment (28:9). The false prophets also know of God’s truth and loyalty in the past, but they presume on this truth. They overlook the other side of God’s covenant faithfulness, that it not only means salvation for those who keep his commandments and ‘walk in the truth’, but also judgment on those who are faithless. In summary, truth in the Old Testament is not reached by human cognitive processes. Human cognition only receives and apprehends the truth. The divine truth as revelation and relationship is experiential; it is truth within history. This cannot be deduced as a characteristic emphasis within the word itself, but only from the way in which truth is spoken of. Here truth does not belong to the world of eternal ideas but remains within the scope of God’s historical revelation. Truth is God’s consistency in the harmony of word and deed; it is his covenantal fidelity. It is more than propositional statements but can be expressed in them. The experience of truth allows believers to make statements about God who binds himself to people in mercy. God is not conceptualised in the same way that Greek philosophers might speak about ultimate reality as that which exists in and for itself (metaphysical reality), but this does not mean that we cannot speak about God in truthful concepts, even if we must stress that the Old Testament speaks of God in his ‘towardness’ to humanity. Truth in Greek Thought The Greek noun alētheia is derived from lanthanein/lathein, to forget, with the privative prefix a. Etymologically, truth would thus denote what is unhidden, obvious, and patently clear. This derivation was hardly obvious in common use of the word, but it may be that it was recalled from time to time. For example, the Septuagint seems to give a play on words at Psalm 118:30 between alētheia and epilanthanesthai: ‘I have chosen the way of truth; I have not forgotten your judgments.’ In common parlance, however, the noun simply denotes the opposite of falsehood (pseudos). Within the word there is no hidden contrast with ’emet in Hebrew. If there is a typically Greek concept of truth, it comes from the philosophical use of the term. What is said about the Greek concept of truth as belonging to the metaphysical realm of the absolute,

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expressed in ontic qualities and contrasting reality with appearance, all that is true. Truth is the recognition of ultimate reality in and for itself, gained by human cognitive processes. This pattern of thought is probably best illustrated in Platonic Idealism. In Greek thinking, the right reason (logos) gives rise to the right words (logoi), both in the realm of intellectual apperception and ethical action. Ignorance is thus the basis of wrongdoing. But this classical way of thinking does not hold good to the same degree for much of later Hellenistic philosophy and religion. While absolute truth beyond this world of unreality was still the goal of human ‘ruling reason’ (logismos) in the Cynic-Stoic diatribe, other movements such as oriental mystery cults and incipient Gnosticism recognised that truth could come only through revelation. Truth was no longer something that could be abstracted from human beings but something that claimed and changed them. We can expect that the New Testament recalls Old Testament emphases via the Greek of the Septuagint (LXX). We will hardly expect the old philosophical understanding of truth, not because the word itself carried a new range of associated ideas but because the New Testament cannot see divine truth as gained by human cognitive processes, but only by revelation. Yet Greek thinking in terms of a divine ontology does come to light at certain points in the LXX, for example in the way Exodus 3:14 (‘I am that I am’) is rendered with ‘I am the existing one’ (ego eimi ho on).25 Yet the LXX adheres to the original Hebrew expression even where it requires the rather un-Greek phrase ‘to do the truth’ (aletheian poiein).26 Truth in the New Testament Here alētheia is again that which conforms to the facts and reality, the true situation. With the exception of Mark 5:33 where the woman with the issue of blood, having touched the hem of his robe, tells Jesus ‘the whole truth’, there is only the adverbial use of alētheia in the 25. See HJ Kraus, ‘Wahrheit in der Geschichte’, in K Koch, Der hebräische Wahrheitsbegriff, 37–9. For the truthfulness of the apostle, see also 2 Cor 7:14 and 11:10. In the case of 1 Tim 2:7, pistis could also mean objective faith (fides quae creditur) and alētheia the truth of the gospel. Both meanings are common in the Pastorals. 26. LXX Gen 32:11; Josh 1:14; Jdgs 9:16, 19; 2 Sam 2:6; 15:20.

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Synoptic Gospels, meaning ‘truly’ or ‘in truth’.27 The only difference between these adverbial phrases, the use of the adverb alēthōs, as well as the passages where amen is used, seems to lie in the fact that they belong to solemn declarations and in obviously liturgical contexts. The former is the case frequently in John’s Gospel, and the second usage appears often in Paul’s letters and in Revelation. Truth as what is factual may be a statement or the reality to which it refers, but it would be difficult to draw a clear line of distinction between, for example, the phrase to ‘speak the truth’ (Rom 9:1 and 2 Cor 12:6) and truth in such a decidedly theological passage as Romans1:18: ‘For the wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and wickedness of those who by their wickedness suppress the truth’ (NRSV). Truth is here not a true statement but a reality that exists before any statement about it has been made. Yet in interpreting what Paul means by the truth of God we must make statements about this truth. We can say that it is the revelation of God and his divine will that claims people, whether Jewish or Gentile. In the context the suppression of truth means the refusal to recognise human guilt before the divine Judge. Truth here includes both divine revelation (v 19) and divine claim, and people seek to elude the claim and distort the revelation! The opposite of living in or according to the truth would be living a lie (Rom 1:25). The heathen have ‘exchanged the truth about God for a lie and worshipped and served the creature rather than the Creator’. The revelation of divine truth, the reality of God and of his will, involves living that truth in a life of worship of the true God. Idolatry is thus a lie. There is a consistency behind the statement in 2:2: ‘We know the judgment of God rightly falls on those who do such things.’ God judges according to truth; his revelation is the norm for his judging. It is important to note that God’s truth is here seen within the context of his righteousness. Truth is the norm of God’s justice both in judgment according to the law and judging in grace according to the righteousness of Christ. Human beings cannot judge according to this absolute norm but judge according to appearance and partiality (v 11). Because the truth includes the divinely revealed will, Paul can speak of obeying the truth (v 8). That we are here far

27. See Matt 22:16; Mark 12:14; Luke 20:21, etc.

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removed from any Greek intellectual concept of truth is underscored by the fact that the opposite of truth is ‘wickedness’ (adikia; 1:18). In Romans Paul recalls the Old Testament passages that speak of the divine statutes as truth. Because the law is ‘the embodiment of knowledge and truth’ (2:20), a fact which Jews confess, they are judged by the law. Soon afterward, in 3:3–7 Paul recalls that other meaning of truth as covenant fidelity. ‘What if some were unfaithful? Will their faithlessness (apistia) nullify the faithfulness (pistis) of God? By no means! Although everyone is a liar, let God be proved true (alēthes) . . . But if through my falsehood (pseusma) God’s truthfulness abounds to his glory, why am I still being condemned as a sinner?’ The context is again the supreme right of God to judge according to truth, according to his justice. Human wickedness only ‘serves to confirm the justice of God’ (v 5). It would be hazardous to undertake a reconstruction of a Hebrew play on words here, whether allusions to Old Testament words were consciously or specially intended for the Roman readers in Paul’s mind. It is likely that we have evidence that Septuagintal language, used in the early church and by Paul, was known by his audience. Both pistis and alētheia (the latter used especially for ’emûnāh in the Psalms) are used in the LXX for the faithfulness of God. It is not important to reconstruct a subtle play on words but to see how the faithfulness of God is related to his truthfulness. Paul is vindicating the just judgment of God on sinful humanity, humanity that is left without excuse. God remains true despite human perfidy. His righteousness is contrasted with human false and wicked behaviour (pseusma and adikia; vv 4, 5). God’s faithfulness, his troth, is not a human notion but bound to the revelation of his truth. Romans 15:8 also brings us into the area of God’s covenant faithfulness. ‘Christ has become a servant of the circumcised on behalf of the truth of God in order that he might confirm the promises given to the patriarchs.’ God remains true to his promise to Abraham that through him all nations will be blessed. We do not have to point to etymological connections behind alētheia and bebaioun (truth and ‘to make firm’) via the Hebrew ’emet and ’āman’ to show that Paul is recalling God’s covenant faithfulness. Later generations knew of this truth from Scripture, so it is also to the promises recorded in Scripture that God remains true and steadfast.

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Such fidelity and integrity are expected also of people. The opposite of speaking the truth is pretence, the opposites of the correlatives ‘sincerity and truth’ are ‘malice and evil’ (Phil 1:18; 1 Cor 5:8). The faithfulness with which the apostle preaches the gospel is coupled with the truth of the message itself (1 Tim 1:7).28 Truth is not only to be spoken but also acted. Here one first thinks of Johannine diction where believers are to ‘love in truth’, ‘do the truth’ and ‘walk in the truth’.29 Yet, as we have seen, Paul can contrast truth not only with falsehood but also with sin (adikia: 1 Cor 13:6; Rom 1:18; 2:8; 2 Thess 2:11, 12), so that truth is associated with righteousness (dikaiosyne).30 Truth comes also to mean the true faith, the gospel itself, just as ’emet in Daniel 8:12 means as much as the Old Testament faith. The ‘truth of the gospel’ stands in antithesis to distortions of it by Judaizers (Gal 2:5, 14) and Gnosticisers (Eph 4:2),31 or in contrast to any pseudo-evangel (2 Cor 13:8). In at least one instance this truth is possibly linked with Scripture: in proclaiming the truth to all people Paul refuses to ‘tamper with God’s Word’ (2 Cor 4:2). The truth of the gospel is to be obeyed with the obedience of faith (Gal 5:7; 1 Pet 1:22).32 Since they are written in the heat of battle against error, the later New Testament letters, especially the Pastorals, naturally show the most pronounced use of alētheia in the sense of sound doctrine,33 correct teaching. We reach the stage where the church is called ‘the pillar and bulwark of the truth’ (1 Tim 3:15). Purely statistical evidence requires that special attention be devoted to alētheia in the Johannine literature. The noun appears some twenty times in the Gospel and sixteen times in the three epistles and is accompanied by a parallel use of the adjectives for ‘true’, alēthes and alēthinos. Truth is here such a key concept that one 28. For the truthfulness of the apostle see also 2 Cor 7:14 and 11:10. In the case of 1 Tim 2:7 pistis could also mean objective faith (fides quae creditur) and alētheia the truth of the gospel. Both meanings are common in the Pastorals. 29. See 2 John 1; 3 John 1; 1 John 3:18; John 3:21; 1 John 1:6; compare 1 Clement 31:2. 30. Eph 4:24; 5:9; 6:14, perhaps also James 3:14 and 5:19. 31. See H Schlier, Der Brief an die Epheser (Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag,1962), 216–18. 32. Gospel and truth are virtually synonymous: 2 Cor 6:7; Col 1:5; Eph 1:13; James 1:17. To come to know the truth is the same as becoming a believer: 1 Tim 2:4; 2 Tim 3:7; Heb 10:26 33. As in 1 Tim 6:5; 2 Tim 2:18; 3:8; 4:4; Tit 1:14; 2 Pet 1:12.

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can detect characteristic Johannine emphases in all occurrences of the noun, including the passages referred to above. A considerable amount has been written on the relationship between alētheia in John and the parallel terms in the Hebrew and Greek Old Testaments, as well as in Greek and Hellenistic literature.34 CH Dodd wrote, ‘Truth may denote either the abstract quality of truthfulness, or the content of statements, as agreeable to the facts. The two meanings easily pass into one another.’35 Alētheia in Greek diction thus can mean either a ‘reality’ itself or the expression of that reality. After summarising the use of ’emet in the Old Testament, Dodd continues, It is evident that the meaning of the Hebrew and Greek words overlaps, while their root significance is quite different. Alētheia is fundamentally an intellectual category, ’emet a moral category. Where ’emet signifies the trustworthiness or validity of statements, its meaning approximates to that of alētheia as ‘truth’. When it is used of persons who are steadfast, faithful, or trustworthy, it suggests the sense of alēthes as ‘sincere’. When it is used of things that are genuine it suggests the sense of alēthinos as ‘real’.36

But there is much more to be noted. To ‘do the truth’, as we have already noted, recalls Old Testament diction but the meaning has changed. It now means more than acting loyally; it rather means acting out in the light of divine truth contained in the gospel, known in Jesus Christ the Truth. In First John 3:21 it means coming to the light. Jesus words in John 16:13, ‘The Spirit of truth will lead you into all truth’, recall LXX Psalm 24(25):5, ‘Lead me to your truth.’ Here the meaning is suggested more by the LXX than the Hebrew which uses ’emet in the sense of faithfulness at this point. That this latter translation is impossible in John 16:13 is clear from the context which speaks of the activity of the Spirit who is to announce, speak, cause to be heard, what Jesus has taught his disciples. 34. See Bultmann in the Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Volume1 under alētheia; CH Dodd, The Interpretation of the Fourth Gospel (London: CUP, 1963), 170–78; L Goppelt, ‘Wahrheit als Befreiung’, in Was ist Wahrheit (see note 23), 80–93. 35. Dodd, Interpretation, 170,171. 36. Dodd, Interpretation, 173.

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Two more examples show dependence on and yet characteristic change of emphasis from the Old Testament. In the High Priestly Prayer at John 17:17 Jesus prays, ‘Sanctify them in the truth, your word is truth. There is here a subtle change from the reliability and validity of the divine Word to the characterisation of the Word as Truth itself. It says more than the parallel in Psalm 118(119):160, for truth is now what the Father has revealed in the Son. In John 1:14,17 there is an unusual combination of ‘grace and truth’. This recalls the Old Testament combination of chesed and ’emet since the LXX not only translates chesed with the Greek word eleos (mercy) but also with charis (grace).37 The context contrasts the law of Moses with Christ who is ‘full of grace and truth’. The Old Testament speaks of the Torah as true, reliable, and trustworthy (Mal 2:6; Neh 9:13), but Jesus brings the revelation of the Truth as ultimate reality. Here, truth in John becomes a comprehensive concept uniting Old Testament thought and a Greek emphasis.38 This absolute understanding of truth comes out in other passages which have no Old Testament parallel. Jesus declares that he has come into the world ‘to testify to the truth. Everyone who is of the truth hears my voice’ (John 18:37; see also 1 John 3:19). To be ‘of the truth’ expresses a mode of being parallel to being ‘of the Spirit’, ‘of God’ or ‘from above’; it constitutes a new being which is the opposite of being of the flesh, the world, and the devil, and from below. Truth is the revelation of the light of divine reality which stands in contrast to the darkness of the world under the dominion of Satan. When Jesus speaks of the devil as ‘a liar and the father of lies’ who ‘has nothing to do with the truth’, he is saying more than that the devil only peaks untruth. He is rather the author of the Lie, the perversion of the divine Truth which leads people to walk in darkness. Only the person who is of God will believe the word of truth spoken by Jesus (John 8:44–6; 1 John 2:21,27). Because Jesus is Truth incarnate what he says can only be truth. The ethical dualistic framework of truth in this Gospel also appears in First John 1:5-8; to walk in the light means to live and act within the world of truth. Freedom as the result of coming to know 37. Esth 2:9, 17; Eccl 7:33; see also a similar combination in 1QH 11:29, 30 in the Dead Sea Scrolls. 38. Goppelt, Wahrheit als Befreiung, 84.

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final truth rather than appearance, of seeming reality, is also the goal of Hellenistic religious and philosophical thinking as expressed in various forms in Philo, in Cynic-Stoicism and Gnosticism. But Johannine dualism is not Hellenistic or Gnostic, as Bultmann maintains. One could find equally good parallels in the Dead Sea Scrolls for the dualistic contrast between truth and lie, light and darkness.39 Jesus’ words in John 8:32, ‘You will know the truth and the truth will make you free’, have nothing to do with the sage’s quest for liberty. The kind of freedom meant is indicated by 8:34: ‘Everyone who sins is a slave’. Truth brings freedom from sin and from the father of untruth who leads people into sin, the life of the lie against God. As suggested above, truth is not an abstract quality; it has content. It has objective content in John the Baptist’s witness to Christ (John 5:33). Pilate’s cynical question or comment, ‘What is truth?’ (18:38) is wrong because he wants a definition rather than a reality. Before him stands not a new definition but the one who says, ‘I am the truth’ (14:6). Pilate does not understand this because he is not ‘of the truth’. This not merely a matter of knowledge; it means being taken captive by and living the truth. Truth has content because it has entered the world in an historical person—this certainly runs against gnostic thinking. The disciples will know the truth by continuing to hold onto his message as the revelation of the divine Logos (1:1–8; 8:31,32). Jesus can thus speak of the Spirit of truth (14:17; 15:26) or of the Spirit as truth (1 John 5:6) for the Paraclete will take what Jesus reveals in leading the disciples to truth (16:13). God’s truth is not merely cognitive; it is active, dynamic, and creative. It claims hearers and doers for itself; hearers of it are sanctified by it (17:17, 19). Thus, worshipping in the Spirit and truth (4:23,24) must denote more than sincere worship. It is worship worked by the Spirit’s presence and in accordance with and in the presence of the Son who is the truth. Truth in John also has more than a formal meaning. Jesus does not merely make true statements but is truth in person. It is not merely teaching about God ‘but is God’s very reality revealing itself—occurring.’40 Yet, though it means more than propositional 39. Goppelt, Wahrheit, 81,82. 40. Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament, Volume 2 (London: SCM, 1955), 19.

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statements, truth cannot be dissolved into a merely existential reality about which true and valid statements of faith cannot be made. For truth as the opposite of falsehood means the confession that ‘Jesus is the Christ’ or that ‘Jesus Christ has come in the flesh (1 John 2:21–25; 4:2,6).41 Truth as what is to be lived involves a knowledge of God’s will (2:4). The Johannine letters’ paraenesis to follow the truth (2 John 4; 3 John 3,4) is not an enthusiast counsel to be led by some ineffable power, but by concrete revelation, and that includes the words written down in the letters themselves. To be a fellow-worker in the truth thus means as much as sharing in the work of teaching the faith (3 John 8). That involves doctrine, for faith means confession. In short, the Scriptures both contain and are the truth of God, and not merely potentially. Of course, the Word of God is wider than the written words of a book, for not all divine truth is written down. There is also the message written in nature. We confess that we now see the truth ‘as in a glass, darkly’ (1 Cor 13:12), that only the perfection of eschatological fulfilment will reveal the full truth. And while it is possible and necessary to see how the Scriptures have spoken of divine truth with various emphases—as troth and faithfulness, and as the definitive revelation of God’s will for all in Christ—truth is never anything less than truthfulness and veracity.42

41. There is possibly a polemical tone in those passages in which the adjective alēthinos is used to characterise Jesus as the ‘true light’ (John 1:9; 1 John 2:8), the ‘true bread’ (6:32) and the ‘true vine’ (15:1) The language is figurative but contains an objective Christological claim. 42. See especially Rom 3:3–7 and John 8:39–47.

Worshipping with the Angels

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 29/1 (1995): 50–60

Angels do not figure prominently on any theological agenda these days. The familiar mention of guardian angels in childhood prayers may find an occasional echo in adult petitions, but our day-to-day piety does not reckon with angelic presence. That probably has less to do with an unconscious process of demythologisation than with a faith that is directly focused on the gracious presence of God in Christ. Our personal spirituality is certainly built on the foundation of a divine presence which is mediated, but not mediated through angelic beings—unless, with the book of Revelation, we see Christ as the Angel of God.1 Yet those of us who celebrate the divine presence with the ancient liturgy of the western Mass are continually confronted with the angels as our worshipping counterparts, even as our partners in worship. The church militant and triumphant is one as it gives thanks to the Lord, holy Father, almighty and eternal God, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Therefore, with angels and archangels and with all the company of heaven, we adore and glorify your glorious name, evermore praising you . . . (the Preface)

1. See John Strelan, Where Earth Meets Heaven. A Commentary on Revelation (Adelaide: Openbook, 1994) on Rev 7:2, 3; 8:3–5; 10:1–4; 20:1.

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The Sanctus or Trisagion that follows echoes the theme of angelic worship as it describes the Holy One as the ‘Lord God of hosts’ whose glory fills heaven and earth. Yet this motif of worshipping in the presence of and with the angelic hosts is relatively weak in the West when compared with its strong development in the Eastern Orthodox tradition where the iconography of the eternal world always surrounds worshippers, and the sacred liturgy continually fills their ears with reminders of the presence of angelic partners in worship.2 That corporate Christian worship entails participation in celestial praise which continues where our earthly praise finishes is a prominent biblical theme. The purpose here is to draw only an outline of this development, and to discuss how the theme throws added light on some passages in the New Testament. What the theme of celestial worship might mean for our modern debates on the meaning of worship, on the relevance of ritual itself, and on the forms of worship employed, is not our immediate concern. But, as a side comment, one could suggest that worshipping with the angels is a strange setting for some sentimental and banal material which passes for Christian praise in some modern songbooks and contemporary liturgies. The Homage of Yahweh by the Heavenly Hosts Like an earthly potentate, Yahweh has his heavenly court. Whether they be called angels, heavenly beings, or the holy ones (mal’ākîm, benê elōhîm, or kedōshîm in Hebrew), the function of these beings is to reflect the glory of Yahweh and to serve his absolute lordship. They do not form a minor pantheon; they are never objects of worship. Their first task as members of the heavenly court is, naturally, to give homage to the heavenly King. All the ‘elōhîm-beings are to worship Yahweh since he is ‘exalted far above all gods’ (Ps 97:7, 9). Their second task is to stand ready to do his bidding as he rules the world. Thus, in Psalm 103:20,21 we read:

2. See Otfried Hofius, ‘Gemeinschaft mit den Engeln im Gottesdienst der Kirche: eine traditionsgeschichtliche Skizze’, in Zeitschrift für Theologie und Kirchei, 89 (1992): 172–78.

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Bless the Lord, O you his angels, you mighty ones who do his bidding, obedient to his spoken word. Bless the Lord, all his hosts, His ministers that do his will.

What is the connection between this angelic adoration and worship of Yahweh on earth, whether by the animate or inanimate creation? The end of Psalm 103, with its call for the angels to bless the Lord, echoes the beginning where the psalmist calls on his own soul (nephesh) to praise the Lord (v 1). Earthly praise is to reflect celestial homage. That point can also be seen in the arrangement and subject matter of the last three psalms. Psalm 148 begins its summons to adore Yahweh on a cosmic scale by calling for ‘praise from the heavens . . . in the heights above . . . Praise him all his angels, praise him all his heavenly hosts’ (vv 1,2). Next comes the call for the created world to praise its maker, beginning with the celestial bodies and ending with animals and birds (vv 3–10). This is probably what is meant also in Psalm 69:34, ‘Let heaven and earth praise him, the seas and everything therein.’ Finally, all human beings, from kings to little children, are called to praise the Lord (vv 10–14). Psalm 149 then summons God’s people as his saints (chasidîm) to praise him in their assembly (qāhal) and in all situations. This general summons then receives its proper cultic setting in Psalm 150 where ‘Praise God in his sanctuary’ is matched by ‘Praise God in his mighty heavens’ (v 1). Everything that has nephesh is to join in the Hallelujah. There is here no need to mention the inanimate world which has no nephesh. Its praise is expressed vicariously by the animate world, whether human or angelic. It is not explicitly stated that the heavenly and earthly realms join in offering their praise.3 The psalmist acknowledges the presence of the angels in the temple in Psalm 138:1, 2: ‘Before the gods I sing your praise; I bow down before your holy temple’. Further, the singing of the Lord’s glory by inanimate creation is to match the cry of ‘Glory!’ which goes up in the temple, whether from the lips of angels or mortals (Ps 29:1,2,9). Yet there is no suggestion that the angelic beings participate in the earthly cult. Nor is that indicated by the angels ascending and descending in Jacob’s dream at Bethel (Gen 28:12). Since angelic beings underline the divine presence, they certainly mark the place 3. Against Hofius, ‘Gemeinschaft mit den Engeln’, 181.

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as a cultic site, as the ‘house of God . . . the gate of heaven’ (v 17), but there is no suggestion that the ramp is meant to link heaven and earth in the sense that angels participate in earthly worship, or that human beings are drawn into heavenly places. Nor is that implied in the famous ‘temple vision’ in Isaiah 6. The prophet sees Yahweh enthroned in glory, with the train of his royal robe spilling out to fill the whole hêkāl. Is this ‘hall’ the heavenly sanctuary or the temple in Jerusalem? Surely both are meant, and that for two reasons. First, temple and temple worship are where God is present (thus they are never creations of either heavenly or earthly agents), and God is present in both the celestial and terrestrial sphere, specifically in the Jerusalem temple. Secondly, God makes his holy presence, his ‘face’ and ‘glory’ (panîm and kābôd) dwell in the earthly sanctuary which is a copy of its earthly prototype (Exod 25:40; Heb 8:5).4 There is thus a close connection between heavenly and earthly cult, but Isaiah’s vision contains a strong contrast between the worshipping seraphs singing the Trisagion and the prophet himself who does not participate and whose unholiness renders him dumb.5 The glory of the Lord spills from his throne room into the world so that the whole earth is full of his glory (v 3), but it is only the seraphs who sing the Sanctus. On the Way to a New Song The writings of the New Testament allude to or explicitly picture a new cultus in which the new song is sung by both heavenly and earthly voices (Rev 1:1–3). Why the change? And what is new about the song whose words in the book of Revelation still come to large extent, from the Hebrew Bible? The discontinuity between worship under the two covenants should not lead us to overlook some vital continuities which become apparent when we place the worship of the first Christians in its proper setting: the multiform entity we call early Judaism.

4. This typology is common in the ancient orient and not restricted to Hebrew thought. 5. The verb in Isaiah 6:5, translated by the NIV with ‘I am ruined’, and by the JB with ‘I am lost!’ literally means ‘I am struck dumb’.

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Post-exilic Judaism not only knows of angelic worship in heavenly places. It also pictures angels descending to the worship of God’s people and ascending with their prayers. This seems to be the meaning of Testament of Levi 3:7. This does not mean that the great gap between heaven and earth is bridged to form a partnership in worship. In his apocalyptic visions Enoch sees and hears the worship of God by the heavenly spirits as they sing a new Sanctus: ‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of spirits; he fills the earth with spirits’ (1 Enoch 39:12). But the seer himself can bless and praise God only as an onlooker who has been translated into the heavenly realms;6 he is not part of the heavenly worship. He hears the heavenly intercessions for those who are on earth, but he is not part of the heavenly hosts (1 Enoch 40:1–6). He remains a spectator and auditor, not participator (see also 2 Enoch 17:1). In fact, the transcendent majesty of God, which demands that the seer be transported from earth to heaven, finally mediates a picture of heavenly worship as totally other, as completely removed from this temporal plane. Witnessing the heavenly mysteries in apocalyptic dream-visions only underlines the sense of distance and separation from the world in which they take place. Already the strange sights and sounds which the prophet experiences in Ezekiel 1 underline that he, a mere ‘son of man’, does not belong in the other world. The observation of Otto Piper of Princeton Theological Seminary, made many years ago, was thus generally correct. ‘Jewish religion kept a close watch over the entrance to heaven and refused access to it to all mortals. Heaven and earthly worship might be parallel, but they could not be blended.’7 But Piper’s comment was made in 1951 without considering the new data from Qumran. For the Qumran covenanters on the Dead Sea, heavenly and earthly worship did not merely run parallel. Here, for the first time in Judaism, there is a new feature. In their worship and praise of God, the elect and holy people join themselves to the angels. Parallelism of worship is replaced by partnership in worship.8 Human beings join with the angels in a priestly sacrifice of praise. A few texts from the 6. See v 9 and 71:1–11; also, Testament of Levi 5:1. 7. Otto A Piper, ‘The Apocalypse of John and the Ancient Church’, in Church History, 20 (1951): 112. 8. Hofius, ‘Gemeinschaft mit den Engeln’, 182–86; M Weinfeld, ‘The Heavenly Praise in Unison’, in Meqor Hajjim . Festschrift für Georg Molin (Akademischer Druck und Verlagsanstalt, 1983), 429–31.

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‘Songs of Praise’ (Hōdāyôth) demonstrate the difference. The psalmist, surely speaking on behalf of the community of the elect, thanks God for raising him to ‘everlasting height’: Thou hast cleansed a perverse spirit of great sin that it may stand with the host of the Holy Ones, and that it may enter into community with the congregation of the Sons of Heaven. Thou hast allotted to man an everlasting destiny among the spirits of knowledge, that he may praise Thy Name in a common rejoicing and recount Thy marvels before all Thy works. (1QH 3:19–23)9

Similarly, in 1QH 11:11,12 the psalmist thanks God that he can partake of the lot of Thy Holy Ones; . . . that the perverse spirit [may be lifted]; that he may stand before Thee with the everlasting host and with [Thy] spirits [of holiness], to be renewed together with all the living and to rejoice together with them that know.10

Human beings and angels not only sing together; they have a common lot (gôrāl), they share an eternal possession and inheritance (1QS 11:7,8). They fight side by side in the holy war (1QM 7:6; 12:4). It is thus idle to ask whether the milchāmāh of the Qumran sectarians is a celestial or a terrestrial war. It is both, because the battle to preserve the holiness of God’s people and of his land is just one aspect of the confession of his holy name. Here there is a genuine partnership between heaven and earth. Another interesting feature in the picture of the angelic liturgies appears in a fragmentary text found at Qumran, the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice (4Q Shirot ’Olat HaShabbat). It describes the angelic priesthood functioning in the heavenly temple. Yet the Songs do not give the words of their praise. Why the silence? Is it because the language of angels is not any known human tongue (see 1 Cor 13:1; 2 Cor 12:4)? Did the Qumran people claim to worship in 9. Translation by Geza Vermes, The Dead Sea Scrolls in English, 3rd edition (Sheffield: JSOT Press, 1987), 173; I have not removed the exclusive male language! For translations see also Carol A Newsom, Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice: A Critical Edition. Harvard Semitic Studies 27 (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1985). 10. See also 1QH 2:6,7; 5:3,4; 11:25,26; 18:23; 1QSa 2:3–11.

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angelic tongues? There is a simpler and more obvious explanation. The heavenly hosts not only adore God with a ‘roar of praise’; they also express their adoration with ‘a sound of quiet silence’, with a ‘whispered divine voice’ and ‘whispered blessings’ (4 Q 405).11 The correlation between the two spheres, earthly and heavenly, means that also angelic praise must be marked by the worshipful silence which the whole created order observes in the presence of the Lord who is in his holy temple (Hab 2:20; Zech 2:13). Silence is also the posture of worship because revelation takes place not only in mighty sounds but also in the ‘sound of silence’ (1 Kgs 19:12; Job 4:16). Why is there this new partnership between mortals and angels in Qumranic worship? Though the whole community considered itself to be a holy priesthood and a spiritual temple, offering up a sacrifice of praise, it did not have a physical temple. It rejected the Jerusalem temple, priesthood, and sacrifices, but was not yet in a position to rebuild the sanctuary according to the correct specifications contained in the so- called Temple Scroll. We may speculate that Qumran’s stress on the presence of angels in its worship is partly to be explained as a compensation for the (temporary) loss of an earthly house of God. The presence of the heavenly holy ones ensured God’s presence among them. Where Earth and Heaven Meet This statement is true also in the New Testament, but here there is no need to speculate why and how heaven and earth can meet in worship. They meet in the person of Christ, and they meet as the new song of praise is directed to Christ. In the synoptic tradition, the decisive moments of Jesus’ birth, temptation, passion, and resurrection are marked as such by angelic presence. In these instances, the angels are not merely interpreting messengers (angeli interpretes), as they are elsewhere, but confirm the divine presence. Thus, it is fitting that their announcement of ‘peace on earth’ in the Gloria of Luke 2:14 should be echoed by Simeon’s readiness to ‘depart in peace’ as he holds the child Jesus in his arms (2:28). Even more interesting is the way in which the angelic announcement of ‘peace on earth’ is echoed by the praise of Jesus’ disciples at his entry into Jerusalem (Luke 19:38). 11. See Vermes, Dead Sea Scrolls, 228.

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They acclaim the messianic king with ‘Peace in heaven and glory in the highest heaven!’ Heaven and earth join hands around their king. Angels announce peace on earth; humans announce peace in heaven! What is implicit in the Synoptic Gospels becomes explicit in John’s Gospel. The angels ‘ascending and descending on the Son of man’ (John 1:51) confirm him as God’s emissary who brings earth and heaven together. Divine glory has been revealed in the incarnate logos (word). He is the new ‘tent of meeting’, new temple, new focus of worship in spirit and in truth (1:14; 2:19–22; 4:23). The relative absence of angels in the Fourth Gospel, apart from 1:51, 12:29, and 20:12, is striking but understandable. The Son who comes from and returns to the Father is the final agent of revelation, the ultimate assurance of God’s presence in this world, and the agent who draws believers into the Father’s presence to worship him. Like John, Paul is not particularly interested in the angelic world, yet there are hints in the Pauline corpus of the theme of a new cosmic worship inaugurated by the exaltation of the risen Christ. According to the Christ-hymn of Philippians, glory is given to God by the confession to Jesus as Lord on the part of the heavenly, earthly, and even subterranean creatures (Phil 2:10,11). The hymn in Colossians1:15–20 that speaks of the pre-eminence of Christ over ‘things in heaven and on earth’ is prefaced by a call to give ‘thanks to the Father who has qualified us to share in the inheritance of the saints in light’, since he has delivered them from the realm of darkness and transferred them to the kingdom of his Son (1:1,13). It has already been noted that the concept of sharing a common lot with the angelic ‘holy ones’ is prominent in the psalms of Qumran. The linguistic parallel between 1QH 3:22 and 11:11 on the one hand, and Colossians 1:12 on the other, is so striking that we are justified in understanding the inheritance or lot of the holy ones as embracing both earthly and heavenly ‘holy ones’. Certainly, the text does not speak of worship with the holy ones in heaven, but it is significant that the call to worship (1:12–14) is immediately followed by the hymnic adoration of the Son in whom ‘all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or authorities’ (1:15,16). There is, at the very least, a strong hint that those who have been transferred from light to darkness now worship with the angelic holy ones who are at home in the heavenly realm of light.

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This reading of the text finds support in Ephesians. In the first place, there is the parallelism between Colossians 1:12 and Ephesians 1:18, though the latter text speaks of the ‘inheritance (kleronomia) among the saints’ instead of ‘the inheritance (kleros) of the saints’. That this inherited lot among the saints must again refer to the readers’ status as people who now belong to heavenly realms, is suggested by the preceding context. The elaborate liturgical blessing of ‘the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ’ in Ephesians 1:3-10 is framed by an inclusio which recalls the motif we are pursuing. Verse 3 recalls that God has poured out ‘every blessing in the heavenly places’, while verse 10 places this blessing within the total plan of God to unite all things in Christ, ‘things in heaven and things on earth’. According to Ephesians, this plan is now realised as believers are raised with Christ to sit with him in the heavenly places (2:6). Earthly barriers of hostility which divided peoples have been removed by Christ (2:11– 17). But members of God’s household on earth have even become ‘fellow citizens with the saints in heaven’ (2:19). In worship the saints on earth (hagioi) of this text are surely, the angels, as in 1:18. The saints on earth are already now in heavenly places, already in the heavenly temple in which God’s Spirit dwells (2:21–22). It is not said in so many words that humans and angels worship together, but this can be assumed to be just as self-evident for the writer and the readers at Ephesus as it is for the members of the Qumran community.12 Such a union is more clearly alluded to in First Corinthians 11 to 14 as Paul tries to bring order to worship at Corinth. Two cryptic comments are of special interest. First, a woman or wife is to have ‘authority’ (exousia) on her head ‘because of the angels’ (11:10). Secondly, worship can take place in human or angelic tongues (13:1). Whatever else Paul might mean, he obviously presupposes agreement on one thing: angels are present when Christians gather for worship as God’s temple (3:16,17). That may throw further light on the three-fold call for silence in 14:28–35. In three successive statements silence is enjoined on those who speak in tongues, on those with a word of prophecy, and on wives—the following reference to husbands shows that wives and not women in general are meant. An absolute interdict against speaking in the worship assembly is not Paul’s intention in each of the three cases—women, 12. See 1QH 3:23; 11:14; Hofius, ‘Gemeinschaft mit den Engeln’, 190.

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too, did pray and prophesy in the congregational assembly at Corinth (11:2–10). Nor are we to assume that Paul merely demands silence in the place of a certain kind of speaking, namely argumentative or assertive speaking, though this is certainly also implied. He is telling the Corinthians, proud of speech gifts as signs that they are spiritual (pneumatikoi), that silence is as much a sign of proper worship as is much speaking. The apostle is recalling Habakkuk 2:20, ‘The Lord is in his temple; let all the earth keep silence before him’ and enjoining the submission of worshipful silence before the Lord as expressed in Psalm 37:7 and 62:1,5.13 We have already noted the worshipful silence of angels in the Dead Sea Scrolls, a silence also observed in the heavenly worship at Revelation 8:1. All this suggests that the angels referred to in First Corinthians 11:10 cannot be the fallen angels of Genesis 6:1–4 whose lustful gaze is to be averted by women wearing a head-covering. Rather, as Antoinette Clark Wire has suggested in her study of the women prophets in Corinth, Paul is here presupposing the view that angels are active participants in Christian worship. What he also presupposes is the idea that angels are to be given no cause to worship the creature instead of the Creator. Angels who are guardians of order are themselves to observe order.14 Worship in the Angelic Festal Gathering (Hebrews) Since Hebrews is a clarion call to worship, the plea to the audience not to neglect to meet together (Heb 10:25) is anything but an incidental comment. The author seeks to lift the flagging spirits of the audience by recalling all that is either stated or implied in their confession of faith. Christ, as the great High Priest of the new covenant based on a better sacrifice, is the heavenly liturgist who draws believers into the presence of God. As worship leader he establishes a new ‘drawing near’ to God which is itself priestly in character (see especially 4:16; 10:19).

13. The LXX version of Ps 36:7 and 61:4, 5 uses the verb ‘to submit’ (hypotassomai) to translate Hebrew verbs expressing silence! 14. Antoinette Clark Wire, The Corinthian Women Prophets: A Reconstruction Through Paul’s Rhetoric (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 121.

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It is not coincidental that ten of the twelve references to angels in Hebrews come in the first two chapters. That is to be expected in a call to worship since worship involves the angels! The question is: How are they involved? One answer can be ruled out from the start. There is no suggestion in Hebrews of a worship directed to angels (as at Col 2:18). Elsewhere I have argued that the rhetoric of Hebrews is epideictic and that the comparison (synkrisis) of the Son to the angels is characteristic of this genre of oratory, designed as it is to set forth the praise of a person, in this case praise of Christ.15 The problem of the ‘Hebrews’ is not some angelic cult, but failure on their part to draw the necessary conclusions from their own confession to Jesus as the exalted Son. The angels are not merely a mythical foil to Christ. Any comparison between Christ and angels is ludicrous until it is seen that they establish Christ’s exalted status as Son precisely because they worship him. At issue is not merely the status of the angels compared to that of the Son (Heb 1:5). That question is finally decided in terms of function (1:6–14). In the description of function, the first statement corresponds to the last; ‘Let all God’s angels worship him’ (that is, the Son; v 6), and ‘are they not all ministering (leitourgika) spirits . . .? (v 14). Here as in the Psalms, like 103:19,20 referred to above, worship and wider service are combined (Heb 1:7). But it is as ‘serving spirits’ (leitourgika pneumata) that the angels are sent out to serve mortals with the message of salvation. In sum, the whole of Hebrews chapter 1 does not merely argue for what is, after all, rather obvious: the superiority of Christ over the angels. It points to the angels as exemplary worshippers. The readers are invited to join with the angels in their praise of the Son who for a little while was even lower than the angels (2:5–9). However, emulation of angelic worship is not yet partnership with them in worship. Hebrews announces that explicitly for the first time at 12:22–24. The readers ‘have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the first-born who are enrolled in heaven, and to the spirits of the righteous made perfect’ (NRSV). This is not a proleptic statement—as if persistence in the faith will be rewarded only in the future by union with the world of angels and 15. Victor C Pfitzner, ‘The Rhetoric of Hebrews: Paradigm for Preaching’, in Lutheran Theological Journal, 27.1 (1993): 4,8. Also in this volume, 483–96.

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other spirits. The invitation to ‘draw near’ to God (4:16; 10:22) would make little sense unless it was intended as an invitation to prayer and worship in the present because of Christ’s act of bringing newly cleansed people into the divine presence. The new priestly people have open access into the heavenly sanctuary referred to in 8:1 and 9:12,24. It is in worship that believers have already arrived at the ‘city which is to come’, where they can ‘continually offer up a sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that confess his name’ (13:15). In worship a new priestly people enter the Holy of Holies access which the heavenly High Priest opened up by the sanctifying power of his blood (9:12; 11:19-21). They have left the old covenant, mediated through angels at Sinai (2:2), to come to the eternal Zion, there to celebrate with the angels of heaven the new covenant of grace. The festive gathering (panegyris) of celestial beings is joined to the assembly (ekklesia) of the first-born to form a cosmic celebration in which even the spirits of the dead can praise God (12:22,23)! Hebrews is echoing the Qumranic theme of partnership with the angels in worship. This finds support in the words of Hebrews 1:6, ‘Let all God’s angels worship him’. Though there are possible echoes here of Psalm 97(LXX 96):7, the writer appears to be citing a conflated version of Deuteronomy 32:43 (from the Song of Moses) as it appears in the Septuagint: ‘Let the sons of God worship him . . . And let all the angels of God ascribe strength to him.’ Obviously, the author wanted to avoid using the title ‘sons of God’ for the angels, since their task is to adore Christ as the Son. But the wording corresponds closely to that found at Qumran. ‘Prostrate yourselves before him, all gods’ (4QDt 32:43. This helps to explain why the shorter text also appears in the popular version of the Song of Moses in the book of Odes which was appended to the Psalter (Ode 2:43). Without suggesting that Hebrews is directly dependent on Qumran, the letter does reflect the same concern to link the praise of angels with the praise of human beings (Heb 1:6; 13:15). Worshipping with the Angels in Revelation It is ‘on the Lord’s day’ that the seer receives ‘the revelation of Jesus Christ’ (Rev 1:1,10), and it is in the context of celestial worship that the great cycle of visions and auditions begins in Revelation 4 and 5.

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There is a quite remarkable parallel between the descriptions of the setting of this worship and its participants in Hebrews and Revelation.16 There is the Judge, seated on his throne (Rev 4:3; Heb 12:23) surrounded by a priestly people offering homage and the sacrifice of praise (Rev 1:6; 5:10; 4:4; 5:10; Heb 12:22–24; 13:15,16). There is the festal gathering of myriads of angels (Rev 5:11; Heb 12:22), and in the centre is Jesus as the mediator of the new covenant and the blood by which worshippers have been cleansed (Rev 5:6,9; 7:9,14; Heb 12:24).17 Whereas Hebrews gives no words of the ‘sacrifice of praise’ (13:15) offered up with the heavenly hosts, Revelation gives a very full account. The four living creatures, like cantors in the heavenly liturgies, ceaselessly sing the Sanctus. Its words no longer correspond exactly to the Sanctus of Isaiah 6:3 in the Septuagint (‘Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts’). Instead, the holy Lord is proclaimed as God the pantokrator (Rev 4:8) because he is both Creator and Redeemer (4:11; 5:9). That is why the whole cosmos is involved in worship. The four living creatures say their ‘Amen’ to the adoration of the elders, of creation, and of the whole universe (5:8-14). What is perhaps most fascinating, however, is the way in which the one addressed first as ‘truly worthy’ is our Lord and God’ in 4:11, and then the Lamb in 5:12. It is because of the Lamb that heaven and earth join hands in worship around God’s throne. Since believers worship with heavenly hosts, does worship mean a proleptic separation from this world? Is it removal from a still groaning creation to enter a new creation which we cannot yet see? Some of us may complain that what passes for worship is so mundane and banal that there is not the slightest sense of having one foot in heaven; the world is too much with us for that! Others may counter that liturgical celebration is so heavenly that it is of no earthly significance. Surely worship is meant to celebrate more than the success of God’s mission to us: it should send us out on God’s mission to the world, as the missa est18 at the end of the Latin Mass implies. At this point the book of Revelation is instructive. Its vision of heaven and earth united in worship forms both prelude, continuous 16. See AHG Couratin, ‘The Sacrifice of Praise: The Church’s Thanksgiving in New Testament Times’, in Theology, 58 (1955): 288. 17. See Strelan, Where Earth Meets Heaven, on these texts. 18. It can mean both ‘there is a sending out’, a mission, and ‘you are dismissed’!

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accompaniment and postlude to the grand symphony telling of a new heaven and a new earth. Worshipping with the angels is not turning a blind eye to the evils of this world, nor is it an expression of world renunciation. Revelation shows that the celebration of Christ’s victory in worship is the setting for the enactment of that victory in a world which is to be renewed, not destroyed. Included with angels, elders and living creatures in the celestial worship are the white-robed martyrs who have endured the tribulation and now serve in the heavenly temple before God’s throne (Rev 7:9–17). Yet the theme of vindication for the saints runs parallel to another major theme: divine judgment on the powers of this world that are guilty of injustice, whether these powers be political or commercial—see especially chapter 18 with its tirade against the merchants of the world. It is important to note that each new vista in the kaleidoscopic drama of Revelation contains a vision of heavenly worship.19 Whatever precedes or follows these liturgical interludes, whether it is judgment or vindication, is thus marked as the will of God who sits on the throne. A further important inference is to be drawn. It is in worship that God’s creatures, earthly and heavenly, participate in the divine drama which is to end in the destruction of evil and the creation of a new heaven and a new earth. When the purpose of Christian worship is viewed merely as the confirmation of the privileged position held by God’s elect in separation from the world, and not as the equipping of the saints for service in the world, such worship is no longer truly heavenly or truly earthly. Earthly worship will be truly heavenly where the church militant is enlisted to join the saints triumphant in God’s crusade against evil. Conclusion Liturgical renewal is not merely a matter of finding the right language, ritual, and music, of blending modern tastes with ancient traditions while still preserving a sense for the catholicity of worship. Renewal comes about where there is a proper sense of ‘liturgy’ as the ‘work of the people’ (tou laou ergon) in which God’s people are in a glorious partnership. Partnership with the angels in worship and service to 19. See Rev 4, 5; 7:9–17; 11:15–19; 12:10–12; 14:1–5; 15:1–8; 19:1–10; 21:1–22:5.

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the world is a thoroughly biblical synergism which should preserve the church from despair as it sees the huge task of claiming the world for God and his saving justice. It is also a sobering reminder to the church that it is not alone in fighting God’s battles. Pride and despair are dispelled as we link hands with the celestial world. Secondly, the meeting in worship of human and angelic ‘holy ones’ is part of a larger cosmic adoration. The groaning of creation is not the only voice we should hear. Worship of the triune God should open our ears to nature’s own song of worship. Thus, there is a vital ecological facet to our celebration of the redemption of all things. While we look in hope for their final restoration, we are responsible for doing what we can to preserve them as voices of praise directed to the Creator. Our western tradition has tended to stress the distance between the two worlds, between this aeon and the age to come. We need to recapture the Christian tradition that managed to preserve a sense for the unity of God’s world, whereby the sacramental mystery is a symbolon of transforming grace on a cosmic scale.

C. The Witness of the Synoptic Gospels and Acts

Purified Community—Purified Sinner: Expulsion from the Community According to Matthew 18:15–18 and First Corinthians 5:1–5

First published in Australian Biblical Review, 30 (1982): 34–55

This study has not arisen out of any longstanding interest in the subject of church discipline or excommunication. Four matters arising in various contexts have contributed to its genesis. 1. Many years ago, the writer was requested to present to a clergy conference a study on Matthew 18:15–20 to answer the question whether this passage gives something like a canon law which must always and everywhere be rigidly adhered to in settling disputes within the church, also where clergy are involved. Do we have here the basic legal principles for the maintenance of an ecclesiastical court of disputes? 2. Work on a commentary on First Corinthians brought with it the realisation that there is nothing less than a chorus of conflicting voices on the meaning of Paul’s injunction to the Corinthians to ‘deliver to Satan’ a man guilty of gross immorality (1 Corinthians 5:5). To what extent is Paul speaking of prescribed legal procedure in connection with this matter? 3. Both passages raise a common question. Do they deal with ancient ideas and practises (including their legal foundations) which are so far removed from our conceptual world and modern church situation as to make their application to modern church life impossible? One is tempted to ask whether their implementation is possible only on the fringes of the church where it is believed that the restoration of ‘New Testament Christianity’ requires the resuscitation of everything practised at any time and any place in the early church—perhaps even the handling of snakes!

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4. Finally, there is the question relating to the treatment of sin and the sinner. While we may insist that condemnation of sin does not entail an immediate condemnation of the sinner, certain biblical accounts do not seem to allow such a clear distinction: witness the case of Korah and company in the Old Testament (Numbers 16:1–35), and of Ananias and his wife in the New (Acts 5:1–11). The purpose up this study is to inquire into the basis and nature of the ‘law’ of exclusion in these two passages, to pinpoint their relationship, and then offer some summary conclusions for church life today. The Reconciling Community: Matthew 18:15–18 Textual Tradition Matthew 18:15 corresponds, despite differences in formulation, to Luke 17:3, just as Matthew 18:21–22 corresponds to Luke 17:4. The original juxtaposition in the primitive tradition of the two sayings on forgiving the brother, as in Luke, is clearly suggested by the continuation of the keywords ‘sins’, ‘repent’, ‘forgive’. What, then is the origin of Matthew 18:16–20, more particularly, of verses 16–18? Matthean redactional elements may be located already in verse 15, as a comparison with Luke 17:3 indicates. 1. Luke speaks of the brother (adelphos) in a general sense as the fellow human being; Matthew uses the term to denote the fellow Christian or fellow disciple. 2. ‘Between you and him’ is a Semitism, as in Acts 15:9, which may be attributed either to the tradition, deleted by Luke, or to Matthew himself. 3. Luke uses the verb ‘rebuke’ (epitiman), whereas Matthew, alluding to Leviticus 19:17 uses ‘reprove’ (elenchein). The lack of any parallel to Matthew 18:16–18 makes it difficult to determine to what extent the evangelist has reworked original sayings of Jesus or simply expanded on verse 15 according to the established practise of his church. Certain features have led commentators to the view that these verses cannot represent authentic sayings of Jesus, at least not in their present form. There is the general argument that they presuppose an organised church exercising discipline over its members, a situation which could not have existed before Easter, and

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one which the historical Jesus did not envisage. Thus, Matthew makes the historical Jesus speak as the risen and glorified Christ, regulating the present life of the church. It is often argued that verse 17 with its characterisation of the sinner as a ‘Gentile and tax collector’ cannot be regarded as authentic. As FW Beare puts it, ‘there is not the least likelihood that Jesus himself ever spoke with such disparagement of Gentiles and tax collectors.’1 This phrase is thus viewed as echoing a narrow and exclusive Christianity not in keeping with Jesus’ own sympathetic attitude to the public sinner.2 Finally, FH Gundry argued that linguistic and stylistic elements in verses 16–18 indicate that these verses must be seen as an expansion of verse 15 by the evangelist himself.3 Such arguments against the authenticity of verses 16–18 are not completely convincing. Replying to them in reverse order, it can be recalled that these verses, particularly verse 18, contain a number of Semitisms which cannot be seen as characteristic of Matthew alone but which, as Jeremias has argued, are marks of Jesus' own diction: the circumlocution to avoid direct reference to God in the use of ‘heaven’, and the passive formulations, ‘shall be bound’ and ‘shall be loosed’, the introductory amen, and the antithetical parallelism.4 Again, the characterisation of the sinner as a Gentile and tax collector need not be seen as reflecting a narrow and exclusive Jewish Christianity, but as pointing to the Palestinian origin of the gospel tradition and a Jewish mode of expression used by Jesus. In Matthew, Jesus’ attitude to the publican and sinner is certainly one of tender sympathy (9:10, 11; 10:3; 11:19; 21:31, 32), but in the same Gospel Jesus uses these terms in their usual Jewish sense to characterise the sinner (5:46, 47; 6:7).5 1. FW Beare, The Gospel according to Matthew (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1981), 380. 2. FW Beare, The Earliest Records of Jesus (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1962), 151; AH McNeile, The Gospel according to Matthew (London: Macmillan, 1955), 266, considers this to be ‘the most distinctly ecclesiastical passage in Matthew’s Gospel.’ 3. RH Gundry, Matthew, A Commentary on his Literary and Theological Art (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1982), 368–70. 4. J Jeremias, New Testament Theology (London: SCM, 1971), 9,11,15,16,35,238. 5. J Schniewind, Das Evangelium nach Matthäus (5th edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1950), 201; FV Filson, The Gospel according to St Matthew (London: A & C Black, 1960), 202; E Schweizer, The Good News according to Matthew (London: SPCK, 1976), 359.

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Finally, the contention that these verses presuppose an organised church structure, not envisaged by Jesus, begs the question. Without rehashing the old question as to whether Jesus foresaw the existence of a church after his death,6 it should be stated that Matthew’s use of the term ekklesia, as well as the regulations which follow, need not be taken as implying ecclesiastical structures and hierarchical orders. Matthew, like Paul, makes no terminological distinction between the total church (16:18) and its local manifestation (18:17). The church here is simply the gathering of believers as described in verse 20. Exclusion from the local community means exclusion from the people of God. The lack of any parallel to verses 16–18 prevents us from making more precise observations on Matthean redaction. However, the location of Matthean features in the text need not, of necessity, lead to the conclusion that the whole passage is created by the evangelist without any basis in the tradition going back to Jesus himself. The Matthean Context We are on safer ground in noting the context in which Matthew places and interprets Jesus’ call for reconciliation and the restoration of the sinner. Luke 17:3 calls for readiness to forgive personal wrongs. Personal forgiveness is the final goal of fraternal confrontation and admonition. Matthew, in fitting verses 15–20 into the whole chapter, stresses the need to win back the erring brother or sister into the fellowship of the church as God’s people. Chapter 18 forms the fourth of the five greater discourses in Matthew, perhaps meant to recall the five books of Moses. Sayings originally directed to the disciples are now applied to the whole church. The lesson on humility (vv 1–4), on avoiding giving offence (vv 5–10), and the parable of the lost sheep (vv 12–14), together sound the keynote for our passage: the right behaviour which befits the church as the reconciled and reconciling people of God. Luke’s Parable of the Lost Sheep stresses the joy in heaven over every sinner who repents and is thus included in the sheepfold (Luke 15:3–7). Matthew calls for reconciliation which is to 6. The question whether Jesus meant to establish a church is not to be decided on the basis of Matthew 16:18 and 18:17 alone; see Jeremias, Theology, 167–70; E Schweizer, Church Order in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1961), 21–23.

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win the erring brother or sister back into the fold. He does not give a new law on how to safeguard the preservation of personal rights and just claims. To characterise these verses as juridical in intent is, at best, misleading. It is the desire to restore the sinner that is to govern fraternal admonition, even expulsion of the unrepentant sinner. Out of love received grows the obligation to love the erring fellow Christian. ‘The congregation is aware that it owes its salvation to its Lord’s seeking and pursuing, as the shepherd the lost sheep. It lives by virtue of a seeking and forgiving love.’7 The position of the Parable of the Debtor at the end of Matthew 18, and its significance for an understanding of verses 15–22, should not be overlooked. Verse 17 speaks of judgment on the unrepentant sinner. Equally, those who are unwilling to forgive another person in the church must know that they stand under divine judgment. The Function of the Matthean Regulations Both the context and the technical use of the term ‘brother’ to denote the fellow member of the church8 indicate that Matthew has sins within the congregation in mind, that is, of Christian against Christian. The variant ‘against you’ (eis se) in verse 15 may well be a secondary addition reflecting the incorrect conclusion that the private admonition presupposes only a private wrong.9 Whatever the case, ‘it is taken for granted that the community life is affected by any ill–treatment of one member by another’.10 Sinning corresponds to going astray from the whole flock in verse 12. As noted earlier, Matthew’s choice of ‘reprove’ (elenchein) instead of ‘rebuke’ (epitiman), as in Luke 17:3, suggests a deliberate allusion to LXX Leviticus 19:17: ‘You may surely reprove your neighbour.’ At the same time, it suggests several ideas which reach beyond this Old Testament text. Elenchein and its Hebrew equivalent hokiach are used to describe the activity of God himself as he disciplines and 7. G Barth, ‘Matthew’s Understanding of the Law’, in Tradition and Interpretation in Matthew (London: SCM, 1963), 84, has shown that in Matthew 18 mikroi (small ones) and paidia (children) have become designations for Christians. It is the disciples of Christ who are the weak and lowly. 8. H von Soden, s.v. adelphos, in TDNT 1 (1964), 144–46. 9. Gundry, Matthew, 367, argues for retention of eis se. 10. Beare, Matthew, 379.

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trains people in his function as divine judge, as well as the activity of people in reproving sinners.11 Such discipline includes all the steps from the conviction of sinners to their punishment, including instruction, correction, warning, and exhortation.12 Testament of Gad 6:3 uses elenchein in this sense, again with reference to Leviticus 19:17. The Qumran scrolls also use hokiach in the sense of bringing a charge against a member of the community, a charge which must be sustained by witnesses (IQS 5:24–6:1; CD 9:2–4). Finally, the ancient synagogue knew the duty of bringing back the erring brother to the right path by means of admonition (hokiach), without defining the exact procedures to be followed as in Matthew 18:15–17.13 From the above we may conclude that the measures outlined by Matthew in verses 16 and 17 do not, in fact, amount to new procedures which go beyond telling the brother his fault (v 15) but are elaborations on the one theme of winning back the brother or sister. The characteristic motif found in the New Testament use of elenchein is the thought of winning back the brother or sister.14 Thus, the addition in verse 15, ‘you have gained your brother’, makes explicit the implied goal of telling him his fault. The procedure is to begin with private admonition for obvious reasons; in private, sinners are more likely to admit their guilt. But they are ‘gained’ not for oneself, but for God.15 In the verb kerdaino (gain) we can possibly detect echoes of early Christian mission terminology (see 1 Cor 9:19–23 and 1 Pet 3:1), but mission is certainly not the Sitz im Leben of Matthew 18:15– 11. Used of divine activity: Gen 31:42; 1 Chron 12:17; Ps 6:1; 38:1; Isa 2:4 = Mic 4:3; used of human activity: Lev 19:17; Prov 9:7,8; 24:25; 28:23; Amos 5:10. 12. F Büchsel, s.v. elenchein, in TDNT II (1964), 473–76. 13. A Schlatter, Der Evangelist Matthäus (Stuttgart: Calwer,1948), 554; H Strack and P Billerbeck, Kommentar zum Neuen Testament aus Talmud und Midrasch I (Munich: CH Beck, 1922), 788–90. The latter note that the rabbis deemed brotherly correction a duty, a virtue, and a part of brotherly love. The few regulations involved smack more of theory than practice. Such rules became ineffective as soon as the comfortable doctrine was accepted that silence was a greater virtue than reproof of the sinner. 14. In the Pastoral Letters the verb describes the activity of a leader of the congregation (1 Tim 5:20; 2 Tim 4:2; Titus 1:9,14; 2:15). 15. Schniewind, Matthäus, 200, points out that verse 15 presupposes verse 18. That which is applied to Peter in 16:19 is here applied to all disciples, just as John 20:23 concerns all the disciples present, and not Peter alone. Any Christian can forgive sins in the name of Christ, but binding sins cannot be left to the individual. That can be done only by the church (v 17).

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17. ‘Gaining’ here corresponds to the ‘saving’ of the erring sinner in James 5:19, 20. Each Christian is responsible for the fellow Christian (1 John 5:16). This is a duty rather than a right. If the erring brother or sister refuses to admit guilt, witnesses are to be called. What is their function? It is certainly in keeping with Jewish practice and the popularity of Deuteronomy 19:15, also in the early church (see 1 Cor 13:1; 1 Tim 5:19) that such witnesses should be mentioned, but their function is not immediately clear. At least two witnesses were required, according to Old Testament law, to establish guilt or innocence in the case of a capital crime (Num 25:30; Deut 17:6; 1 Kgs 21:10,13; Matt 26:60; Heb 10:28).16 However, the agreement of two witnesses was also commonly required in Judaism for all judicial procedures; the rabbinic writings presuppose that where ‘witness’ appears, at least two are meant unless one is specifically mentioned.17 To what must the witnesses attest? What must they confirm (v 16)? In Deuteronomy 19: 15 they are to be eyewitnesses of the original offence committed. The same seems to be implied in the Qumran writings referred to above, and in Second Corinthians 13 and in First Timothy 5:19, but this is certainly not the case here. The Hebrew of Deuteronomy 19:15 has dabhar (charge) which the Septuagint renders with pan rhema (every word). Thus, according to Matthew’s understanding of this text, the witnesses are to attest every word of the conversation between the sinner and his or her reprover; they are to deprive the sinner of any later excuse that the accuser was biased or pursuing a selfish goal, was reproving unjustly or in anger. They are to witness to the fact that all has been done to call the sinner to

16. EJ Goodspeed, The Story of the Apocrypha (Chicago: University of Chicago, 1939), 65–70, suggests that the book of Susanna was written by a Pharisee aiming to exalt the existing laws on testimony. The heroine is convicted of adultery by two false witnesses but is saved by the astute young Daniel. Goodspeed suggests that the appeal of the writer for more searching examination of witnesses bore fruit in the new laws of 76 BC when the Sanhedrin was reorganised. 17. The rule concerning witnesses could be applied in broad terms in the Old Testament (Isa 8:2) and in the New; note the witnesses to the transfiguration and resurrection, even involving women in the latter case. According to Josephus (Ant. 4.8.15) women and children were debarred from giving testimony in Judaism, possibly because in capital cases witnesses would have to exact the penalty of death: by stoning. The Easter accounts place women in a new role.

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repentance. In a real sense they are to be adduced for rather than against the sinner.18 If this second step towards healing fails, the matter can be brought to the attention of the whole community when it is assembled (vv 17a,19,20). In this stage of proceedings, the witnesses can attest the objectivity of the sinner’s reproach by his fellow,19 can witness to the fact that all has been done to win back the offender. They can thus testify to the final sad truth, should that eventuate, that the sinner has by refusal to repent excluded himself from the community. The witnesses thus provide the basis for the subsequent decisions of the congregation on the matter.20 It is only as a final measure that the whole church speaks, that is, when there is refusal to listen to just reproach (parakouein in verse 17 means more than not listening; the sinner remains obdurate and immovable).21 Consequently, the final act of declaring the person a manifest sinner and thus cut off from the fellowship of the community is not an act of highhanded, ecclesiastical authoritarianism. It simply ratifies an obvious fact: the sinner has cut himself off from the fellowship of the church which is a fellowship of forgiveness. Up to this final point the only binding rule which has been applied is the rule of love. Yet even the sinner’s exclusion from the church, in the form of a pronouncement by it, has a positive goal, without this having to be stated in so many words. He is to be brought to a realisation of his sin and into a longing for forgiveness and restoration. Since love is the ruling force in the whole procedure, not cold, formal principles of 18. This, presumably, is what Beare means by saying witnesses are called for not ‘to confirm the evidence that an offence has been committed, but to make it unnecessary to make a charge at all’; Matthew, 379. G Barth, ‘Matthew’s Understanding of the Law,’ 84, and G Strecker, Der Weg der Gerechtigkeit (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht,1966), 233, see the function of the witnesses as strengthening the authority of the reprover. 19. A Plummer, An Exegetical Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew (London: James Clark, n.d.), 253; AH McNeile, Matthew, 226. The latter is hardly correct in suggesting that the purpose clause is an abbreviation of Matthean favourite formula for the fulfilment of scripture; this would make the phrase ‘that every word be confirmed’ irrelevant. 20. G Strecker, Weg, 244, remarks that the redactional addition of Deut 19:15 is interpreted as Vorbereitung der Gemeindeverhaltung (preparation for a congregational deliberation). 21. Parakouein is used in this sense in LXX Isa 65:12; Esth 3:3,8; Tob 3:4; T Dan 2:3.

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justice, the restoration of the sinner is the final goal. Matthew reflects a gospel concern rather than interest in preserving the church as a community of the pure in a cultic sense. Matthew 18 hardly gives us anything like a set legal procedure for the establishment of ecclesiastical courts. It outlines a just method of pursuing the loving recall of the sinner. Other references to evangelical discipline in the New Testament (for example, 1 Tim 5:19, 20; Gal 2:11) do not reflect the three stages mentioned by Matthew, nor does the text allow us to find in it the foundation of a later penitential system in the church.22 Matthew’s church hardly applied these steps in terms of rigid legal precepts. They would rather have been seen as exemplifying what it means to gain a fellow Christian and as drawing the obvious conclusion in the case of failure. It must be noted that the whole church possesses the duty to impose this discipline. The power to loosen and to bind sins belongs to the whole church, for it acts by the authority of the risen Lord himself who is always present in the community as judge of sin (vv 19, 20). In Matthew, the office of the keys belongs not only to Peter and his heirs (16:19) but is entrusted to the whole church.23 That there is ‘no hint of a council of elders, let alone an authoritarian office, like a bishop’,24 should warn against drawing the conclusion that Matthew documents the growth of hard and fast juridical procedures and structures in the early church. In summary: ‘What matters is the sinner, not a pure community.’25 The church is to be preserved as a community of the reconciled who

22. G Strecker, Weg, 190. 23. G Bornkamm, ‘End Expectation and Church in Matthew’, in Tradition and Interpretation, 39,48; G Strecker, Weg, 244. Matthew 18:15–17, unlike 1 Timothy 5:19, does not have a charge against a leader of the church in mind. But Matthew would see his words applying just as much to a leader. In 1 Timothy 5:19, the witnesses seem to be people adduced to sustain a charge of moral guilt against a presbyter. Obviously, the charge alone, even with the support of witnesses, would not be enough to condemn him; again, the whole church would have to decide the issue. The reference behind 1 Corinthians 13:1 is less clear. Perhaps Paul is speaking of a matter of church discipline. More probably he refers to the Deuteronomic law concerning witnesses simply to impress on his readers the seriousness of his third visit to them, as a third witness! 24. Beare, Matthew, 380. 25. Schweizer, Matthew, 370.

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reconcile, not as a community with rigid laws developed for the preservation of cultic purity. The Delivery to Satan: First Corinthians 5:1–5 Despite great differences between our two passages, there are two immediately striking similarities. It is the whole church which acts in the treatment of a manifest sinner, and the purpose of such action is again a positive one, here clearly stated. The Context Paul’s words on abuse in at Corinth, in chapters 5 and 6, highlight two central themes of his teaching. The first is that there is no such thing for Christians as private ethics. What each believer does affects the whole body of Christ. Others are involved in the action of each member. There is freedom, but freedom only within the bounds of obligation to others within the body. Second, it is important to note the eschatological setting of Paul’s statements. He recognises that the church, though holy and set apart from the world, is still in the world as the arena where two spheres of power overlap. The church cannot escape the world just as it cannot judge the world (5:12,13). Paul espouses neither escapism nor judgmentalism. The apostle’s teaching on the two ages provides the necessary framework within which First Corinthians 5:1–5 must be understood. The context of these verses is not only the question of moral abuses. Two concepts occur here which echo ideas early in the letter. To the Corinthian Christians who have allowed a case of gross immorality to go unchecked, he adds with considerable cutting sarcasm: ‘and you are arrogant’ (verse 2). To be puffed up (physiousthai) describes the spiritual enthusiasts in the Corinthian congregation who pride themselves on the possession of the Spirit, superior knowledge, freedom, and the gifts of the Spirit (4:6, 18, 19; 8:1; 13:4). This case of the immoral man is adduced not in any vengeful spirit, intent on scoring points against a church, beginning to question Paul’s authority, but to show where such proud boasting has led. Might it not be, Paul suggests, that his readers are full of the hot air of their own sinful pride, rather than filled with the Spirit!

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In the second place, chapters 4 to 6 speak of ‘judging’. To those already passing negative judgments on a weak Paul, comments which reached their climax later in Second Corinthians 10:10, Paul remarks that it matters little to him how they judge him. God alone has the right to pass final judgment (4:3–5). This lesson seems, at first, to stand in conflict with 5:3, 4 with its passing of judgment on the sinner. Later in this chapter (5:12,13) Paul warns against judging outsiders, but reminds Christians of their final role of functioning as judges over the whole world, including angels (6:2). The pressing question, is this; In what sense is there judgment within the community of the church? An Ecclesiastical Court? It is sometimes assumed that Paul here reflects procedures of church courts in early Hellenistic congregations.26 This is true only insofar as an action is to be taken which presupposes agreement on the guilt of a party, with the following pronouncement. But Paul is not talking about a special court working according to prescribed legal canons. There is no hearing of witnesses, not even any assessment of the facts. It is presupposed that the facts are already plain. The only thing in question is what is to be done in view of the facts. One conclusion is drawn by Paul at the outset; instead of being puffed up with pride, the Corinthians ought already to be mourning the spiritual death of one who was a brother. He is already dead (v 2)! His removal from the church by means of a pronouncement is the logical conclusion to an already established fact. While the Corinthians are still preening themselves with their superior spirituality, Paul has already judged what should be done: the case is open and shut. Though physically absent, he is present in the spirit. As in Colossians 2:5, he is not talking of the Holy Spirit at this 26. MD Goulder, Midrash and Lection in Matthew (London: SPCK,1974), 286; H Conzelmannn, 1 Corinthians (Hermeneia; Philadelphia, Fortress, 1976), 97, speaks of a ‘judicial act of a sacral and pneumatic kind’; in his view the community merely constitutes the forum, it does not share in the action. WF Orr and JA Walther, 1 Corinthians (Anchor Bible: New York: Doubleday, 1976), see Paul as passing judgment on the sinner in absentia because he cannot be present at the ‘trial’, but the exact mature of the trial is not stated. CJ Roetzel, Judgment in the Community (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1972), 113–24, simply assumes that Paul is speaking about juridical procedures and duties in 1 Corinthians 5:1–5.

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point. According to the RSV and NRSV, Paul has already pronounced the final verdict on the sinner. This would suggest that he, like the president of a court in absentia, has already anticipated the necessary decision of condemnation which the whole church at Corinth must reach.27 Without denying that Paul could anticipate a judgment, it is debatable whether that is what he says. Since Paul himself insists that God’s eschatological judgment is not to be anticipated (1 Cor 4:5), it seems unlikely that the apostle is merely stating his own judgement. ‘I have judged’ in verse 3 could simply mean ‘I have reached a decision’, one that concerns ‘the man who has done such a thing’. Nevertheless, Paul has already reached a judgment, one that he expects will be echoed in the action of the whole congregation. But how is his judgement and that of the church at Corinth connected? A famous problem in the history of exegesis is posed by the way in which the various individual phrases in verses 3 and 4, all readily intelligible in themselves, are to be connected. Conzelmann lists six possibilities, but we need note only the main options.28 Does the phrase ‘in the name of our Lord Jesus’ go with ‘I have determined’ (kekrika) or with ‘when you are assembled’, or even with ‘you are to deliver this man’ (verse 5)? Second, does the phrase ‘with the power of Jesus’ go with ‘when you are assembled’, or does it qualify the phrase ‘to deliver to Satan’?29 Despite some arguments to the contrary, it would seem best not to take ‘in the name’ with ‘I have judged’, since the intervening Greek words ‘as if present . . . the one who has done this’ break the

27. It is not clear what J Moffatt, The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1939), 55, means in saying that Paul has already passed sentence. 28. Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 97; see also the listings in CK Barrett, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (2nd edition; London: A & C Black, 1971), 125, and A Robertson and A Plummer, First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians (Edinburgh: T & T Clark, 1914), 98. 29. For the various ways these phrases can be connected see also Goulder, Midrash, 148, 154; W Schrage, Die konkreten Einzelgebote in der paulinischen Paränese (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1961), 104,242; G Delling, Die Zueignung des Heils in der Taufe (Berlin: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 1959), 55; H Lietzmann, An die Korinther (Tübingen: JCB Mohr [Siebeck], 1949), 23.

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connection.30 Those who would make this connection argue that it underlines Paul’s authority to speak and to pass judgment as an apostle, authorised by the risen Lord. That is theologically true but begs the question in what sense Paul is passing judgment. He has not been set over the church as a director and dictator of moral affairs, nor as president of an ecclesiastical court. Judgment in the community must be passed by the whole community, as in Matthew 18:17, that is, when they are assembled in the name of the Lord (see also 1:2). In worship, the Lord is present as saviour and judge (11:29; 16: 22). The most helpful clues as to the way in which these phrases are to be connected, and the relationship between Paul and Corinth in the passing of judgment on the sinner, have been provided by Ernst Käsemann in his famous study of ‘Sentences of Holy Law in the New Testament’.31 We are here concerned with ‘a legal process . . . but since this act of assembly takes place in the context of the celebration of Christian worship, it is only in a limited sense that the community can be called the bearer of the process.’32 Paul is present in spirit not in the sense that all Christians must be involved in exclusion of a sinner from the church, nor even simply with his apostolic authority. He is present ‘with the power of our Lord Jesus’. In the light of Paul’s description of the Holy Spirit as dynamis (2:4,5), it is best to see Paul as functioning in the capacity of prophet in absentia. Apostle and proper are, of course, not two different functions for Paul. Is precisely as apostle that he can also lay claim to the Spirit (7:40), speaking surely with a touch of sarcasm rather than uncertainty! Judgment can already now be pronounced within the community, not as the decision of people, but as the voice of the living Lord mediated through the voice of prophecy. Consequently, there is no clash between Paul’s warning against premature judgment in 4:5 and his call for judgment in 5:4,5. In the one case judgment is a purely human act, one of offensive presumption, in the other it is an act of the whole church under the divine guidance of the Spirit of the Lord. 30. Against Ph Backmann, 1 Korintherbrief (Leipzig: A Deichert, 1921), 206,07; A Schlatter, Paulus der Bote Jesus (3rd edition; Stuttgart: Calwer,1962), 176,77; F Roetzel, Judgment, 114–16. 31. New Testament Questions of Today (London: SCM, 1969), 66–81; note especially 70–72. 32. Käsemann, ‘Sentences’,70.

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The Delivery to Satan What is the nature of the judgment to be pronounced on the sinner? In the New Testament the phrase ‘to deliver to Satan’ occurs again only at First Timothy 1:20. Frequent reference is made to the magical papyri, first noted by Adolf Deissmann: ‘Demon of death, I deliver you to NN in order that . . .’; again ‘I give you over to black chaos in utter destruction’.33 Conzelmann, in adducing these execration formulae, suggests that verse 5 presents us with ‘not a case of mere expulsion from the church, but of a dynamistic ceremony’.34 It is further argued that, while there are no Jewish parallels to such formulae, the ban pronounced on the sinner in the synagogue would simply have replaced the gods of the netherworld with Satan and his minions. The problem with such theories is twofold: the formulae are late, the first one cited by Deissmann dating from the fourth century AD; and we know little about exact formulations used in applying the Jewish ban.35 Hering is thus reduced to guesswork in suggesting that ‘externally the rite must have resembled that observed after a person’s death’. According to Jewish law the sinner should be stoned (Sanhed 7.4). Hering suggest that a formula found in later Jewish sources was used already at this time: ‘may grave and terrible sickness fall upon him . . . May he be swallowed up liked Korah and his tribe.’36 Quite apart from the question whether Paul here means that the delivery to Satan must inevitably result in the man’s death, a conclusion which must be questioned, there remains the basic problem whether later Jewish sources give us a true and accurate picture of earlier practices. A rather desperate solution is offered by Orr and Walther. After noting that death is the prescribed penalty for connection with a father’s wife according to Ker 1.1 (the law of ‘extirpation’), they strangely ask whether Satan is perhaps a Roman official, such as a public prosecutor to whom Paul wants the man turned over.37 They 33. A Deissmann, Licht vom Osten (4th edition; Tübingen: JCB Mohr [Siebeck]. 1923), 256,57. 34. Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, 97 with note 37. 35. Strack–Billerbeck, Kommentar 1, 293–333 36. J Hering, The First Epistle of Saint Paul to the Corinthians (London: Epworth, 1962), 35. 37. Orr and Walther, I Corinthians, 1866. In the light of 6:1–8 such a suggestion makes little sense.

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admit that there is ‘unfortunately’ no evidence to support this idea but fail also to add that there is no guarantee, from our knowledge of contemporary Roman law, that the authorities would have done anything about the matter. It is highly probable they would have done nothing. An equally desperate solution was attempted long ago by HAW Meyer who suggested that Paul really knew that he could not expect the Corinthians to hand the man over to Satan for punishment; he only said what he thought should be done. In fact, the only action which he finally suggests and which he expects will be taken by the Corinthians, is expressed in verse 13: the man is to be shut out of the church.38 All interpretations of the passage based on religio–historical evidence from the pagan or Jewish world ultimately fail to explain the characteristically positive aim of the action: the man is to be saved. Thus, the crucial question is: How we to understand the words, ‘for the destruction of the flesh that his spirit may be saved’? Clear in the statement is only the fact that the handing over of the sinner has as its goal salvation in the final judgment. Commonly presupposed, though never proven beyond a shadow of doubt, is that Paul is announcing the death of the sinner or, if not his death, at least grave physical suffering.39 The fullest statement of this thesis has come from TCG Thornton who argues, also with reference to the parallel phrase in First Timothy 1:20 and Paul’s thorn in the flesh in Second Corinthians 12:7, that Satan could be viewed by Paul as a messenger of God. Job is handed over to Satan as God’s agent (Job 1:21; 2:10). Even as the destroyer at the first Passover he is God’s

38. HAW Meyer, Kritisch–Exegetisches Handbuch über den ersten Brief an die Korinther (4th edition; Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1861), 120. M Dibelius, Die Geisterwelt im Glauben des Apostels Paulus (1909), 38,39, held a similar view: the ideal punishment is expressed in verse 5, the recommend action in verse 13. 39. Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians, cites 1 Cor 11:30 for support. Orr and Walther, I Corinthians, 186, speak of premature death. Lietzmann, An die Korinther, 233, lists several passages from the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles to argue that Paul is applying a solemn curse that will result in the death of the condemned. Such ideas may have been current in the later church (also in Gnostic circles) but they do not necessarily help to reconstruct ideas and practices in Paul’s day. Roetzel, Judgement, consistently presupposes that Paul is speaking of the man’s death as the judgment pronounced on him.

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agent (Exod 12:23).40 Sufficient evidence can be collected to show that there is truth to this thesis. But, again, it is by no means clear that the destruction of the flesh must mean only physical suffering, let alone death. There is, of course, a close connectionbetween sin and sickness in the New Testament, even if not every sickness stands in a direct causal relationship to a specific sin (see John 9:1–3). We see the power of sin and Satan in the exorcism stories of the gospels. Jesus brings the powers of the new age by casting out the powers of the old. Again, it is worth noting that the phrase ‘to deliver to Satan’ does occur in LXX Job 2:6. As a result of Job being handed over to Satan, he is afflicted with terrible physical suffering and death in his own family.41 One should note that the situation in Job is rather different. There it is a just man who is being tested, here it is an unjust man who is to be chastised. The parallel is important, however, in that it shows that Satan as the source of evil can still be used for God’s good purposes, a thoroughly biblical idea. It remains just possible that there are elements of dynamistic thinking in First Corinthians 5:5, but these are so vague and unclear that they cannot constitute the central meaning of the verse. Paul’s thorn in the flesh is certainly a messenger of Satan, and First Corinthians 11:30 may indicate a close connectionbetween despising of grace and sickness and death, but there is a simpler explanation of what Paul means here by the destruction of the flesh. This explanation does not rest on ancient execration practises, on Jewish extirpation ideas, nor does it suggest the death of the sinner. In any case, how could Paul be so sure that the surrender of the man to the powers of darkness would automatically mean his physical death? The reference to the case of Ananias and Sapphira cannot be used to argue that death is what Paul expected from the church in handing over of the man to Satan. Acts 5:1–11 gives us a case of divine punishment, not of church discipline. Saving discipline is what Paul is talking about. The most natural explanation is to take ‘flesh’ not in a purely physical sense, but in the theological or qualitative sense in which it is often used by Paul. Living in the flesh means living in the old age 40. TCG Thornton, ‘Satan as God’s Agent for Punishment’, Expository Times, 83 (1972): 151,52. 41. J Moffatt, First Corinthians, 56.

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that is passing away (1:20; 2:6,8; 10:11). It means being subject to the power of sin and the wages of sin, which is death (Romans 6:23). To live according to the flesh is the opposite of living according to the Spirit of God (Rom 8:1–17; Gal 5:16–17). In handing the sinner over to Satan, the church is only ratifying what has already happened: the man belongs to Satan as the prince of the old aeon. He has cut himself off from the church long before the church declares this to be the case (verses 11,13). In terms of Matthew 18:17, the man is to be treated as a gentile and tax collector because that is what he is showing himself to be. No ecclesiastical court is needed to establish the fact. He already belongs to Satan. Nor is any curse, execration, devotion to Satan and nether powers, let alone an act of extirpation, suggested. The question remains: How is the flesh to be destroyed? It might be argued that ‘destruction’ is such a strong word that anything less than death is too mild. One thing is clear. Paul cannot be thinking in terms of a Greek dualism according to which salvation will result from death as the release of the spirit or soul from the flesh of the body. Judaism did develop the idea that a person atoned for sins by suffering and death. But there is no trace of that idea in Paul. Paul does not speak about the death of the flesh in a physical sense but in a theological one. The flesh is to be put to death or mortified not by entry into the grave. It is to be destroyed by repentance and faith in Christ who forgives (Rom 8:13; Col 3:5). But we can, as AC Thistleton has shown, be even more precise.42 There is in First Corinthians a close connection between ‘flesh’ and sinful pride. The Corinthians who boast of the Spirit and call themselves the pneumatikoi (spiritual) have had to hear Paul called them sarkikoi fleshly people (1 Cor 3:1–3). We have noted earlier that Paul prefaces his words on what the church is to do about the immoral man but by referring to their boasting (5:2). Again, in verse 6 he says: ‘your boasting is not good’. We can see that there is more than a slight similarity between this passage and Paul’s reference to the thorn in the flesh as a messenger of Satan. Boasting is the key concept in his song of folly which begins in Second Corinthians 10:7 and ends in 12:10. In Speaking of his thorn he is boasting of his human weakness which keeps him from being too elated (12:7). 42. AG Thiselton, ‘The Meaning of SARX in1 Corinthians 5:5’, Scottish Journal of Theology, 26 (1973): 204–28, especially 224–26

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The concept of ‘flesh’ may have a different colouring in First Corinthians 5:5 and Second Corinthians 12:7. Nevertheless, in both cases Satan is seen as God’s agent in destroying sinful pride. The delivery to Satan has as its goal the delivery into the old aeon where Satan can do his worst and hopefully drive a person back into the fold of the church. Paul here presupposes, without stating it fully, an idea which is expressed in more explicitly theological terms at the beginning of his letter to the Romans. God’s judgement on sin is at work already in this life as the divine judge surrenders sinful people to the mire and perversions of their own making (see Rom 1:24,26,28, and the threefold refrain ‘God gave them up’). Here it is Satan who is to be given the opportunity to harass sinners with the consequences of their own sin. If we knew the outcome of this case, it might be easier to say exactly what Paul meant in these verses. Quite commonly Second Corinthians 2:5–12 is viewed as a sequel: Paul pleads that someone be accepted back into the church without further recriminations (see also 7:12). Reconciliation is to take place ‘to keep Satan from gaining the advantage over us.’ But there are difficulties in relating this passage to First Corinthians 5; the apostle seems to be speaking of a case in which he was personally affronted. Perhaps Second Corinthians 12:21 is more relevant since Paul here expresses the fear that when he comes again, he may ‘have to mourn over many of those who sinned before and have not repented . . . Are These Texts Applicable Today? In this brief survey no attempt has been made to examine every solution to the exegetical problems of the texts in question, especially First Corinthians 5:5. But, hopefully, enough has been offered to question some of the assumptions which have appeared in scholarly discussion. If these texts are understood as offering an outline for procedure in ecclesiastical courts, as presupposing ancient dynamistic concepts, as allowing for a curse to be pronounced on sinners so that they are consigned to death, their application to our day becomes even more problematical. Excommunication is difficult enough a concept without overloading it with ancient ideas and practises which strike no resonant chord in our thinking today. The exclusion of sinners from the church is associated with all kinds of problems. Today it

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may mean exclusion from a denomination, a problem which Paul did not have, though it rose early enough in the church as schisms took place. Second, the blurring of the edges of the church and world today makes that practice far more difficult. One can readily understand its importance in the ancient pagan world where the church was a foreign body in society. That is no longer the case in the western world, at least. Third, excommunication makes little sense where a universalistic view of salvation is espoused, in whatever form, for example where the ‘outsider’ is an anonymous Christian in any case. By way of summary the following conclusions may be drawn. 1. Paul shows perhaps surprisingly, little interest in preserving the holiness of the church on a neo–Levitical foundation. That is, he is not concerned with the cultic purity of a group.43 The same holds true for Matthew 18. In both cases the prime concern is the sinner’s restoration (see also Gal 6:1,2). Excommunication cannot mean permanent expulsion from the church, let alone consigning the sinner to hell. Eschatological judgment cannot be pre-empted. 2. If excommunication takes place, better: evangelical discipline, the church is thereby expressing its concern for the witness of the gospel. The church is a fellowship of forgiveness, celebrating the power of divine forgiveness. Every obvious case of unrepented sin is a thorn in the flesh of the church as it seeks to witness to the power of the gospel and of the Spirit. It is the witness of the church that is debilitated by the ‘public sinner’.44 3. If excommunication is necessary as the final step in evangelical discipline, when all other efforts at winning this back the sinner have failed, it should be carried out with genuine grief (1 Cor 5:2), not in a spirit of vindictive glee over a person’s ‘fall’, nor in a spirit of self–righteousness. If the attempt to destroy the pride of ‘flesh’ in one person results in the fleshly pride of many, the act has misfired. 43. E Schweizer, Church Order,193, points out that this idea is not completely missing from the New Testament, but where it appears in Paul and the Pastorals it is motivated not by a desire to exclude the world, but to preserve the church in the world. 44. Schweizer, Church Order, 14,15: ‘The New Testament’s pronouncements on church order are to be read as gospel. . .’.

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4. Both passages show that the whole church is involved in the act; no clergy are mentioned either in Matthew 18 or in First Corinthians 5. Just as the gifts of the Spirit are not private matters but concern the whole body, so the whole body is concerned with weakness in one of its members. 5. Despite the differences between our two texts,45 they should not be seen as outlining two completely different approaches to the treatment of the unrepentant sinner. Even the basis of the church’s judgement, the presence of the Lord himself (Matt 18:20)46 and the presence of the Spirit’s power (1 Cor 5:4), are not unrelated. A church may lack the immediate voice of a prophet to announce a ‘sentence of divine law’, but it always has the mediated voice of the Lord through which the Spirit speaks.

45. Käsemann remarks that Matthew is ‘characterised by an anti–enthusiastic temper which causes the teacher and rabbi rather to conceal than to expose to view the activity of primitive Christian prophecy’. Thus, regulations designed to preserve good order in the church ‘are determined by an introduction in casuistical jussive style and by a consequent promise or threat in the eschatological future (‘Sentences of Holy Law’, 78). But it is questionable whether Matthew is interested merely in the preservation of good order in 18:15–18. 46. Gundry, Matthew, 370, suggests that the promise of Christ’s presence in Matthew 18:20 recalls the meaning of the name ‘Immanuel’ (1:23; see also 18:2; 11:29; 21:5), just as the Gospel ends with the promise of the Lord’s continual presence among the disciples (28:20). This is more apposite than the proposal that Matthew sees Jesus as replacing the divine shekinah which is with the assembly of God’s people in the synagogue; thus Beare, Matthew, 380, citing Schlatter, Matthäus, 558.

Continuity and Discontinuity: The Lucan View of History in Acts

First published in Theologia Crucis: Studies in Honour of Hermann Sasse (Adelaide: Lutheran Publishing House, 1975), 33–17

Luke has the right to be called the first church historian, but the incontestable conclusion from New Testament studies is that he was also a theologian. Those of us who had the pleasure of sitting at the feet of Dr Hermann Sasse very soon learned that the historian is more than a chronicler of events in the past but is called to evaluate and assess the meaning of the past. Recording must be accurate, but the historian must be able to set individual details within the framework of a large, panoramic view of history. Above all, the historian will deserve the title great only when showing how the past illuminates our present. This contribution on the work of Luke in Acts is intended to be a token of thanks to a teacher who has shown his students that all theology involves a sense for history. Beginning as a New Testament student under the famous Adolf Deissmann, Dr Sasse deservedly gained a worldwide reputation as a church historian, based at Erlangen University, before coming to Australia after the Second World War. His work in the classroom continually reflected his first love: New Testament studies. And it was there that many who became pastors of the church first learned to respect Luke as a historian and theologian.

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Within the Canon of the New Testament there are two books containing no less than fifty–two chapters, traditionally ascribed to one called Luke. He writes with some claims to being an historian who has done his research carefully and reports his material accurately (Luke 1:1–4). At the same time, he shows some concern to exhibit literary talent.1 To the uninitiated it must come as something of a surprise that, despite the volume and quality of Luke’s writings and the author’s own clearly stated goals at the beginning of his twin work, the qualitative evaluation of his work has produced such a wide variety of opinions, often negative. It would no longer be argued that Luke wrote to satisfy the cravings of historical curiosity and was merely giving the first definitive church history. Nor is there any difficulty in accepting the view that the author was not interested in an absolute chronological and detailed report with full documentation of the church’s early history.2 In many ways his account is most unsatisfactory if one expects from it the kind of record that is required of modern historiography. The number of historical questions that he leaves unanswered are legion. Nor does he satisfy the needs of a systematician looking for clearly enunciated doctrine, or, for that matter, the expectations of a pro–Pauline exegetical sleuth. Even if we have long since rejected the grand construction of the Tübingen School with its Tendenz Kritik superimposed on Luke/Acts according to the Hegelian philosophy of history, we have at least had to admit that Luke is not a stenographic reporter but a theologian in his own right, one who has his own characteristic view of history and its meaning. In a sense, he is a thoroughly biased writer working with his own Tendenz. He is argumentative, has his own theological goals, his own specific contentions. He is tendentious in that his view of the history of Jesus and of the early church contains a message, even apologetical and political overtones, for his own day. 1. See the Cornelius story with its irony: Peter and not the heathen Cornelius comprehends what is going on; the heightening of dramatic effect in Acts 10 and 11; humour in Peter’s escape from prison in chapter 12; Luke’s desire to vary vocabulary as shown in his use of four different verbs for ‘seeing’ in Acts 3:3–5. 2. Chronological problems created by Luke’s account of Paul’s visits to Jerusalem on the background of Paul’s own record in Galatians are well known, as also the difficulties in attempting to establish an ordered chronological sequence of events in Acts 11:27–12:25.

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Whether one approaches Luke’s work from conservative presuppositions and with a positive evaluation of his historical data, as does FF Bruce, or whether one adopts a critical stance over against his narrative in Acts, as in the case of Ernst Haenchen, for example, there remains for every commentator the task of ascertaining Luke’s specific theological goals. If we can determine these aims, then Luke’s contribution to our understanding of the early church far exceeds what he has written concerning the early years in Jerusalem and the origins of the Gentile mission. His writing would indicate certain developments in the church of the first century that necessitated his work in the first place. If we had reliable external evidence on the author himself, or about the man Theophilus to whom the work is dedicated, if we had absolute assurance on the place and time of composition, we would in turn be able to understand better the concerns that motivated Luke in writing his twin work. In the absence of such evidence, we are left with nothing but the finished product and the challenge to sift through it and deduce these concerns from internal evidence. Quite apart from the old scholarly interest in Acts with its many questions, a new situation requires another look at Luke/Acts. Significantly, many studies on Acts have not been interested in the standard questions concerning the Greek text and the significance of the Western readings, or in the question of sources which Luke might have employed, whether it be an old Jerusalem source, or a travel diary presupposed behind the ‘we sections’ (Acts 16:10–17; 20:5–21:18; 27:1–28:16). The studies of Bruner3 and Dunn4 on the Holy Spirit have produced detailed analyses of material in Acts in answer to the charismatic movement that has tended to make the Acts a ‘canon within the canon’, and has often argued, or simply presupposed, that Luke’s prime concern is the question: How does one receive the Spirit? The hermeneutical presupposition shared by many charismatic authors is that Acts gives us not only a picture of the ideal conditions in the early church which should be emulated or repeated

3. FD Bruner, A Theology of the Holy Spirit. The Pentecostal Experience and New Testament Witness (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1970). 4. James DG Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit (London: SCM,1970).

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today,5 but that Luke also outlines something like a set programme on ‘How to become a Christian’. His narratives, especially the various conversion stories, present us with the biblical, authoritative, and normative precedent for a personalised ordo salutis. This order of salvation is seen as a chronological sequence of events: the hearing of the message of sin and repentance, the hearing of the gospel, the confession of faith, baptism with water, then a subsequent baptism of the Spirit and proof of this experience with supernatural signs. In this view of Acts, the abiding significance of the work and purpose of the author is found in a theology of personal salvation. No one will deny that Luke writes salvation history. The kerygma continually demands a personal response to the question of salvation as a response to the person of the Christ. The preaching of the apostles raises personal questions of ultimate significance: ‘Brothers, what shall we do?’ (2:37), or ‘Men, what must I do to be saved?’ (16:30). Nor can one deny that Luke has his own special understanding of the nature of salvation (soteria); we need only recall at this point how, for him, the resurrection has become the event of salvation, so that he shows no real traces of Paul’s theology of the cross. Nor does he, despite Acts 13:39, reflect the centrality of the doctrine of justification in Paul’s thought.6 Instead, he has his own specific stress on the salvific power of the ‘name’.7 But Luke is interested in anything but a pattern of personal salvation. He writes the history of the church, its origins, its growth. Indeed, one might wish that he were more systematic than he is in outlining the full significance of the conversion event. But this is not his purpose. Luke and Paul are the two New Testament writers who most often used the term ekklesia; this already suggests that Luke is concerned with ecclesiology and a certain view of the church within history, rather than with the history of individuals. This brings us to the second circumstance that has necessitated another look at Luke’s purposes. The task of ascertaining his view of

5. Excluding of course, such events as the strife between the ‘Hellenists’ and ‘Hebrews’ in Acts 6, and the deceit of Ananias and his wife in the previous chapter. 6. Ph Vielhauer, ‘On the “Paulinism” of Acts’, in Studies in Luke–Acts, edited by LE Keck and JL Martyn (Nashville: Abingdon 1966), 33–50. 7. See, for example, Acts 2:21,28,38; 3:6, 16; 4:7,10–12,30.

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history was undertaken by Conzelmann in The Theology of Saint Luke8 with its thesis that Luke is primarily concerned with Heilsgeschichte. In addition, there is, since Vielhauers’s famous article on the relationship between Luke and Paul,9 considerable consensus that Luke’s work represents a classic early defence of early Catholicism in the New Testament’. In other words, Luke’s theology of history stands in the service of a grand apology for a normalised and standardised faith, for a united church that stands on the shoulders of the apostles as the first authoritative witnesses of the historical Jesus and especially of his resurrection. He has historicised the faith. To some theologians that amounts to a tragic loss; to those interested in preserving apostolic origins and the unity of the church, it is a plus for Luke! The important question, however, is this: has Luke constructed his story to fit in with his concept of history and the church’s place and role within it, or does he tell his story in such a way that, while true to his purpose to give an ordered account, he nevertheless betrays his own ecclesiological interests? Conzelmann endeavoured to show that Luke periodised history into three epochs: the age of prophecy and expectation, the age of salvation with Jesus as the midpoint of history, followed by the age of the church.10 It might be interesting and profitable to undertake another critique of Conzelmann’s thesis. We might challenge his view that Luke deliberately tries to separate the ministry of Jesus and John the Baptist to draw a clear distinction between the age of preparation and the midpoint of salvation history, the ministry of Jesus himself. We could question whether Luke deliberately pictures the period of Jesus’ early ministry as one in which Satan must vacate the field, as also the thesis that Luke has given up the hope of an imminent parousia and projected the eschata entirely into the distant future. We need only note that Schuyler Brown in his Apostasy and Perseverance in the Theology of Luke has challenged Conzelmann successfully, in the present writer’s opinion, on Luke’s supposed concern to exclude

8. London: Faber and Faber, 1960. The original German edition first appeared in 1953. 9. See note 6 above. 10. The German version had the arresting title Die Mitte der Zeit (The Midpoint of Time).

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any influence of Satan from the period of Jesus’ earthly ministry.11 Likewise, the view that Luke has entirely given up every vestige of a realised eschatology in exchange for a purely futuristic hope at the end of time, has been challenged by E Earl Ellis.12 Our own concern is not to examine Luke’s eschatology as such, but to ask whether Luke is at all concerned with Conzelmann’s periodisation of salvation history, whether in fact the author is not rather concerned with picturing the church within the continuity of history. Though Luke shows the church as standing in a new age, it can be contended that his vital concern is to show lines of connection between the church of his day and its origins with the Jesus of history and even beyond that, with the history of God’s people in the First Testament. Further, it is here argued that the theme of continuity is simply a part of his theme of unity. II. The Theme of Discontinuity Since we are most interested in the emphasis on continuity, we need only briefly refer to elements in the narrative of Acts which point to the discontinuity found in the story of the church. The very fact that Luke wrote his work in two parts, that he finished his Gospel and begins his Acts with reference to the same events, namely Christ’s resurrection, his appearance to the disciples, his ascension, and the promise of the Spirit, indicates that between the earthly ministry of Jesus and the period of the New Testament church there came a decisive turning point. CK Barrett argues that ‘Luke was aware that he was building a bridge between two periods’ since he gives the crucial material about the resurrection and ascension twice.13 But we can just as well argue that these events emphasise the beginning of a new era which is characterised not by the birth of the church but by the beginning of its universal mission. One can see how Luke carefully preserves his emphasis on Easter as the decisive turning point in his story by comparing the Christology of his Gospel with that found in Acts. CFD Moule has reminded us 11. S Brown, Apostasy and Perseverance in the Theology of Luke (Rome: Pontifical Biblical Institute, 1969). 12. E Earl Ellis, Eschatology in Luke (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972). 13. CK Barrett, Luke the Historian in Recent Study (London: Epworth, 1961), 55.

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that Luke, unlike the other evangelists, frequently refers to Jesus as the ‘Lord’ in his Gospel. This involves no anachronisms, since with few exceptions, two or three at the most (Luke 1:43; 7:6; 2:11), this designation is used by Luke himself as the narrator. The situation is quite different after the resurrection where we suddenly find the title kyrios used freely. Easter means the birth of the confession to Jesus as Lord. Again, isolated individuals and angels may call Jesus ‘saviour’ in the Gospel (2: 11, 30), but it is only after the resurrection and Pentecost that he is openly proclaimed as Saviour (soter). Finally, he is recognised as Son (hyios) in his earthly ministry not by his disciples but by demons and angels. This designation again becomes part of the church’s public confession only after the resurrection.14 The discontinuity in Christology is paralleled closely by a similar feature in pneumatology. In the Gospel, the coming of Christ is marked by a new activity of the Spirit. The Spirit is operative in Jesus' birth (Luke 1:35), he inspires new prophetic outpourings with Elizabeth in 1:41 and with Zechariah in 1:67. The entire ministry of Jesus is one that shows the guidance of the Spirit (1:15; 4:1,14,18; 10:21). He is the Spirit–filled prophet of the end time. But despite the promise of the Baptist concerning the Coming One who will baptise with the Spirit and with fire (3:16), despite the promise of the Spirit as the good gift of the Father (11:13), as the one who will teach the disciples what to say when they stand accused before judges (12:12), the disciples are marked by Spirit–lessness until the outpouring on the day of Pentecost. It is significant that, in Acts, Luke twice refers to John’s promise of the future baptism of the Spirit, once at the beginning as he sets the stage for the mission of the church (1:5), and a second time as he tells the story of that pivotal event in her history, the conversion of the Gentile Cornelius, which illustrates the absolute equality of Gentile with Jewish Christians (11:16). While the Gospel presents us with the picture of the Spirit–filled Messiah, Acts gives us the picture of the church as God’s Spirit–filled people. It is significant that Luke combines his resurrection and ascension Christology with his pneumatology right at the beginning of Acts in that programmatic statement in Peter’s Pentecost sermon: ‘This Jesus God raised up, and of that we are all witnesses. Being therefore exalted at the right hand of God and having received from the Father 14. CFD Moule, ‘The Christology of Acts’, in Studies in Luke–Acts (see note 6 above).

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the promise of the Holy Spirit, he has poured out this which you see and hear’ (Acts 2:32,33). Important to note is this: the discontinuity between Luke’s Gospel and his Acts is not marked by the creation of the church for the first time. It does not even consist in a new definition of church as such, but rather in a new confession to the risen Lord, a new possession of his Spirit, and a new universal task: mission. III. The Theme of Continuity We turn to the less obvious but, for Luke, even more important, theme of continuity which has tended to be underplayed in Lucan studies. From a range of data that might be adduced we can only cite selectively. By way of anticipation, we can state that Luke appears to be interested in highlighting continuity in three areas: continuity with the history of salvation in the Old Testament, with the ministry of Jesus, and continuity between the first Palestinian (Jerusalem) church and the church of the Gentiles. We begin with the third area since the facts are obvious and the conclusions uncontested. For Luke there is only one people of God in possession of the Spirit. Thus, the justification of the Gentle mission is, in effect, the story of the Spirit and his guiding.15 Beginning with the story of Pentecost in Acts 2, Luke is at pains to picture the church as the Spirit–filled and Spirit–led people of God. The apostles as witnesses of the risen Lord are filled with that gift of the Spirit, boldness (parrhesia).16 Sin against the community of believers is a sin against the Spirit, as in the sad case of Ananias and Sapphira (5:3,9). The seven deacons are necessarily men filled with the Spirit (6:3).17 It is even more important for our purpose to note that every stage in the church’s expansion according to the programme enunciated in (1:8) is initiated by the Spirit. The special Samaritan Pentecost in chapter 8 marks inclusion into the church of those multiracial people from the north. Philip’s encounter with the Ethiopian eunuch is initiated and terminated by the Spirit (8:29,39). Paul, the great missionary to the Gentiles, receives his 15. See SG Wilson, The Gentiles and the Gentile Mission in Luke–Acts (Cambridge: University Press, 1973), 241. 16. See Acts 2:29; 13:29–39. The cognate verb appears in 9:27,28; 13:46; 14:3; 18:26; 19:8; 26:26. 17. See also 6:5,10.

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special conversion–call with the filling of the Spirit (9:17). The Spirit proves to the Jerusalem Christians that even a pagan like Cornelius is to be included in God’s people without prior conditions apart from faith (10:44–11:18).18 It is naturally the Spirit who chooses Paul and Barnabas for the first missionary journey and sends them out (13:2– 4), just as it is the Spirit who confirms their work (13:52). Finally, it is the Spirit who is responsible for the Apostolic Decree at the Jerusalem council (15:28), and who continues to direct the missionaries at every turn in their journeys (16:6,7). It is not only the Spirit who authorises the expansion of the church beyond Judaea, and who provided justification for the unity of the one people of God, whether Jews or Gentiles. Luke is equally concerned with legitimising every new stage of the mission through the approval of the Jerusalem authorities, the original witnesses of Christ (Luke 24:48; Acts 1:8). Thus, Paul and John must be involved in the strange affairs in Samaria, after having in the first place recognised the appointment of the seven deacons, including the work of Philip (Acts 6, 8). Paul must seek out the apostles in Jerusalem after his conversion (9:26–30). It is Peter, the representative of the Jerusalem apostles as well as of the ‘circumcised’ (10:44), who is witness to the Spirit’s lesson with the conversion of Cornelius.19 Likewise, the existence of the church at Antioch must be confirmed by a representative from Jerusalem. We must finally ask why Luke was so concerned to tie the expansion of the church to Jerusalem. For the moment, we first note one further way in which Luke argues for continuity in the church’s mission. According to the definition of Acts 1:21, 22, Paul did not qualify as an apostle in the strict sense. Thus, there is a certain discontinuity between the first apostles in Jerusalem and Paul himself. Luke is quite consistent at this point. The title ‘apostle’ is only twice granted to Paul Acts (14:4,14), but the fact that Barnabas also receives this title makes it quite clear that the term is here used in a secondary sense, meaning little more than ‘missionary’; Barnabas was not an original witness of the resurrection. In addition, since it is characteristic of Luke’s diction that martys (witness) is used properly only for those who saw the risen Lord and could attest his earthly ministry (1:21, 22; 10:36–39, Luke is 18. Peter’s last words in Acts 15:8–11 echo the fundamental lesson of 11:17. 19. See how 11:1 runs parallel to 8:14.

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consistent in making Paul himself refer to the Jerusalem authorities as the original witnesses (13:31). Paul is a witness only in a secondary sense, in view of his Damascus experience with its vision of the Lord (22:15; 26:16). Paul is a witness to Christ or to the gospel,20 but never a witness to the resurrection in the same sense as the first apostles.21 Behind these distinctions there stands Pauls’ long struggle for recognition of his apostleship which comes to the fore in his correspondence, especially in Second Corinthians. While admitting the discontinuity between the Jerusalem apostles and Paul, Luke is eager as Paul himself to stress his equal standing, his right to stand alongside the original apostles as a witness to the Lord. But he does it in a different way. While Paul stresses his divine: commission and his absolute independence of the Jerusalem apostles (Gal 1), Luke, as noted above, ties Paul as closely as possible to Jerusalem (9:26–30), and does that soon after his conversion. But there is that other well– known device of Luke that makes the same point. He not only narrates the call of Paul three times (chapters 9, 22, 26). He also parallels the ministry of Peter with that Paul.22 a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h.

Both Peter and Paul heal a lame man (3:1–10; 14:8–14) Both raise a dead person (9:40, 41; 20:10) Both overcome a magician (8:18–24; 13:8–12) Both exclude supernatural powers (5:15; 9:12) Both drive out demons (5:16; 16:16–18) Both are agents of divine punishment (5:1–11; 13:6–12) Both give the Spirit with the laying on of hands (8:14, 15; 19:6) Both are miraculously freed from captivity (5:17–26; 12:2–17; 16:23, 24) i. Both reject the adulation given them as superhuman beings (10:25, 26; 14:15) j. Peter and Paul make about the same number of major speeches or sermons k. Both make a good confession before judges who are unable to convict them of any crime 20. See 22:18; 23:11; 26:22; 20:24. Paul’s references to himself as ‘witness’ occur in apologetical contexts. 21. See 1:22; 2:32; 3:15; 5:32; 10:39; 13:31. 22. For a similar list see G Stählin, Die Apostelgeschichte (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1968), 5.

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l. Both find a reluctant ally among their judges (5:34–39; 26:24–32) m. The first sermon of Peter on Pentecost day and of Paul at Pisidian Antioch, show remarkable similarities: 1. there are similar terms of address (2:22, 29; 13:16, 26), 2. there is a similar recitation of salvation–history (2:22–24; 13:17–25, 3. there occurs the same appeal to the resurrection promise to David fulfilled in Christ (2:25–31; 13:33–36), 4. there is a similar appeal to ‘witnesses’ (2:32; 13:31) 5. we find the same antithetical and typically Lucan contrast between the action of humans in killing the Christ and the action of God in raising him from the dead (2:36; 13:27–31, 6. both sermons climax in a similar offer of forgiveness (2:38,39; 13:38,39).23 We will return to the question why Luke would have wanted to impress on his reader(s) this theme of continuity and unity in the early church. First, we turn to the second area of continuity, that between the history of Jesus and the church. IV. Parallel Material in Luke–Acts There is of course an obvious parallel between the trial and death of Jesus and that of Stephen, the first blood witness. Stephen’s accusers cannot withstand the wisdom and the Spirit with which he speaks (6:10). In view of Luke 12:12 and 21:15, it is Jesus who supplies the wisdom and the Spirit for Stephen. One is tempted to say that here Christ himself is again on trial; thus, the parallels naturally heap up. As in Christ’s passion, though admittedly not in Luke’s account,24 false witnesses are lined up against Stephen (6:13). Luke seems to take up familiar features of the gospel tradition not included in his Gospel and makes them a part of the history of the early church. More precisely, features in the church’s history are meant to recall well known features in the gospel tradition. The obvious parallels begin at 7:56. The martyr sees the Son of man in glory standing to

23. The Western text at 14:10 offers a parallel to 3:6 with its addition, ‘I say to you in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ . . .’ 24. See Matt 26:59–62 and Mark 14:55–60.

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welcome him home.25 Jesus had spoken of the session of the Son of man in glory at God’s right hand at his trial (Luke 22:69). While one can make a loose connection between the charges brought against Jesus and Stephen (noting the common charge of blasphemy), the direct parallels occur only at the end of the account where Jesus’ word from the cross, ‘Father, into your hands I commit my spirit’ (Luke 23:46) has its echo in the cry of Stephen, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit’ (Acts 7:59). The cry of Jesus, ‘Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they are doing’ (Luke 23:34), is likewise echoed by Stephen’s last words, ‘Lord, do not hold this sin against them’ (Acts 7:60). It is in John’s Gospel that we find the promise of Jesus that his disciples will continue his works and indeed do greater works (John 14:12). But the same continuity is suggested by Luke in Acts. The ascension brings with it the absence of Jesus from his disciples until his return (Acts 1:9–11; 3:21), and yet the ministry of Jesus is continued by his Spirit (2:33; 16:7), through the saving power of the Name26 and the deeds of the apostles. It is especially in the miracle stories that we can follow this line of continuity with Jesus’ earthly ministry. Peter says to the sick Aeneas, ‘Jesus Christ heals you’ (Acts 9:34). The continuation, ‘Rise and make your bed’, together with the reaction of the crowd, is surely meant to remind the reader of that earlier healing of a paralytic in Luke 5:17–26 (=Mark 9:1–8). It is furthermore most probable that Luke implies a double meaning with his use of iaomai (to heal). It means both healing and salvation. Both Luke 5 and Acts 9 use this term, reminiscent of rapha’ in the Old Testament, but Mark’s account does not contain it. There are perhaps even more powerful Gospel reminiscences of the healing of the paralytic in Luke 5:17–26 in the story of the healing of the lame man at the Gate Beautiful in Acts 3. Five features are common to both accounts; we refer only to the verses in Acts: a. b. c. d. e.

the gravity and length of the illness is established (v 2), the healer confronts and speaks to the sick person (vv 3–5), the actual healing is briefly stated (vv 6,7a), the fact of healing is a established objectively (vv 7b,8), the amazement of the onlookers provides the climax (vv 9,10).

25. The only occurrence of ‘Son of man’ in Acts. 26. See chapters 3 and 4 for the theology of the ‘name of Jesus’.

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Even allowing for the form critical observation that miracle stories assumed common forms already in the stage of oral transmission, showing parallel and stylised features, one can hardly escape the conclusion that Luke wanted his readers to draw a connection between the gospel narrative and the story in Acts, between the work of the Lord and his apostle. That early readers did indeed see such a connection is indicated by the Byzantine textual tradition at Acts 3:6 which expands the simple command ‘walk’ into ‘rise and walk’, thus offering an exact parallel to Luke 5:23. In Peter’s last miracle, the gospel parallels are again prominent. The raising of Dorcas/ Tabitha recalls the raising of the daughter of Jairus. As in the Gospel story, the mourning crowd is sent out of the room (Mark 5:40). Peter’s command, ‘Tabatha, arise’, differs only slightly from Jesus own command, ‘Talitha qumi’ (Mark 5:41). It may be objected that the parallels are not found in Luke’s Gospel, and that the Aramaic phrase is missing in Luke 8:53.27 There is an obvious parallel between Luke 7:15 and Acts 9:40,41 in that, as with the raising of the young man at Nain, Dorcas sits up, opens her eyes, and is restored to her friends. Otherwise, it must be admitted that Luke appears to refer back to his own Gospel narrative only once in Acts 9 with the Dorcas story. At this point we can refer to the argument adduced above, that Luke likes to allude to dominical sayings and deeds in the gospel tradition by recalling similar or parallel features in the history of the early church. One is justified in asking whether Luke deliberately leaves out of his Gospel narratives certain features that are taken up later in Acts, to tie together as closely as possible the earthly ministry of the Lord with that of his witnesses. A few further observations support this conclusion. The third summary account in Acts 5:12–16, in contrast to the previous two in 22:42–47 and 4:32–37, highlights the miracles of the apostles. Just as Jesus healed with the hem of his robe, so even Peter’s shadow has healing power (5:15). Here there is even a linguistic parallel in the use of k’an in Mark 6:56. It will be remembered that Mark 6:56 stands at the beginning of the so–called ‘great omission’ of Luke, that is, of that section of the Markan material which Luke omits 27. It is also missing in Matt 9:25; Acts 9:40 uses the Greek imperative anastethi rather the Semitic qumi.

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in his Gospel (Mark 6:45–8:26). It is significant that there stands at the beginning of the section in Mark a summary account relating Jesus’ healing ministry. It is not a coincidence that, immediately after the parallel summary account in Acts 5, we find themes occurring in Acts which closely parallel the material located in the ‘great omission’. In particular, the material found in Mark 7 reminds us of the stories of the apostles in Acts. Just as Jesus immediately finds himself in controversy with the Jewish leaders (Pharisees and scribes according to Mark 7:1), so Luke completes his first section in Acts by following his third summary account with the apostle’s final conflict with the Jewish leaders (the Sadducees and the council). And just as Mark 7 pictures Jesus’ ministry in Gentile territory with the story of the Syro–Phoenician woman (Mark 7:24–30), so Luke begins a new phase in his story of the church with the expansion of the mission into Gentle territory with chapter 6 and the election of the seven deacons, the story of Samaria and the Ethiopian eunuch in chapter 8, the conversion of Paul in chapter 9, and the programmatic conversion of Cornelius in chapters 10 and 11. The cumulative evidence is clear. Luke wants to show, by the deliberate omission of material from his Gospel and the adoption of similar material in Acts, as well as by other reminiscences of the gospel tradition, that the ministry of Jesus is continued in and through the apostles. The age of salvation is neither seen exclusively in the age of Jesus, the midpoint of history, nor is it projected forward to the eschaton. Now, since the resurrection and Pentecost, is the day of salvation. Now, and not only in the final day of the Lord the promise of the Joel prophecy applies: ‘Whoever calls on the name of the Lord will be saved’ (Acts 2:21. This prophetic word is seen as fulfilled in the events that follow Pentecost, for the catchwords of 2:21 are again taken up in 2:36, 38–40, 47. V. Continuity with the Old Testament The reference to Old Testament prophecy brings us to the final area where Luke wants to stress the theme of continuity, the relationship between history of God’s people in the Old Testament and the story of the church. That Luke’s account is full of the simple prophecy and fulfillment scheme need not be demonstrated. Jesus is the eschatological prophet in fulfilment of the promise of Deuteronomy

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18:15 (Acts 3:22; 7:37); he is the fulfilment of the resurrection hope first spoken to David but denied to him (Ps 16:8–11, cited in Acts 2:25–28; 13:35). He is the Christ foretold by all the prophets (2:31; 3:18,24; 9:22; 10:43). In the service of his ascension Christology, Luke also gives special prominence to Psalm 2:7 (Acts 13:33) and specially to Psalm 110:1 (Acts 2:34). Just as important though perhaps less obvious are other features in Acts which indicate that Luke is not concerned with pointing out disjuncture between two periods of Heilsgeschichte. They rather point to the continuing story of the one people of God, the continuing ‘mighty acts of God’. This phrase in Peter’s Pentecost sermon (Acts 2:11–22) is Septuagintal diction.28 It belongs to the language of the exodus creed which sings of the deliverance of Israel through God’s gedoloth, his works done with ‘mighty hand and outstretched arm’ (Deut 11:2). There is now a new note to this song: it recalls God’s mighty works done through his Son, Jesus Christ. Features in the account of Pentecost remind us of the giving of the law on Mount Sinai in Jewish tradition. The scholarly commentaries29 and Hull30 draw attention to the interesting parallel between Acts 2:1–4 and Philo’s description of the giving of the law on Sinai. In both cases God sends out an echos (sound) which then appears as pyr (fire) and is perceived by all the nations represented as dialektos/glossa (language).31 There is a Jewish tradition, though possibly later than Acts, which speaks of the Ten Commandments being promulgated with a single voice which then divided into seven and then seventy voices ‘so that every people received the law in their own language’. Though the custom of reading Exodus 19 on the day of Pentecost, as part of synagogal celebration of the giving of the law, can be traced back with certainty only to the second century AD, the association of Pentecost with the Sinai event would appear to go back to New Testament times. If this connection existed, it is reasonable to suppose Luke narrates the outpouring of the Spirit on the background of the exodus 28. LXX Ps 70:90; 104:1; 105:21, and Deut 11:2. 29. For example, Haenchen, Acts of the Apostles (Oxford: Blackwell, 1971), 167; FF Bruce, The Book of the Acts (London: Marshall, Morgan, and Scott, 1954), 54. 30. JHE Hull, The Holy Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles (London: Lutterworth,1967), 53–56. 31. Philo, De decalogo 33.

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tradition. Here the important thing to note is this: While Pentecost is the beginning of the last days (2:17),32 and marks the beginning of a new era with the gift of the Spirit to ‘all flesh’, it does not mark the birth of the church as such. Luke rather relates the event as a pivotal moment within the continuum of salvation history. Thus, as Haenchen has shown,33 Luke does exactly what we would expect him to do. He tells the story of the church with language that is full of Septuagintal language. Especially his history of the early church in Jerusalem abounds in such diction. A small selection of data from Acts indicates how Luke portrays the history of the church as the continuation of the history of God’s people in the Old Testament. The section 9:32–43 (Peter’s miracles on the coast at Lydda and Joppa) occupies a key position between the conversion and call of Paul and what is perhaps the most important turning point in Acts, the conversion of the heathen Cornelius. The sequence of events not only serves to unite the ministry of Peter and Paul. It not only illustrates, as shown above, continuity between the ministry of Jesus and his apostles. It also reveals strong lines of connection with the Old Testament. The first verse (9:32) begins with the Septuagintal phrase which sets the tone for the whole section.34 The Old Testament allusions begin with verse 37 and the raising of Tabitha. One is reminded of the other ‘upper room’ in which the prophet Elijah raised the son of the widow of Zarephath (1 Kgs 17:17–24), or the parallel in Elisha’s ministry, a story that also serves to illustrate the continuation of the master’s ministry in that of his disciple (2 Kgs 4:18–37). Acts 9:40 with its three features: the exclusion of others from the room, prayer, and the opening of the dead person’s eyes, offers a direct parallel to Second Kings 4:33–35. The evidence might be further accumulated. The justification of the Gentile mission is found already in the Old Testament where Israel has a divinely appointed mission to the nations (Acts 13:47; 14:16–18). Stephen’s speech in Acts 7, with its long recital of salvation–history in 32. Though Luke would see the resurrection, ascension, and Pentecost as marking the inauguration of the last days. 33. See Haenchen, Acts, 72–75, and passim throughout his commentary. 34. In the LXX egeneto plus accusative and infinitive corresponds to ‘and it happened’ in the Masoretic text.

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the Old Testament, not only underlines the continuity of history with the stubbornness of Israel and the rejection of God by his own people. It also points to a continuity between the prophets (with Moses as the prophet) who were rejected, and the servants of Christ who must now suffer a similar fate. It might be interesting to examine more fully how the theme of the suffering and rejected prophet is taken up by Luke in Acts. The point being made is clear enough without further evidence: Luke tells a New Testament story within the continuum of salvation– history begun in the Old Testament. Just as the apostle does nothing less than the Lord himself in raising the dead, so his deeds are also a continuation of the acts of God through his prophets who looked forward to this Lord (3:24; 10:43). There is a continuous line from the acts of God in the exodus, to the acts of the prophets, to the acts of Jesus, and to the acts of the apostles. Thus, while Luke certainly knows of the ‘new covenant’ in Christ,35 he does not speak of a new people of God or of a new Israel in contrast to an old Israel. Jacob Jervell’s Luke and the People of God,36 successfully argues that Luke’s concern is to show that the church is not a new Israel but the one people of God which has always existed. Luke never had any conception of the church as the new or true Israel. Luke is rather concerned to show that when the gospel was preached the one people of God, Israel, was split in two. The result is that those Jews who did not accept the gospel are purged from Israel. The history of the people of God, of the one and only Israel, continues [emphasis added] among those obedient Jews who believe in Jesus.37

This is the only fitting conclusion after one has noted that most of the ‘growth statements’ in Acts, right down to the last chapter, deal with the inclusion of Jews into the church, that despite the repeated cry, ‘Now we turn to the gentiles’ (13:46; 18:6; 28:28), Paul is always found turning first to the Jews in any new locality that he visits, right 35. Only Luke among the evangelists has the phrase ‘new covenant’ in the words of institution over the cup (Luke 22:20), provided that the longer text is original and not a reflection of the Pauline wording in1 Corinthians 11:25. 36. Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1972. 37. J Jervell, Luke and the People of God, 15.

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up to Rome itself. It may well be that some of Jervell’s arguments are manufactured to fit his thesis, but he has shown clearly that Luke also, and not only Paul, reflected theologically on the nature of the church as the people of God in continuity with the Old Testament people of God. VI. Summary Conclusions The ways Luke draws lines of connection between the history of the church and the story of the Christ, as well as with the Old Testament, go beyond the evidence cited above, but it is time to make a few summary comments on the purposes of Luke in view of our observations.38 The suggestion that Luke had a political motive in writing Acts, that he wanted to defend the young church from the accusation that it was suspect in the eyes of the state, that he was presenting an apology for Paul alone, that he wanted to show how the gospel is preached or ought to be preached,39 all such theories come to grief on the fact that Luke wrote a detailed history–whether it is history in our sense of the word is here irrelevant. Likewise, while Luke has his own answer to the question of eschatology, this alone is not his major concern. Kümmel argued that Luke shows no inner–Christian polemic, that he simply tells the story of the apostolic church to edify Christians and woo pagans.40 However, in view of our investigation and redaction studies on the Gospel, it is unlikely that Acts is only an edificatory document and a mission tract. His concern with salvation–history presupposes some other situation. He can hardly be writing simply for Jewish Christians to justify the Gentile mission. In fact, Acts does not justify the mission itself but rather the absence of conditions for Gentiles to become part of the one church of God. This is clear from the Cornelius story as well as the Apostolic Council and its decree. This thesis would in any case 38. There is a wealth of material in MD Goulder, Type and History in Acts (London: SPCK, 1964), though Goulder’s main thesis that Luke is concerned with typology is open to question. 39. M Dibelius, Studies in the Acts of the Apostles (London: SCM, 1956), 165. 40. WG Kümmel, Introduction to the New Testament (London: SCM, 1966), 115.41 Barrett, Luke the Historian, 63; see also CH Talbot, Luke and the Gnostics (Nashville: Abingdon, 1966).

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demand a rather early dating for Acts, something not impossible but rather unlikely. Haenchen argued convincingly that Luke writes as a Hellenistic author in a Hellenistic world. It is further unlikely that Luke wrote simply to support Paul’s authority, though this may have indeed been contested by Jewish Christians or Judaizers in certain localities even after Paul’s death. It is equally unlikely that Luke had only Gentile Christians in mind. Paul’s letter to the Romans in chapters 9 to 11 and 15 certainly shows that the Gentiles were in danger, at least in Paul’s mind, of forgetting their Jewish origins and proudly separating themselves from the Church of the circumcision, but it is by no means certain that this was a problem that Luke saw in the Gentile Christians of his day, quite apart from the problem whether the writer of Acts was a companion of Paul and thus knew both his letter to the Romans and Paul’s answer to this problem. Certainly, Luke argues for the unity of the one church of the circumcised and uncircumcised, but it appears that we should go beyond Baur’s thesis and antithesis (Jewish and Gentile Christianity) and posit a different synthesis which was already posing a threat to the church in Luke’s day, one that had reared its head in Paul’s day. Was Luke writing to counter the abuse of a dangerous ‘gnosticising’ Christianity? CK Barrett, together with others, suggested this background for Acts: ‘So far as Acts is an apology, it was an apology addressed to the church, demonstrating Paul’s antignostic orthodoxy, and his practical and doctrinal solidarity with the church of Jerusalem.’41 Barrett’s observation that Luke studiously avoids gnostic terminology is not enough to prove the point. One will have to look at the whole scope of Luke–Acts to see that Luke is offering an answer or a challenge to some of the major features of incipient Gnosticism, as we know it from Paul’s Corinthian correspondence, the Pastoral Letters, Colossians, and possibly John’s Gospel. Luke with his extended eschatology can be understood as countering a gnosticising eschatology which denies both the continuity of the present age of salvation with the whole history of salvation, as well as that future consummation which will usher in the kingdom 41. Barrett, Luke the Historian, 63; see also CH Talbot, Luke and the Gnostics (Nashville: Abingdon, 1966).

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of God in its perfection. Luke tries to counter that dehistoricising process that Paul also had to counter with his theology of the cross in first Corinthians, and that negation of a future consummation which finds its polemical answer in first Corinthians 15 and Second Timothy 2:18. While we know only from the systems of developed Gnosticism of the second century, especially that of Marcion, that it finally involved an anti–Old Testament polemic, one can suppose that the seeds of this rejection of the Old Testament already lay within the Gentile Christianity of the first century, at least certain forms of it. Luke’s insistence on the continuity of salvation history would be perfectly understandable, if not imperative, in this situation, as also his argument for the continuity between Paul as missionary to the uncircumcised and Peter as missionary to the circumcised. What FF Bruce writes may be partly true: ‘Paul, no doubt, is Luke’s hero’.42 It becomes fully true when it is added that not Paul alone, his standing and authority are at stake. Paul had to defend his authority against the Corinthian spiritualists, especially in the second letter. He had to argue against those who show many signs of an early anti–historical process at work. But Luke’s argument is not the same as Paul’s. He stresses that Paul, like the original apostles worked signs and wonders, whereas Paul himself in his famous apology in Second Corinthians refused to base his authority on the signs of power, and rather boasted of his weakness. But both Paul and Luke, each in his own way, saw the danger of a gospel divorced from history. Each saw the spectre of a divided church. The often–repeated statement is true: The Acts of the Apostles is a misnomer. It is rather the story of the ongoing acts of God worked through the Spirit, working in the name of Christ through his apostles. And those acts of God embrace the whole history of salvation: past, present, and future. To miss the continuity of history is to make a step toward disrupting the unity of the church. That, perhaps, is what Luke wanted most to point out to his readers, and that, finally, may be what we must learn again today

42. Bruce, The Book of Acts, 26.

Pneumatic Apostleship? Apostle and Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles

First published in Wort in der Zeit. Festgabe für Karl Heinrich Rengstorf zum 75. Geburtstag, edited by W Haubeck and M Bachmann (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1980), 21–35 Professor Rengstorf, whom this essay seeks to honour, rejected any effort to establish a ‘school’. As our teacher he inculcated devotion to the subject matter itself: early Judaism and Christian origins. Apart from his major contributions in the field of Rabbinics, he remains known, also outside his native Germany, for his repeated stress on the origins of apostolic ministry with the historical Jesus and the risen Lord.1 Apostolate and risen Lord are not simply chapter headings in a New Testament Theology, but fundamental presuppositions for a correct understanding of the message of the New Testament, as well as of the nature of ministry in the church today. As is well known, the thesis which traces the office of the Christian Apostle to the office of the Jewish shaliach (representative agent), certainly has not received general acceptance. Nevertheless, a review of the question by J Andrew Kirk not only asserted that Rengstorf ’s original treatment must remain the starting point for any further examination of the problem, but also reached conclusions which build, at least theologically, on the article in the Theological Dictionary of the New

1. See apostello, TDNT I, 398–47; Die Auferstehung Jesus: Form, Art und Sinn der urchristlichen Osterbotchaft (5th edition; Witten/Rhur, 1967); Apostolate and Ministry (St Louis: CPH, 1969); ‘The Election of Matthias’, in Current Issues in New Testament Interpretation, edited by W Klassen and GF Snyder (London:1962, 178–92.

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Testament.2 It is not the intention of this brief study to reopen the whole range of etymological, historical, and theological questions associated with the origin and nature of the apostle in the early church. The immediate aim is more modest: to examine with special reference to Acts the connection between apostolate and the Spirit. The specific reasons for such an examination are twofold. In the first place, Rengstorf has himself, while stressing the personal commission of the apostle by the Risen Lord, also indicated that there is a close connexion between apostleship and the Holy Spirit. ‘The Spirit is indispensable for the renewed apostleship.’3 In a footnote comment the office of the apostle is described as being thoroughly ‘pneumatic’, a view, which is repeated by W Schmithals, whose thesis on the origin of the apostolate in early church is diametrically opposed to that of Rengstorf.4 While validating this argument primarily from Paul’s writings in the apostolos article in Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, Rengstorf had added evidence also from the Acts of the Apostles in his Apostolate and Ministry.5 The purpose here is not to attempt a defence of the picture of the apostle in the rather maligned book of Acts, nor even to attempt an assimilation of Luke’s picture with that of Paul in his own letters. Our purpose is simply to examine how the obvious connection between apostle and Spirit fits into the theology and themes of Acts, based on a fuller examination of the data. In the second place, the relevance of our topic is highlighted by the present situation of the church on every continent. New theologies of mission are accompanied by, or even rise out of, a crisis in the understanding of the ministry of the church. The attempt to pinpoint the Spirit at work in developing nations, in movements to gaining political freedom, social justice, and international peace is, arguably, a symptom of the failure of nerve in the exercise of a truly apostolic ministry in the church. On the other side of the theological spectrum, 2. JA Kirk, ‘Apostleship since Rengstorf: Towards a Synthesis’, in New Testament Studies, 21 (1975): 249–64. 3. apostello, TDNT, 432. 4. W Schmithals, The Office of Apostle in the Early Church (London: 1971), 42. JHE Hull, The Holy Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles (London, 1967) fails to make the connection between apostle and Spirit when he speaks of disciples rather than apostles in the narrative of Acts; see 70,71. 5. Apostolate and Ministry, 36,37,59–70.

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the charismatic movement claims to represent a new outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Despite great stress on personal renewal and the visible signs of the Spirit’s power, usually developed from the narrative of Acts (seen as offering something like a blueprint of the Spirit’s work in all ages), it is questionable whether this movement has appreciably contributed to a deeper understanding of the church’s ministry as apostolic and pneumatic. However, if ‘the Spirit is the formative principle of the office and gives the apostle inner certainty’,6 must not the same be said of the pastors today if they are to be sure that they still function within a true apostolic ministry? Paul is never found making a claim to the Spirit that is higher, greater, or superior to that which any member of the church could claim. It is characteristic of him that he stresses the one Spirit at work in the whole church, in the entire body of Christ, with all its members (1 Cor 12). But there are moments when it is just as an apostle that he claims the possession of the Spirit of the Lord. To the Corinthians, especially to the ‘pneumatics’, he says, not with doubt in his mind, but rather with a certainty even more impressive because of the intended touch of sarcasm: ‘I think that I have the Spirit of God’ (1 Cor 7:40).7 His proclamation of the ‘word of the cross’ produced its own demonstration of the Spirit’s power (2:4,13; 1 Thess 1:5; Rom 15:17– 19). Paul knows he is an apostle because he has ‘seen’ the Lord (1 Cor 9:1; 15:8). That he does not refer to the Damascus experience more often to certify his apostleship should not be interpreted as a sign of uncertainty that this was, in fact, the origin of his apostolate. Paucity of references to it indicates the difficulty Paul had in convincing those who challenged his authority that his vision of the risen Lord was an objective call. With the Corinthians he is forced to employ the pneumatic argument, even to the point where he must engage in folly, in boasting of the marks and ‘signs of a true apostle’ (2 Cor 12:12 within 11:1–12:13). It is within the context of this argument that he appeals to his readers themselves as his workmanship in the Lord (1 Cor 9:1), as a letter ‘written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God (2 Cor 3:3). Paul can thus not only claim the lesser gift of tongues that the Corinthians prize so inordinately, but also other 6. Apostolate and Ministry, 63. 7. Whether Paul’s possession of the Spirit had been challenged before he wrote Second Corinthians is not clear, but he still seems to be making ‘a subtle thrust at the pneumatics’; H Conzelmann, 1 Corinthians (Philadelphia: Fortress), 175,136.

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special experiences of the Spirit, even if his only valuation of these experiences and signs is different from that of his opponents. The pneumatic and charismatic nature of Paul’s apostolate is clear also from the list of the ministerial gifts of the Spirit in First Corinthians 12:28.8 His apostolic office itself is called a concrete gift of grace (charis; Rom 1:5; 1 Cor 3:10).9 Nevertheless, the connection between apostle and Spirit in Paul’s thinking in no way stands in tension with the origins of his office in the encounter with his Lord. The commission and authority come from the Lord, the power and ongoing certification of his ministry come from the Spirit, who is the Spirit of the Lord (2 Cor 3:17). Paul’s claim to speak the Spirit’s words is, at the same time the claim to speak the words of the Lord. There is with Paul, then, no competition or tension between the two essential elements of his apostolate: office (dominical authority) and charism (certification by the Spirit). It is commonly assumed that the conditions for apostleship as stated in Paul (1 Cor 9:1) and in Acts (1:21,22) cannot be brought into harmony with each other but represent opposing views. Based on this argument it might also be assumed a priori that Luke’s conception of the special link between apostle and Spirit is also different from that of Paul. The counterargument that that any differences between Paul and Luke are not theological but reflect an historical development in the office in the early church,10 raises the question whether Paul and Luke are fundamentally at variance also in then question of the role of the Spirit in the exercise of the apostolic office. That Acts underlines a close connection between the role of the apostles and the work of the Holy Spirit after Pentecost hardly needs demonstration. On a lexicographic–statistical count the Acts should be called the Acts of the Spirit. While leading apostles are mentioned by name during the narrative, the actual Greek term apostoloi (always in the plural) appears twenty–eight times),11 while the Spirit (pneuma)

8. See also Eph 4:11; 2:20; 3:5. 9. A Satake, ‘Apostolat und Gnade bei Paulus’, New Testament Studies, 15 (1968): 96–106. 10. See Kirk, Apostleship since Rengstorf, 2261–64. 11. Apostleship (apostole) also in 1:25. The ‘eleven’ in 1:26 and 2:14, the ‘twelve’ in 6:2.

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is expressly referred to fifty–seven times.12 More importantly, Luke does not connect apostle and Spirit in the same way as does Paul. In Acts the twelve apostles in Jerusalem have a significance that is not paralleled in Paul’s writings. On the negative side, nowhere in Acts does an apostle, whether Peter or Paul, appear with a special claim to the Spirit as a mark of apostolic authority. Nowhere is apostleship described as a special charism. The immediate impression left by Acts is that the apostles are filled with the Spirit and under his direction in the same way as the whole church is Spirit–filled and Spirit–led. The apostles Peter and Paul are ‘filled with the Holy Spirit’ as they witness to Christ (4:8; 13:9), but the seven chosen for a special diaconate are also ‘full of the Spirit and of wisdom’ (6:3), though it must be noted that it is precisely the Twelve who call for the appointment of the ‘deacons’ and stipulate the conditions for their office. One of the seven, Stephen, is especially full of the Spirit (6:5; 7:55). Likewise, the ‘all’ who are filled with the Spirit according to 4:31 cannot be limited to the apostles. They are here the friends (verse 23) of Peter and John, the wider company of believers referred to in 4:32.13 Without attempting to answer the many historical questions raised by the narrative of Acts, the focus here will be on the way in which the linking of apostles and Spirit serves the development of prominent motifs. It is best to proceed by briefly examining key sections in the narrative. 1.  The Promise of the Spirit It is to the Eleven that Jesus gives his command to wait in Jerusalem for ‘the promise of the Father’, the Spirit who will give them power for their ministry (Luke 24:33,47–49; Acts 1:2,4,8). The specific meaning of the phrase ‘through the Holy Spirit’ in Acts 1:2 has caused problems for commentators. For theological as well as grammatical 12. See also the Spirit described as ‘the promise of the Father’ (1:4; 2:33; Luke 24:49) and the ‘gift’ (2:38; 8:20; 10:45; 11:17). The statistic includes Acts 18:25 and19:21 where there are good reasons for taking pneuma as the Holy Spirit, not in an anthropological sense. Though hagion pneuma is the more common term in Acts, pneuma appears by itself for the Holy Spirit twelve times (including 16:7, ‘Spirit of Jesus’). Only in 17:16 does pneuma refer to the human spirit, as the personal pronoun indicates. 13. On ‘all’ in 2:1 see further below.

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reasons, it is best to take the phrase as qualifying the participle ‘having given command’ (enteilamenos) rather than the finite verb ‘chosen’ (exelexato).14 The command that Jesus gives ‘through the Holy Spirit’ must be that contained in Luke 24:44–49, and Acts 1:4,8; the Eleven are to wait in Jerusalem for the gift of the Spirit. Luke is not suggesting that it was the Spirit, through the risen Lord, who chose the apostles; it was the Lord himself who, after his resurrection, confirmed their appointment and authorisation as his apostles and pointed them forward to a new ministry of universal dimensions. He who was himself anointed with the Holy Spirit and with power promised the Eleven that they would share the same power in the exercise of a ministry into which they had already been called. The reception of the Spirit was to confirm the position of the apostles as those who represented the Lord himself, for he would give what he had himself received for his ministry.15 It is as the Spirit–filled Lord, and by the power of the Spirit that Jesus called the Eleven to witness with the promise of the same power. Thus, the opening verses of Acts serve not only to set the stage for Pentecost as the beginning of the church’s mission. They also serve to underline Luke’s view that the apostles are authorised by and continue the ministry of Jesus himself. 2.  The Election of Matthias Luke from the outset marks the ministry of the apostle as performed through the Holy Spirit. It is equally clear that this ministry is not constituted by the Spirit but must be traced back to the Lord himself. The same point can be made in connexion with the narrative of Acts 1:15–26, to which Professor Rengstorf has devoted special attention.16 For Luke, the significance of the story cannot be divorced from its context or setting between the ascension of Christ and Pentecost. It relates an event to which no further reference is made in the continuing narrative of Acts. Matthias is never again mentioned, and the full body of the Twelve is referred to only on one other occasion (6:2). 14. Against E Haenchen, The Acts of the Apostles (London: 1971), ad loc., and K Lake and HJ Cadbury, The Beginnings of Christianity IV (London:1933), 3. For a correct analysis see FF Bruce, The Book of Acts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmanns, 1954), 33. 15. Cf 2:32, 33 and 10:38. 16. Rengstorf, ‘Election of Matthias’.

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There is no supplementary election to fill the vacancy of James after his death (12:2), nor does Luke seem to betray the slightest interest in aligning James, the brother of the Lord to the Twelve, though he clearly speaks not only as an apostle, but also for the other apostles in chapter 15. Thus, the significance of the story must be gained from its setting, the interim period before Pentecost. It is important to note that the Spirit plays no role in the actual election of Matthias. It is not even stated that Peter was led by the Spirit to find a replacement for Judas, nor can we find here the first instance of a feature that recurs frequently after Pentecost: the opening of the scriptures by the Spirit. The beginning of Peter’s first speech speaks of scripture as the predictive voice of the Spirit, but what is highlighted is a theological view of history, Judas’ initial share in the apostles’ ministry, his fall, and the need for his replacement, all belong to a divine necessity (edei in verse 16), to the predetermined will and plan of God. The Spirit is here only the witness to this plan, speaking through David in Psalm 69:26 and 109:8. In view of the role played by the Spirit at the commissioning of Barnabas and Paul at Antioch (Acts 13:1–4), it could reasonably be expected that the Spirit would also direct the choice of a replacement for Judas. But this is not the case. Instead, the Christian company directs its prayer to the risen and exalted Lord (verse 24) to make his choice. Peter takes the initiative in the election of Matthias, but he does so not at the special direction of the Spirit but in obedience to the will of God as expressed in Scripture, and in obedience to the Lord who first chose the Twelve as his special ambassadors (Luke 6:12–16). Once more, the Spirit is clearly not the foundation of the apostolate in Luke’s view. The Lord is both the creator of apostleship (verse 25) as well as the content of the apostles’ witness. Here it is not possible to examine in detail the various theories advanced to explain the full significance of the election of Matthias, how Luke understood or interpreted the restoration of the body of the Twelve.17 At least this much is clear: outside its present context 17. Apart from Rengstorf ‘Election of Matthias’, see H Flender, St Luke: Theologian of Redemptive History (London, 1967), 118,19, and J Panagopoulos, ‘Zur Theologie der Apostelgeschichte’, Novum Testamentum, 14 (1972): 137–59,141. Flender confuses the issue when he writes that ‘the choice of Matthias is directed by the Spirit’ and that it is ‘God who makes the choice’. Kyrios in verse 24 must mean Jesus as the risen and exalted Lord. On this point and on the election of Matthias as a whole, see also H von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority and Spiritual Power (London, 1969), 15,16.

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the story could be interpreted in a variety of ways. Yet, as CH Dodd has rightly observed,18 in its pre–Pentecost setting, it must have a definite sense and meaning, however much Luke may have reworked and reformulated his traditions. The election must relate not to the founding of a central body of Twelve apostles as a structural or organisational unity in the early church, but to the question of the mission of the church which begins with the gift of the Spirit. Even if his understanding of the phrase ‘to the ends of the earth’ in Acts 1:8 is not completely convincing,19 Rengstorf is correct in maintaining that this episode reflects the self–understanding of the church and its mission, rather than a concern with structures of authority and organisation in the church. If the election must come before Pentecost, the reason can only be as follows. There can be no witness to the risen Lord ‘to the ends of the earth’ until God’s claim on the whole house of Israel has been reiterated. In the words of J. Panagopoulos, the Twelve apostles are the ‘representatives of the theocratic eschatological people’.20 It is, firstly, the restored Israel, represented by the Twelve, that receives the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. But before we look at the significance of that event for Luke’s picture of the apostles, one other observation is necessary. As Stephen S Smalley has pointed out with convincing documentation, there is a close connection between the Kingdom and the Spirit in Acts.21 To the question of the disciples when the kingdom of God will be established, Jesus answers not with chronological information, not with a divine time chart. Instead, he speaks of the How of the Kingdom's coming with the outpouring of the Spirit and the universal ministry of witness (Acts 1:7–8). According to 1:2,3, this answer was given after Jesus had himself spoken by the Spirit of the kingdom of God in the interim between the resurrection and 18. CH Dodd, According to the Scriptures (London, 1961), 58, note 1: ‘It appears to me that no Sitz im Leben for such a piece of tradition is so natural or likely as the early days of perplexity. That a recollection of the essential element of procedure on so momentous an occasion should have been preserved in tradition is in no way improbably, however much the author of Acts may have written it up’. 19. Rengstorf suggests that the phrase means ‘to the uttermost limits of the Jewish dispersion’ (Election, 186). Luke surely wanted the reader to see the Lord pointing to a universal mission beyond the borders of the dispersion. 20. Panagopoulos, 141. 21. Smalley, ‘Spirit, Kingdom and Prayer in Luke–Acts’, Novum Testamentum, 15 (1973): 59–71, especially 63,64.

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ascension. This must mean that in the future after Pentecost, the King will be there where the Spirit is at work. The election of Matthias means the establishment of the claim of the early church to be nothing less than the Israel of the last times through which the Spirit is at work establishing the kingdom of God. The Twelve must first represent the old restored amphictyony (see Luke 22:29,30; Matthew 19:28) before the universal claims of the gospel can be understood or implemented by the early church. Whether Luke even knew or wanted his readers to be aware that the Jewish festival of Pentecost was also the festival of the giving of the law on Mount Sinai, the event in which God covenanted himself to, and made a claim on Israel as his elect and holy nation and a ‘kingdom of priests’ (Exod 19:6), cannot be established with certainty. However, Peter’s Pentecost speech does develop the Davidic kingship of Christ, and his claim to the throne of Israel as the one in whom the promise of resurrection has been fulfilled (Acts 2:25–36). In addition, it is just as the exalted king that the Lord now pours out his Spirit on Israel (verses 33–36). It is not by chance that Paul’s preaching of the Kingdom also appears in close connection with the reception of the Spirit by the ‘disciples’ at Ephesus (19:8), just as Philip’s preaching of the Kingdom in Samaria has been followed by the reception of the Spirit (8:12– 17). Such reception illustrates, for the early Christians as also Luke’s readers, both the presence of the Kingdom and the growth of the church as Israel. Without special pleading, a connection between the Spirit and the proclamation of the Kingdom can also be observed in Acts 20:22–28. Paul, having preached the kingdom of God in Ephesus, is still under the direction of the Spirit. As he faces his perilous journey back to Jerusalem where, according to the Spirit’s revelation, imprisonment, and suffering must await him as they have in other cities he has entered. That the Spirit is not mentioned once in the last seven chapters of Acts after 21:11 need not surprise us. The great missionary journeys are over, though Paul continues to preach Christ even in captivity. Clearly, the Spirit is with Paul and at work through him right to the end. The last verse of the book pictures the apostle preaching the kingdom of God quite openly and unhindered in Rome (28:31). Where the Kingdom is being proclaimed, there the Spirit is still at work!

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3.  The Apostles and Pentecost The old view that Pentecost was the ‘initiation into, a consecration to, specific service for God’, or ‘initiation into an official ministry’,22 must be seen as incorrect if it is implied that the apostolate is derived from the gift of the Spirit. Luke insists that the apostles were called by the Lord, not by the Spirit. However, just as Jesus could only begin his public ministry after the reception of the Spirit at his baptism, so the apostles can begin their ministry only after the Pentecost event. For our purposes, it is important to note that Pentecost means the beginning of mission to the house of Israel. Commentaries and special studies often overlook the obvious question posed by the narrative in Acts 2: Who were those who first received the Spirit? Luke seems intent on leaving us with the picture that it was the apostles’ reception of the Spirit which led to the further events of that day, including an even wider outpouring of the Spirit. The word pantes (all) in 2:1 is usually related to the company of disciples, women, and Jesus’ family, numbering about 120 persons according to 1:15.23 Such an identification is very unlikely in view of the following observations. The narrative of the initial outpouring of the Spirit is preceded by an explicit reference to the Eleven (now the Twelve) in 1:26, that is, immediately before the story begins. Similarly, Peter’s speech is prefaced with the comment that he stood up amongst the Eleven (2:14). He speaks on behalf of the Twelve who had been the first to receive the Spirit. The first impression becomes more like a certainty when we note that the onlookers refer to the men speaking in tongues as Galileans in verse 7, while Peter speaks in turn of ‘these men’ in verse 15. There is no mention of a large company. That Pentecost is a ratification of the call and claim of God to and on Israel is also made clear by the text. Though the multitude which gathers is representative of ‘every nation under heaven’, the people present are identified as devout Jews in verse 5. Peter’s address three times identifies his hearers as Israel: ‘Men of Judea and all who dwell in Jerusalem’ (verse 14); ‘men of Israel’ (verse 22); ‘all the house of Israel’ (verse 36). Looking backward, we can again see how the election of Matthias, far from being a foreign block interposed in the pre–Pentecost traditions or a story which could just as well come after 22. WH Griffith Thomas, The Holy Spirit of God, 5th edition (Grand Rapids, 1964), 42. 23. Hull, The Holy Spirit, 65.

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Pentecost, makes sense only in its given position. The appeal to Israel to believe in the one whom God raised from the dead can be made only by those who themselves represent Israel in the full sense. Again, the appeal to receive the Spirit must be made by those who have been confirmed by the Spirit as the eschatological people of God. It might be objected that the Joel Prophecy quoted in 2:17–21 presupposes that the witnesses of the Pentecost event could see the fulfilment of the prophecy in the case of the whole company of men and women referred to in 1:15. For did not Joel speak of God pouring out his Spirit not on a select few, but on sons and daughters, young men and old men, menservants, and maidservants (verses 17,18)? Quite apart from the obvious problem of identifying such groups among the company of about 120, this objection overlooks the fact that not all features of the Joel Prophecy were fulfilled on Pentecost Day. The additional signs of verses 19 and 20 are not part of that day’s events! Above all, it overlooks the importance of the opening words of the Joel text in the Lucan version. The words ‘in the last days’ are found neither in the Masoretic Text nor the LXX version of the prophecy but come rather from Isaiah 2:2 and Micah 4:1. The interpretation of this phrase must be seen as a characteristic Lukan interpretation of the event itself. The gift of the Spirit, first to the Twelve, confirms the existence of God’s eschatological people. The proclamation of the ‘mighty acts of God’ (2:11,22) can begin only with this last great act of God, the pouring out of his Spirit on Israel. The Twelve are Israel in embryo, in its projected entirety. 4.  The Jerusalem Church The book of Acts in no way intimates an exclusive apostolic claim to the Spirit above and beyond that found elsewhere in the church. Peter’s Pentecost speech climaxes in an outpouring that reaches far beyond the Twelve. While it is noteworthy that the apostles speak with ‘boldness’ as they witness to Christ, the same power of the Spirit is present throughout the church (4:13,29–31; 9:27–29. Nevertheless, it is natural that Luke should connect the ministry of the Apostles and the work of the Spirit in a special way, since they remain the original witnesses of the Lord. Such a connection is apparent in the so-called summaria of Acts. The first in 2:42–47 pictures the Jerusalem Church devoting itself to the teaching of the apostles and ‘witnessing many

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wonders and signs . . . done through the apostles’ (verses 42,43). The apostles stand in the centre of the church not because they constitute something like a praesidium or organisational hierarchy, together with the elders. It was not the apostles but the elders who were the local organisational heads or rulers of the church in Jerusalem, who received the gifts from Antioch (11:30) and who had to be involved in the question of circumcision as those responsible for the supervision of the local church (15:4, 6, 23; 16:4). Though Luke deliberately, for some reasons noted below, links the apostles with Jerusalem, there is no suggestion they must be seen merely as local authorities. They rather represent the link with and the authority of the Lord in the entire church. That is why the Spirit is at work through them with the signs and wonders that are a fulfilment of the Joel Prophecy (2:19). The Spirit confirms their role as the original witnesses of the Lord. It is as witnesses and first recipients of the Spirit that the apostles must confirm the ministry of the deacons in 6:2,6. The second summary account also links the powerful ‘testimony to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus’ with the work of the Spirit (4:31,33), while the third once more opens with a reference to the ‘many signs and wonders done . . . by the hands of the apostles' (5:12, on the background of 5:3,9). The witness of the apostles is clearly the witness of the Spirit (5:32), as much as it is also a speaking in the name of Jesus (5:40). In Acts, the Spirit is consequently seen as the guarantor of continuity between the ministry of Jesus and that of his apostles. Where the Spirit speaks, there speaks the Lord through his authorised agents. The picture is anything but that of an anonymous primitive community whose only contact with the Lord is through charismatic voices, visions, and prophetic utterances of the Spirit. The Spirit is not only the sign of the new age but also the guarantor of continuity in salvation history. Luke is less interested in seeing the apostles as guarantors of ecclesiastical tradition than in establishing the presence of the Lord himself in the church through the activity of the Spirit with the apostles. Before looking at the special apostolate of Paul and some of the problems it poses in Acts, we should devote brief attention to two other episodes in Acts where the work of the Spirit and the special role of the apostles are closely connected. Both incidents serve to support the view that Luke saw the Twelve as those who first received the Spirit at Pentecost and who were thus confirmed in their special ministry as representatives of the risen Lord and the house of Israel.

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5.  Samaria and Caesarea There is no need to repeat arguments to show how the ‘Samaritan Pentecost’ of Acts 8 and the gift of the Spirit to Cornelius and his household in Acts 10 and 11 do not constitute a blueprint for ‘how to become a Christian’ or ‘how to get the Spirit’. The error of turning these narratives into paradigms for the personal experience of the Spirit have been demonstrated with sufficient clarity.24 For Luke, both episodes represent turning points in the history of the mission of the early church. As it unfolds according to the Lord’s plan stated in Acts 1:8, it is the Spirit who takes the initiative in leading the church to an understanding of the universal claims of the gospel. The breakthrough of missionary universalism, apparent after chapter 13,25 is a conscious step on the part of the Antioch Church only after the Spirit has led the way in Samaria and Antioch. It should be noted that the man who brings the gospel to Samaria is not an apostle but the evangelist Philip, though his ministry has been confirmed by the Jerusalem Twelve (Acts 6:2,6). Despite the persecution that follows Stephen’s death, the apostles remain in Jerusalem (8:1). However, it is only after Peter and John come down from Jerusalem, pray, and lay their hands on the Samaritans that the Spirit is received by them (8:14–17). Why must the apostles be involved in this event? Obviously, the act of praying and laying on of hands is not the decisive thing; Philip could have done both. Luke in no way suggests that the lack of the Spirit was due to some deficiency in the ministry of Philip. The Spirit is certainly operative in the very next episode, as Philip meets the Ethiopian eunuch (8:29–39). A conversion takes place without any help from the apostles. That Luke is concerned to highlight the role of Peter and John as apostles who represent the whole body of the Twelve in Jerusalem, also becomes clear when we recall that the act of laying on hands and imparting the Spirit is not an apostolic prerogative. Ananias who lays his hands on Paul who then receives the Spirit is not an apostle (9:17,18). Luke makes clear that Peter and John enter the scene not simply as delegates or church officials from the mother church, but precisely as apostles. 24. See FD Bruner, A Theology of the Holy Spirit (London 1971), 173–81; JDG Dunn, Baptism in the Holy Spirit (London: SCM, 1970), 55–68; VC Pfitzner, Led by the Spirit (Adelaide: Lutheran Publishing House, 1976), 52–5. 25. Rengstorf, Apostolate and Ministry, 60.

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Similar questions arise in connection with the Cornelius story, although the details are different. Here it is an apostle who, at the direction of God through a vision (10:9–16) and the Spirit (v 19), brings the witness to Christ to a Roman centurion. The subsequent reception of the Spirit and baptism certify the fact that these ‘outsiders’ have indeed received ‘forgiveness of sins through his [Christ’s] name’ (10:43–48). Once more, however, all the apostles in Jerusalem are involved in the event. There is no mention of the ruling elders of the church as implicated in any way. The situation is different not only because no further apostles must come to Caesarea from Jerusalem (the whole body is fully represented by Peter) to confirm the gift of the Spirit, but also because the circle of those who are from Jerusalem and witness these strange events is wider. The group includes ‘the believers from among the circumcised who came with Peter’ (10:45) and ‘the brethren who were in Judea’ (11:1). But again, we must ask: Why, as in 8:14, are the apostles in Jerusalem involved in a special way? It should be noted that 8:14 speaks not simply of apostles, but of ‘the apostles at Jerusalem’. It is hardly likely that Luke is simply repeating a geographical note which localises the Twelve in the city. The note to that affect in 8:1 also begs the question why the apostles must stay in Jerusalem while other members of the church are scattered. Were they waiting for the imminent return of the Lord? Did they expect some eschatological consummation in the holy city, a final coming of the Kingdom in power during their own lifetime? Did they still nurture the kind of expectations that prompted their question to Jesus in Acts 1:6: ‘Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel?’ What Luke gives us is not insights into the thinking, hopes, and plans of the apostles. What he does is suggest that some special significance is attached to the apostles staying in Jerusalem. While Paul’s letters and the Petrine epistles in the New Testament showed that Peter later moved beyond Jerusalem, and while later tradition could trace the movement of apostles to other lands, Luke is content to leave the Twelve in Jerusalem after the Apostolic Council. They are last mentioned in 16:4. The significance of Jerusalem can here be touched on only briefly. In the Gospel of Luke, the city is the central scene of both judgment and salvation. The Gospel narrative begins and ends in the city. The various stages of the Lucan travel narrative of Luke 9:51–19:27

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are marked by the repeated refrain that Jesus set his face toward Jerusalem.26 Jerusalem is the scene of divine revelation, where the divine plan must be enacted. It is here that the kingdom of God must appear (19:11), but not in the way in which the disciples expect, for Jesus must die as the rejected prophet (13:32–34). The way in which the Lucan passion narrative is framed by two Jerusalem scenes underlines the special stress on the importance of the city: in 19:41– 44 Jesus weeps over the city, and in 23:27–31 the people of Jerusalem weep for him.27 The promise of the Spirit’s coming in Jerusalem and its subsequent fulfilment in the opening chapters of Acts clearly assert that Jerusalem is to remain the centre of future salvation history. We thus find the early Christians meeting in the temple, the centre of Israel (Acts 2:46; 3:1–3; 5:20,25,42). If there is to be any mission it must begin in Jerusalem, and move from Jerusalem (1:8), for it is there that the decisive saving event took place, Jesus’ ‘departure’ and assumption (exodos and analempsis; Luke 9:31,51).28 Since, in the Lucan view, Jerusalem, apostles, and the Spirit belong together in the picture of the early church as Israel on whom God once more has laid claim, it is only to be expected that the apostles should be involved in any extension of the church beyond Jerusalem and Judea, and that the Spirit should appear as a confirming agent. The Samaritan episode is not narrated to illustrate some special power inherent in the apostolic laying on of hands. Its purpose is rather to show that the apostles who first received the Spirit, and are continually under the guidance of the Spirit, must confirm every new stage in the extension of the church, in the mission of Israel. Jerusalem is the mother church because it is the home of the apostles as the Lord’s first witnesses. It is not merely as possessors of the Spirit that Peter and John come to Samaria. That they come as the original eyewitnesses can be seen from the almost prosaic and anti–climactic conclusion to the narrative in 8:25. Peter and John witness to the Lord, they preached the gospel in Samaria, before making their way back to Jerusalem; no further mention is made of laying on hands or special gifts of the Spirit. The one event is enough to illustrate for the apostles 26. See Luke 9:53; 13:22; 17:11; 18:1. 27. H Conzelmann, The Theology of St Luke (London, 1960), 133. 28. For a brief study of Jerusalem in Luke–Acts, see J Navone, Themes of St Luke (Rome, N.D.), 64–70.

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in Jerusalem, for the whole church, and finally for the reader of Acts, that a decisive stage in mission has been reached under the direction of the Spirit. The Kingdom has come even to the Samaritans! The Cornelius story, which also constitutes a pivotal stage in the extension of the church from Jerusalem to Rome, illustrates even more powerfully that it is the Spirit, working through the apostles, who leads the mission of Israel. Here is the Spirit’s final proof that the Gentile mission is the will of the Lord. He appears as the mentor of Peter and the Jerusalem Christians (10:19,20) who are amazed that the Spirit is poured out ‘even on the Gentiles’ (11:45). It is the apostolic community in Jerusalem that must be told that the Gentiles’ experience of the Spirit was not different from that of the circumcised. ‘God gave the same gift to them as he gave to us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ’ (11:17). The last words of Peter in Acts show how the apostles as prime witnesses had to learn from the activity of the Spirit the universalism of the gospel (15:11). The apostles are not guarantors of the Spirit. They do not have the Spirit at their disposal but are under the direction of the Spirit. They must learn that it is the will of the Lord whose witnesses they are that mission to the Gentile world is not an optional extra for the church. In Luke’s view, the role of the apostles in Samaria and Caesarea cannot be divorced from their prime role as witnesses of the Lord. One further Lucan emphasis must be pointed out. We have spoken above of the ‘mission of Israel’. It has been rightly observed that ‘when Peter speaks to Cornelius and his household, he represents Israel’.29 Cornelius, in seeking out Peter, seeks inclusion into Israel. The decisive turning point in the mission of the church comes not with a sudden burst of missionary activity on the part of the apostles beyond Jerusalem. Paul is the great missionary of Acts, not the Twelve! The election of Matthias, Pentecost, and the events at Samaria all serve to substantiate the thesis of Jacob Jervell that the church has not separated itself from Israel, nor has it gone beyond the boundaries of Judaism. Rather, the unrepentant portion of the people has forfeited its membership in the people of God.30 Since the Twelve are the representatives of Israel, they must be the first to witness the inclusion of the Gentile world into the House of Israel. 29. J Jervell, Luke and the People of God: A New Look at Luke–Acts (Minneapolis, 1972), 55. 30. Jervell, Luke and the People of God, 43.

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6.  The Apostle Paul and the Spirit After Acts 15 the Jerusalem apostles fade from view. The one further reference to them in 16:4 simply recalls the decisions of the Council in chapter 15. Furthermore, while the Spirit continues to figure prominently in the mission of Paul, at least up to 21:11, Paul is only twice called an apostle, and each time together with his companion Barnabas (14:4,14). According to Acts, Paul could not claim to be an apostle in the same sense as the original Jerusalem apostles, for he did not meet the conditions set down in 1:21,22. The mention of Barnabas with Paul does not clarify the authority of Paul, but only further complicates the question as to Luke’s understanding of his apostolate.31 The reticence of Luke to speak of apostles after the scene of his narrative shifts from Jerusalem to the Gentile world, illustrates what we have argued: the reconstituted Twelve apostles in Jerusalem stand at the beginning of the church’s history and its mission in a unique way which cannot be altered by any later deaths (James) or additions (Paul). At the same time, this reticence raises a problem which requires an answer. Even if Paul is not an apostle in the original strict sense, how is it that he still bears all the marks of a true apostle in every other sense? How does the Lucan narrative show, without having to continually call Paul an apostle, that he stands beside the Jerusalem Twelve in a fully authorised and authoritative apostolic ministry? It is significant that the picture of Paul’s apostleship in Acts rests not only on the three–fold story of his Damascus experience (chapters 9, 22, 26) with the call to be a ‘chosen instrument’32 of Christ to the Gentiles. It also stresses, as we might expect, Paul’s claim both to have the Spirit and to be under its special direction. These two features require only brief amplification, at the same noting the way in which a distinction is made between Paul and the first apostles: in Paul’s own terms, ‘those who were apostles before me’ (Galatians 1:17). It is characteristic of Luke’s diction in Acts that martys (witness) is a term that can be properly applied only to those who saw the risen 31. On the question of the apostolate of Barnabas and Paul in Acts 14:4,14, see further below. 32. The term apostolos is not used here in 9:15, as might be expected, nor in the other two accounts of Paul’s call (see 22:14,15 and 26:16–18).

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Lord and could attest his earthly ministry (Acts 1:21,22; 10:36–39). Thus, Paul also refers in Acts to the disciples who accompanied Jesus from Galilee to Jerusalem as the original and primary witnesses (13:31). He himself is never called a witness of the risen Lord in the same sense as the Jerusalem apostles; rather, he is called to be a ‘witness . . . of what you have seen and heard' (22:15), or a witness ‘to the things in which you have seen me and to those in which I will appear to you’ (26:16).33 Luke here seems to reflect an awareness of the long struggle which Paul had to fight for recognition of his special apostleship, a struggle that we know of more directly from Second Corinthians. While acknowledging the discontinuity between the Jerusalem apostles and Paul, Luke nevertheless ties Paul as closely as possible with Jerusalem and the first apostles. Even if later than the Twelve, Paul also received a special filling of the Spirit (9:17), an experience whose significance must obviously not be seen only in connection with a personal conversion. It is as one chosen to be Christ’s messenger to the nations that Paul must receive the Spirit, just as the witness to Christ in Jerusalem had to begin with the outpouring of the Spirit on the Twelve. As soon as possible, Paul is introduced to the apostles in Jerusalem through the agency of Barnabas and is accepted by them. Luke also gives us the basis of this acceptance: Paul’s claim to have seen the Lord, and his ‘boldness’ in preaching in the name of Jesus (9:27). What Luke does not say is that Paul was accepted into the circle of the apostles or that he was received as an apostle of equal standing with them. What is not explicitly stated, however, is later implied in a way that is subtle and yet powerful. The obvious parallels between the ministry of Peter and Paul are not meant to place Paul merely on the same level as Peter. Nor is Luke interested in smoothing out personal rivalries, in combatting recollections in the church of clashes between Peter and Paul, such as we have in Galatians 2. It is Paul’s right to be a legitimate heir of the apostles in Jerusalem within the one apostolic ministry that is at issue. The parallels are very extensive.34

33. Acts 22:17–21 gives another appearance of the Lord to Paul. It should be noted that when Paul refers to himself as a witness to Christ or the gospel he does so in the context of an apologetic (see 22:18; 23:11; 26:22; 20:24). 34. The following list appears also in the preceding essay in this collection.

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a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h. i. j. k. l. m.

Both Peter and Paul heal a lame man (3:1–10; 14:8–14) Both raise a dead person (9:40,41; 20:10) Both overcome a magician (8:18–24; 13:8–12) Both exclude supernatural powers (5:15; 9:12) Both drive out demons (5:16; 16:16–18) Both are agents of divine punishment (5:1–11; 13:6–12) Both give the Spirit with the laying on of hands (8:14,15; 19:6) Both are miraculously freed from captivity (5:17–26; 12:2–17; 16:23,24) Both reject the adulation given them as superhuman beings (10:25,26; 14:15) Peter and Paul make about the same number of major speeches or sermons Both make a good confession before judges who are unable to convict them of any crime Both find a reluctant ally among their judges (5:34–39; 26:24–32) The first sermon of Peter on Pentecost day and of Paul at Pisidian Antioch show remarkable similarities: 1. there are similar terms of address (2:22,29; 13:16,26), 2. there is a similar recitation of salvation–history (2:22–24; 13:17–25, 3. there occurs the same appeal to the resurrection promise to David fulfilled in Christ (2:25–31; 13:33–36), 4. there is a similar appeal to ‘witnesses’ (2:32; 13:31) 5. we find the same antithetical and typically Lucan contrast between the action of humans in killing the Christ and the action of God in raising him from the dead (2:36; 13:27–31), 6. both sermons climax in a similar offer of forgiveness (2:38– 39; 13:38,39).

The conclusions to be drawn from this apparently deliberate attempt to parallel Peter and Paul are obvious. As a witness to Christ and a man whose actions and words are a demonstration of the Spirit’s power, Paul is equally ‘witness’ and ‘apostle’ with the Jerusalem witnesses and apostles. Their unique position simply demands that Paul’s legitimate claims to apostleship and pneumatic power must be authenticated by a somewhat circuitous method rather than by title. By continually showing that Paul is under the Spirit’s directions in all his movements,35 Luke points to Paul’s ministry as the legitimate 35. Acts 13:4,9; 16:6,7; 19:21,22; 20:22,23; 21:4,11.

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continuation of the apostolic ministry of the first apostles.36 While the account of Paul’s ministry in Acts probably bears traces of an apologetic concern,37 it is likely that it is only a subsidiary element in the development of greater concern for Luke: the theme of continuity in salvation history. 6.  Apostles of Antioch? It is clear from Paul’s own correspondence and from Acts that Paul never derived his apostolic office from the church at Antioch. However, the designation of Paul and Barnabas as apostles in Acts 14:4 and 14 raises the question to what extent their ministry and apostolic status must be linked with the events of 13:1–4. Does Luke intend the reader to see Paul, Barnabas as apostles of Antioch, as emissaries of that church? It is certainly the Antioch church which commissioned them, even if verbs other than apostellein are used for their ‘sending’. Further, it is worth asking whether the linking of Paul and Barnabas sheds some light on the question of Luke’s understanding of Paul as an apostle. Whether Barnabas is qualified as an apostle in the same secondary sense as Paul, that is, whether he had seen the risen Lord by special revelation, is not made clear either in Acts or in First Corinthians 9:5,6, or Galatians 2:7–9.38 These passages only imply that Barnabas is an apostle and do not give the basis for his office. We are not told when or how Barnabas became a Christian. He simply appears as a member of the first Jerusalem community of Christians gathered around the Twelve. In Acts 4:36 there is no hint that he is an apostle; the note that he was surnamed Barnabas by the apostles could, indeed, be seen as marking him as one distinct from the circle of apostles. In 11:24 he is described in very general terms as a ‘good man’, though the more important description which follows, ‘full of the Holy Spirit and of faith’, shows him to be a man who has 36. Acts 4:8,31; 5:32; 10:19; 11:12; 15:28; the apostolic decree is also the will of the Spirit! 37. CK Barrett, Luke the Historian in Recent Study (London, 1961), 63: ‘So far as Acts is an apology, it was an apology addressed to the Church, demonstrating Paul’s anti–gnostic orthodoxy and his practical and doctrinal solidarity with the church at Jerusalem’. 38. Rengstorf, apostello in TDNT I, 422, and Apostolate and Ministry, 38, note 57.

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at least one of the marks of an apostle. More importantly, it appears that Barnabas had considerable experience as emissary before he and Paul were sent out by the church at Antioch. He appears as an agent or intermediary between Paul and the apostles in 9:27, a fact which presupposes that he had considerable contact with Christians outside Jerusalem, at least in Damascus, something which can be explained based on his origins (4:36). He next appears as a special legate or emissary (to avoid the term ‘apostle’) in a series of movements. He becomes an agent of the Jerusalem church to Antioch in 11:22–24, an agent of the Antioch congregation in fetching Paul from Tarsus in 11:25–26,39 and finally, together with Paul, an emissary of Antioch to Jerusalem in 11:29–30 (see also 12:25). In 15:2 Paul and Barnabas are again sent from Antioch to Jerusalem, though this time with others. In the light of Barnabas’s history as an envoy, we can more readily understand a small feature in the narrative of Acts that is easily overlooked. Where their names are coupled together, Barnabas more often takes precedence over Paul, at least in terms of actual order. We find ‘Barnabas and Saul/Paul’ nine times,40 while ‘Paul and Barnabas’ appears seven times.41 The above considerations, while not clarifying the exact force of the term apostoloi in Acts 14:4 and 14, do at least help to show that the apostolate of Paul and Barnabas did not rest on the decision of a local church, as much as it is true that they were locally commissioned for a specific ministry to the Gentile world. Nor is it a satisfactory solution to suggest that the two men originally belonged to the circle of prophets at Antioch (13:1) and could only be designated apostles as itinerant prophets. While there is an overlapping of the role of prophets and apostles in Acts, a) Paul and Barnabas are more readily identified as teachers in Antioch rather than prophets (based on 11:26), and b) the normal situation in Acts is that it is apostles who remain in Jerusalem and prophets who travel.42 39. The text does not say that Barnabas was sent on his mission, but it is implied by 11:26 that Paul was sent for to assist in the work of instruction within the congregation. At least Barnabas went with the full approval of Antioch. 40. Acts 11:30; 12:25; 13:1,2,7; 14:12,14; 15:12,25. 41. Acts 13:43, 46, 50, 15:2,22,35. Where Paul and Silas are mentioned together, it is always in that order (19:19,25,29; 17:4,10). 42. See E Earl Ellis, ‘The Role of the Christian Prophet in Acts’, in Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to FF Bruce, edited by WW Gasque and RP Martin (London, 1970), 64,65.

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There can be no doubting that, for Luke, Paul and Barnabas form an apostolic pair.43 What is true for Paul is therefore also true for his companion. While both men are clearly distinguished from the original Twelve (Acts 9:27; 15:2), Luke is still concerned to show their close relationship with the Jerusalem Church long before their commissioning at Antioch. The commissioning is a confirmation of the specific terms of their ‘apostleship’.44 That Luke sees both men as apostles of the Lord and not simply as emissaries of a local congregation can be seen from several points. Paul’s call to a universal witness to the gospel comes well before 13:1–4, and is repeated on two further occasions, in chapters 22 and 26. The apostolic claim of both men is also underlined, as we would expect, by Luke’s references to the Spirit. Well before 13:1–4, both men are described as ‘filled with the Holy Spirit’ (9:17; 11:24). Ultimately it is the Spirit who sends them out on their first missionary journey. In the first place, it is at the direction of the Spirit, probably speaking through prophets (verse 1), that Paul and Barnabas are set apart for their mission (verse 2). Second, Luke specifically states that the two were sent out by the Holy Spirit (verse 4). Further, while Paul and Barnabas report back to Antioch after the first journey (15:30–35), there is no suggestion that the congregation then sent them out on the second; they go out to revisit their converts by their own free decision, more exactly, as apostles of the Lord equipped and led by the Spirit for their task. What we said of Paul is also true of Luke’s picture of the apostolate. There is no tension between apostleship and charism. The apostles are called by the Lord to a specific ministry; the Spirit confirms this choice in equipping and directing them and performing the signs that attest the power of the gospel. Conclusion A few summary comments may help to indicate how the connection between apostles and Spirit belongs to the overall theological conception of Acts. The linking of apostle and Spirit does not serve a 43. On the ancient practice of apostles working in pairs, see Schmithals, 53,54. 44. Contra G Klein, Die Zwölf Apostel: Ursprung und Gehalt einer Idee (Göttingen, 1961), it must be maintained that Luke neither created the idea of the Twelve, nor did he seek to denigrate the apostleship of Paul.

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primarily apologetic purpose, as often in Paul’s letters. It rather serves the development of a central theme: the universality of the gospel. Every decisive step in the extension of the church from Jerusalem to Rome is marked by the Spirit’s guidance and direction as he works through the apostles as representatives of the Lord himself. The justification of the Gentile mission is the story of the Spirit at work.45 It is not so much a case of the apostles authenticating the Spirit as of the Spirit authenticating the apostles as they represent the Lord in the movement of the church in ever widening circles. The whole people of God as the Israel of the last times possesses the Spirit, but it is the apostles as the original witnesses who are led to grasp the universality of the gospel and the mission of Israel. Historically, it may have been the Hellenists who were the first real missionaries of the early church, but it was the apostles, led by the Spirit, who had to confirm the Gentile mission. Continuity in salvation history is thus one of the major themes of Luke in Acts. It is a theme which is developed in three ways. There is continuity between the acts of God and his people in the Old Testament and the acts of God and Israel in the last times.46 Second, there is continuity between the ministry of Jesus and that of the apostles, one that is demonstrated by the activity of the Spirit.47 Third, there is continuity between the original apostolic ministry of the Twelve in Jerusalem and the apostolic ministry to the Gentile world.48 It is questionable whether justice is done to Luke with the claim that he has totally projected salvation into the future in view of the delay of the Parousia. He has not given up every vestige of a realized eschatology in exchange for a purely futuristic hope at the end of time.49 His linking of Kingdom, Spirit, and apostle is part of his message that the last days have begun with the resurrection of Jesus and the gift of the Spirit (Acts 2:17). 45. Rightly stressed by SG Wilson, The Gentiles and the Gentile Mission in Luke–Acts (Cambridge, 1973), 241. 46. Jervell. Luke and the People of God, 53, rightly speaks of this continuity in terms of the fulfilment of the promises once given to Israel. 47. See von Campenhausen, Ecclesiastical Authority, 24, 25, and Ellis, ‘Role of the Christian Prophet’, 66, though he refers to the role of the prophets in Acts in establishing the same point. 48. See the previous article in this collection. 49. See E Earl Ellis, Eschatology in Luke (Philadelphia,1972), and L Morris, ‘Luke and Early Catholicism’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 8 (1974): 70–90.

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The pneumatic nature of apostleship in Acts, as in Paul’s own thought, challenges us today to re–examine the extent to which the church can still claim to have a truly apostolic ministry. The connection between apostle and Spirit, and office and charism, is not one that can be used to issue a call back to a ministry that is based merely on personal gifts and talents. The apostle always remains the fully authorised agent of the Lord. Modern sweeping claims to find the Spirit at work where the apostolic word is not also at work must be seen as suspect from the outset. Since the Spirit is the Spirit of Jesus (Acts 16:7), it is only natural that his voice is to be heard in the words of his witnesses. Part of the crisis of our churches today is to be found in the flight from the apostolic witness. That always means a flight from the Spirit, from that point where he can with all confidence be found and seen at work. The corollary of this loss of the apostolic Word is that the Spirit is pushed into other areas of human life, whether personal, societal, or national, where his operation can in no way be authenticated, where it is no longer certain whether it is the Holy Spirit of God at work or the spirit of human beings. Above all, there can be no authentic apostolic ministry where there is not the assurance that the Word which is preached and taught is the Word of the Lord and his Spirit. What Rengstorf wrote long ago in a time of crisis in 1934, with reference to the ministry in Germany, is still true today. God’s Word can find little response if people no longer have pastors for whom the office is exactly the opposite of the position of a church functionary, the opposite of an academic calling alongside others, for whom ministry is a precious possession and daily joy because God makes them co–workers in representing Jesus through his Spirit.50

50. Rengstorf, Apostolate and Ministry, 70.

D. The Witness of the Fourth Gospel

Christ the Intercessor: The Praying Christ of John 17

First published in Heritage of Faith: Essays in Honour of Arnold D Hunt, edited by George W Potter, Morphett Vale SA, 1996 There are, at the very least, three practical reasons for turning to the picture of the praying Christ in the Highpriestly Prayer of John 17, quite apart from the joy to be had simply from diving into the deep pools of Johannine thought. 1. The clergy should be people of prayer. What should be a delight can become a burden as shepherds are drawn into the temptation to believe that they must bear the flock’s burdens in the duty of intercessory prayer. Such work becomes a task to be performed, a chore. Priestly intercession takes on a different aspect when it is consciously directed to God through Christ as the great Intercessor. Praying pastors are borne by the praying Christ; they are carried by another as they pray–and even before they present their petitions. 2. Our study also has significance for the pastor’s approach to worship and liturgical conduct. Hans Asmussen reminds us that ‘all our preaching should take place on the verge of prayer. Our preaching should be so near to prayer that it would require only a very slight transposition to turn our words into words of prayer’.1 A terrible and unnecessary burden is laid on those who think that they must create and carry the worship of their people. Certainly, they are to serve as worship leaders in the leiturgia, the work of God’s people. But worship in the name of Jesus is worship under 1. See The Minister’s Prayerbook, edited by John W. Doberstein (London: Collins, revised edition 1986), 297.

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him as the prime worship leader (see Heb 8:1-2). The praying Christ sustains the pastor in leading the liturgy, preaching, and praying. There is a real sense, then, in which the conduct of the liturgy requires a resting (John would say ‘remaining’) in Christ the Intercessor. Awareness of this central truth will prevent the liturgist from becoming a ‘performer’ of the liturgy, a sanctuary actor who directs attention to self. 3. An emphasis on the praying Christ also counters a possible imbalance in our Christology. To stress the completeness of salvation, the finished work of Christ as Prophet, Priest, and King has usually been the focus in both dogmatic and sermonic presentations of the faith. Professor James Torrance, in a lecture in Adelaide some years ago, recalled Karl Barth’s admission that the ongoing work of Christ in his threefold office had not received sufficient attention in his Church Dogmatics. The truth is that Christ is still Prophet as he speaks his Word; he is now the exalted King reigning in glory and subjecting all things under himself; he is now the great High Priest, interceding on behalf of God’s children. Failure to give due attention to the present and ongoing work of Christ has serious repercussions, also for our understanding of worship and for the perfection of salvation in the eschaton. The picture of the Praying Christ is a reminder that his work is not yet finished, and that the consummation of all things rests in his hands. The following study is not intended as a comprehensive exegesis of John 17. It does no more than attempt to analyse the structure and themes of this chapter within the gospel of John to situate the ministry of intercession in and under the interceding Christ. The Place of Chapter 17 in the Fourth Gospel Unlike Luke’s Gospel, where the praying Jesus, is a dominant feature of the narrative, John’s Gospel does not picture the solitary Jesus at prayer. Furthermore, John does not even use the normal vocables for prayer (proseuchomai and proseuche). But these observations do not give the full picture.

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The Prologue to the gospel is framed by statements of the Son’s unity with the Father.2 The Son’s perfect knowledge of the Father’s will which results from this unity, plus his being ‘sent’, is the basis for his ability to reveal the Father. The act of cleansing the temple (2:13–22), and the miraculous signs, substantiate Jesus’ authority to speak the Father’s will. While the assertion of the oneness of Father and Son (10:30) is not to be reduced to a monothelitism, the unity in being comes to expression in a full and complete unity of will. Without the latter it is impossible to understand the Highpriestly Prayer. In the light of the repeated emphasis on the Son’s unity with the Father, it is not surprising that few prayers of Jesus are recorded in John. Certainly, he gives thanks before the feeding of the five thousand (6:11), but any pious Jew would do that. He does not lift his eyes to heaven before any of the healing miracles. It is only towards the end of his public ministry, in the so-called Book of Signs (chapters 2 to12), that there are two short prayers. The first is a prayer of thanks to the Father before the raising of Lazarus (11:41–42); the second, an even briefer prayer for the glorification of the Father’s name, comes after the entry into Jerusalem and the announcement of the arrival of the ‘hour’ (12:27,28). An important feature is common to both instances. In the first case, Jesus states that his prayer is offered ‘on account of the people standing by’ (11:42). He does not pray for power to work the miracle– that is entirely unnecessary since he has the authority to do the Father’s works. His prayer is rather witness to his having been sent by the Father. That is, the miracle is an expression of the unity of the Son with the Father. In the second case, Jesus’ prayer is answered by a voice from heaven, one which he also explains as coming ‘for your sake, not for mine’ (12:30). These two prayers, together with the Highpriestly Prayer, underline the divine mission of the Son for those who are present. The two brief prayers in Jesus’ public ministry thus confirm his oneness with the Father and do so in such a way as to show that Jesus is carrying out a mission in obedience to the Father’s will. What that will finally means is suggested by both the historical and literary context of the prayers. The death and raising of Lazarus are seen as an anticipation of his own death and resurrection (indeed, the raising of 2. See the inclusio formed by John 1:1 and 1:18.

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Lazarus is seen as the final cause for plots against his life; see 11:53). Likewise, the prayer for the Father’s glory is an announcement of the passion (see 12:23). In effect, both say ‘Thy will be done!’ Within the hour of glory, embracing both passion and resurrection (chapters 18–20), Jesus utters not one prayer, not even on the cross. Instead, he speaks royal pronouncements (19:26–28,30–even ‘I thirst’ is not a plea, but a fulfilment of Scripture, that is, of the divine plan). Here the portrait of Christ corresponds precisely to that given in the Book of Signs. The Lord does not have to pray that the Father’s will be done. His words and signs are the Father’s will; his death is its completion (see ‘It is finished’; 19:30). Since in his words and deeds Jesus is himself the Father’s will in action, John’s Gospel shows the disciples addressing petitions to him (using the verb aitein), rather than picturing Jesus in prayer. Abiding in him and praying in his name bring the promise that all petitions will be heard and answered.3 But this promise anticipates the completed work of Christ, as does the Highpriestly Prayer. The position of the Highpriestly Prayer, at the end of the Farewell Discourses and immediately before the passion narrative, is highly significant. Firstly, the prayer provides something like a summary of Jesus’ ministry which he has carried out in obedience to the Father’s will. John 17 looks back on and interprets the previous 16 chapters. So, it is no coincidence that this chapter contains the stock of Johannine vocabulary. The absence of some familiar terms can easily be explained. For example, the semantic group denoting witness (martys/martyrein) is understandably missing. The reader does not have to be told in so many words that this prayer is the ultimate witness of the Son himself to the meaning of his mission. Secondly, Jesus’ prayer interprets for all time the significance of the impending hour that lies before him. John 17 is a theology of the passion. The familiar title ‘Highpriestly Prayer’, first suggested by Cyril of Alexandria (died AD 444) and picked up by the Lutheran theologian David Chyträus (1531-1600), rightly suggests that the offering of prayer here precedes another offering, that of Jesus himself, even if the prayer does not refer to any future sacrifice. Jesus’ prayer is thus proleptic; it anticipates the completion of his mission in his death, resurrection, and return to the Father.

3. See 14:13–14; 15:7,16; 16:23–24,26.

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Thirdly, it provides the ultimate pastoral cure for the grief that disciples feel over the impending loss of the Master. At the end of the Farewell Discourses (chapters 14 to 16), the disciples are still fearful, sorrowful, lacking in understanding. If Peter is representative of the little group, we can conclude that what faith they do possess makes them vulnerable in the coming hour of trial (see 13:36–38). It is the praying Christ who gives the assurance that his disciples will not be scattered. His departure will not gain meaning from their faithfulness. Rather, their faith will gain meaning from his departure. Finally, Jesus’ prayer assures all believers that the will of the Father, perfected in the hour of glory, will continue to be enacted in the world. As has often been noted, there is a timeless quality to this prayer, despite its historical setting in the narrative of John’s Gospel. This is a prayer which spans the ages; it looks not only to the present disciples, but also to ‘those who are to believe’ (v 20). It looks beyond the cry ‘It is finished’ to the unfinished plan of God in gathering and preserving those who know and confess The Name. The Genre and Structure of John 17 The obvious character of John 17 as a prayer should not lead us to overlook that it is also a revelatory discourse. It is a continuation of the Farewell Discourse, in different mode. As in 11:41–42 and 12:27–30, the conversation between the Father and the Son is meant to be heard, the only difference being that the audience is extended to include disciples in all generations. As a prayer, John 17 is a fitting climax to the Farewell Discourse. Scholars have noted that the farewell discourses of Moses in Deuteronomy end with two canticles, one in which Moses addresses the ‘heavens’ (the Song of Moses in chapter 32—v 44 notes that these words were ‘recited . . . in the hearing of the people’), and one in which he invokes divine blessing on Israel before it enters the promised land (chapter 33). The parallel is worth noting; whether the evangelist had it in mind is another matter.4 Also frequently noted is the hymnic quality of the prayer. The movement of thought, as often in John, is cyclic, using recurring words 4. See Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel according to John, Volume II (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1970), 744.

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and themes. Whether it ever functioned in the life of the church as a liturgical hymn is a matter for dispute. There are certainly parallels with the eucharistic prayers in Didache 9-10. There also the Father is addressed as ‘holy’, and motifs such as the revelation of the ‘name’ and of ‘glory’, and the perfection of believers in love and holiness reappear. That Greek Fathers like Cyril of Alexandria and John Chrysostom, related John 17 to the eucharist does not prove that it was ever a fixed part of the early liturgy. On the other hand, it shows, as does the occurrence of certain Johannine motifs in Didache, that the picture of the praying Christ is an invitation to worship. Indeed, it can properly be understood only in the context of worship. We do best to structure John 17 by noting, firstly, those for whom Jesus prays. He prays for his glorification (verse 1), for the disciples who already believe (verse 9), and for those yet to come to faith (verse 20). The resulting division of the prayer into three sections (verses 1–8; 9–19; 20–26) - a scheme adopted by Raymond Brown,5 is not without problems. It could be argued that verses 6–8 deal with the disciples, not with Jesus. Yet these verses amplify what has been said in v 4. They show how Jesus has glorified the Father in the past. Secondly, it might be argued that the verbs in the perfect and aorist tenses in verses 24–26 again deal with the present disciples, not with those yet to believe. Yet there is good reason to take these verbs as proleptic statements, reading them in a future perfect sense (the future perfect does not exist in Greek), just as Jesus’ statement in verse 11 (‘And now I am no longer in the world’) has proleptic meaning. There is some formal parallel between this threefold division and the duty of the high priest to offer sacrifice first for himself, then for his family, and then for the people (see Lev 16:11–17), but the parallel ends there. It is more important to see how themes recur in all three sections. Prominent motifs are • • •

the glory/glorification of the Son (doxa/doxazein in vv 1,4– 5,10,22,24) the revelation of the knowledge of God (ginoskein in vv 3,7,8,23,25) and of his holy Name (onoma in vv 6,11,12,26) through the word (logos in vv 6,14,17,20) the sending of the Son (apostellein in vv 3,8,18,21,23,25; used also of the disciples’ mission in v 18)

5. Brown, Gospel according to John, II, 750.

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the disciples’ unity (hen in vv 11,21–23), preservation (terein in vv 6,11,12,15), and sanctification (hagiazein in vv 17,19) the relationship of Jesus and the believers to the world (kosmos in vv 5,9,11,13-16,18, 21, 23–25).

Despite the prominence of these motifs, and other subthemes,6 it is vital to note that the most frequently used verb in John 17 is ‘to give’ (didonai appears seventeen times).7 We shall return to this point later; for the moment we need only observe that true prayer is always based on the acknowledgement of divine gifts. Consideration of both the objects of Jesus’ prayer and its recurring themes establishes the threefold structure of John 17: • •

• • •

each section begins with a clear reference to those for whom the prayer is offered (vv 1,9,20) each section directly addresses the Father (vv 1,5,11,21, 24,25), while only the first and third units which highlight the relationship between Father and Son use the absolute form ‘Father’ (pater in vv 1,5,21,24) each has the theme of glory (vv 1–5,10,22,24) each pictures disciples as those whom the Father has given to Jesus (2,9,24) each highlights what Jesus has given to his disciples (‘your name’, v 6; ‘your word’, v 14; ‘your name’, v 26).

The first and third sections contain bracketing references to Jesus’ relationship with the Father before the world came into being (vv 5,24). Thus, the entire prayer is to be read sub specie aeternitatis (with eternity in view). The praying Christ reveals the eternal plan of the Father. The Prayer for Glory (verses 1–8) Reading or, preferably, hearing John 17 is like listening to a familiar symphony with recurring motifs. Words and phrases, woven into an intricate harmony of thought, announce major themes while at the same time recalling a flood of associations stored in our minds from listening to the rest of the gospel. That is certainly the case with the concept ‘glory’. 6. See the typically Johannine theme of unity in love in verses 23–26. 7. In verses 2,4,6–9,11,12,14,22,24.

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Jesus does not merely pray for himself, even in verses 1-5. He prays for his glorification as a gift for the benefit of believers. That distinction is vital for understanding the Highpriestly Prayer as a whole. As noted above, the prayer is marked by repeated references to the gifts of the Father. He has given Jesus power (authority, exousia) over all humanity (v 2) a work (ergon) to accomplish (v 4) the disciples and all believers (vv 6,9,24) the holy Name (vv 11,12) divine glory (vv 22,24).

The above gifts are summarised as ‘everything’ in verse 7. All gifts mark Jesus as the authorised Son of God sent to complete the Father’s mission. Thus, a gift from the Father is, in several places, the presupposition of Jesus’ own gift to believers. He has been given divine exousia so that he can, in turn, give eternal life (verse 2). He has been given everything so that he can give the Father’s words (verses 7,14). As the recipient of glory, he gives glory (verses 22,24). As the one who is sent, he sends others (verse 18). He who is consecrated consecrates others (verse 19). We understand what the reception and giving of glory means only when they are seen in the context of revelation and creation categories of thought in the Fourth Gospel. By itself, Jesus’ prayer for the glory which he had with the Father from the beginning8 could be seen as a request for nothing more than reinstatement to an eternal status interrupted by the incarnation. Glory (doxa) is one of the essential attributes of God, so the gift of glory is certainly a confirmation of the Son’s eternal divinity. But glory is always an attribute of God in his self-revelation. Thus, John 1:14 speaks of ‘beholding’ the glory of God in the Son, while 2:11 speaks of Jesus ‘manifesting’ his glory in the first sign at Cana through an act of creation. John 1:14–18 recalls that God once revealed his glory at a trembling and smoking mountain. But the demonstration of creative power was merely the setting for an even more important revelation of glory: that of divine grace and truth9 as God covenanted himself 8. Note again the inclusio formed by verses 5 and 24. 9. John recalls the terms (Hebrew, chesed and emunah) which denote covenant relationship.

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with Israel through Moses the mediator (Exodus 33:12–34:8). That revelatory process was completed only with the entry of divine glory into the tabernacle (later the temple; see Exod 40:34–35 and 1 Kgs 8:11). But now, in the incarnate Son, a more perfect revelation of glory has taken place. There is a fulness of charis and aletheia in the Son who ‘tabernacled’ with us. And, once more, the process of revelation is completed as believers are drawn to a new worship of the Father because of his glorious presence in the Son (see 4:23). There are passages in John’s Gospel where doxa can also be translated as honour (see 5:41; 5:44; 7:18; 8:50). But Jesus’ prayer for his glorification is not a request for honour. It is the free acknowledgement of a process which includes suffering. The glorification of the Son begins with his being ‘lifted up’ on the cross (4:14; 8:28; 12:32,33). Divine glory is revealed precisely through the Son’s death (11:4; 12:27,28; 13:31,32), even if the hour of glory is completed only with his resurrection and return to the Father (7:39 and 12:16). That is the ultimate Johannine paradox: that divine glory is revealed in the death of God’s Son. Jesus insists on his glorification, on his messianic enthronement in death, for that is where the ultimate revelation of the Father’s will as grace and truth takes place. Unless he is lifted up, he cannot draw believers to himself, and thus to the Father, in worship. So, Jesus’ prayer for glorification parallels that spoken in the Garden of Gethsemane, ‘Your will be done’ (Matt 26:42). Spelled out more fully, it says: ‘Father, let me complete my mission in such a way that its purpose is fulfilled. Let my life be given so that others may have eternal life and praise you as the source of that life’. We said, at the beginning, that Jesus can pray this prayer because his will is one with that of the Father. The perfect completion of his mission to this point is noted with finite statements. He has already glorified the Father by fulfilling his commission (v 4). He has manifested the Father’s Name and handed over his words (vv 6,8). And the effectiveness of that ministry is seen in the disciples keeping the word (v 6), in knowing that Jesus has been sent by the Father (vv 7-8). Thus, Jesus prays as one whose unqualified knowledge of and obedience to the Father’s will embraces past, present, and future. His obedience embraces also our past, present, and future. Only now it is the Christus crucifixus (crucified Christ) who prays this pray, he who first uttered, ‘It is finished!’ The Father’s glory has been perfectly revealed as life-giving grace and truth. The sacred Name

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has been delivered, as have the words of the Father himself. It is in worship that the crucified Christ draws us to the glory of the Father. The praying Christ presides over our worship as we gather ‘in the Name’ to hear the Father speaking. An understanding of worship which sees only what we do fails to comprehend worship as Christ praying us into the presence of the Father. One of the most glorious moments in the holy liturgy of the West is when we sing, ‘Therefore with angels and archangels, and with all the company of heaven, we adore and magnify your glorious name. . .’. We praise the Name revealed as the sending Father, the sent Son, and the Spirit sent by both Father and Son–all three persons present and at work in worship. The experience of divine glory which brings us into eternity itself is not guaranteed by buildings, vestments, processions, choirs, and so forth. It is assured by the presence of the Name and of the spoken and acted Word. All else is important only in so far as it assists people to understand worship as the experience of divine glory on earth and aids the communication of the divine presence. One element missing from the above is given in the prelude to the Highpriestly Prayer. In the Farewell Discourses Jesus prays for the coming of the Spirit (14:16) who will be sent by both Father and Son (14:26; 15:26; 16:7). It is the presence of the Paraclete among the disciples, as well as their unity with the Father through the Son, that explains Jesus’ otherwise strange words in 16:26,27: ‘In that day you will ask in my name; and I do not say to you that I shall pray the Father for you; for the Father himself loves you. . .’. The presence of the Name does not have to be invoked with some magical formula. Those who have the Word and the Spirit also have the Name. And that means immediate access to the Father–as much as that access has been first mediated by the Son. The Prayer For the Believers’ Preservation and Consecration (vv 9–19) Care of existing members and mission are the two broad areas of pastoral responsibility. Both areas are covered by Jesus’ prayer for his present disciples and for all future believers. They are to be kept safe from the world ‘in the Name’ (v 11) and consecrated ‘in the truth’ for mission to the world (v 17).

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This section obviously deals with the relationship of believers to the ‘world’ (twelve of the sixteen uses of kosmos in John 17 appear in vv 9–19). That the disciples are not of the world is clear enough. The paradox is that preservation from the world has its purpose not in the safety of believers, but in their service for the world. To unravel that mystery, we need to look at the various nuances of the term kosmos in John. The ‘world’ designates humanity as the object of the Father’s love and the setting of Jesus’ earthly ministry (3:16). That neutral meaning appears also here (17:9,11,13). The world is also the home of Jesus’ disciples in their earthly life (v 15). But kosmos also designates those who reject Jesus as the Father’s emissary, those whose unbelief shows them to be under the power of the evil one (v 15). Living in this world is mortal existence in contrast to living in the other eon with its gift of eternal life (zoe aionios). There are two realms of reality, two modes of existence marked by such Johannine polarities as ‘above’ and ‘below’, or ‘Spirit’ and ‘flesh and blood’ (see 3:5,6,27,31). Those whose existence is characterised as kosmos dance with glee on Jesus’ grave (16:20) and hate his followers (17:14; see also 15:20). And yet this hostile world remains the object of the Father’s love and of the Son’s ongoing mission through his disciples (v 18). Jesus’ prayer for the preservation of his own presupposes that they already live in the dimension of the new eon; they already have the life of the aeon (verse 2). The danger is that they will lapse back into the old eon of death. Jesus’ impending departure will be a trial of faith. Yet his prayer looks beyond the immediate future to continued Christian existence in the world as one which will inevitably bring tribulation (see 16:33: ‘In the world you have trouble’, thlipsis). How will they survive in the world of unbelief? The first disciples survived for the same reason that the church has survived for two thousand years: because of the praying Christ. And how life in the new eon is assured is the same as previously stated in verses 6-8: they have been given the sacred Name and the Word (vv 11,14). Preservation in the Name means no new revelations, for the Father’s Name (his being and saving will) have already been revealed. Further revelation will be only a repetition of what has been already made known in the Word (verse 26). To keep (terein) the Word is to ingest and digest in faith a lifegiving revelation (8:51) which unites

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the believer in love to the source of that Word. The reality of that union is in turn certified by the keeping of Jesus’ commandments (14:15,21; 15:10). We are reminded that the Name is not a magical formula, but a sacred presence, assured in the Word itself. Where there is the Word, there God’s holy Name also dwells. That again brings us back to the theme of worship. Of course, Christ always intercedes for his church. He is the great Mediator who compassionately hears the cries of those who call to him in time of need (Heb 2:18; 4:16; 7:25). But the presence of the Name and of the Word in the worship assembly of the faithful is the assurance of the continuing preservation of the church through his intercession. Jesus prays the church into the future, and without that prayer it would not survive. The faithful keep the Word only by being kept in the Word. The church has survived, and it most certainly will continue to do so— despite the gleeful predictions of those outside and the gloomy fears of those inside. It will do so because of the powerful presence of the Name and Word in worship. It will not survive where continued existence is based on other factors: the accommodation of the Word to the world; the replacement of the Word with how-to gimmickry; the introduction of liturgical glitter in place of the holy things, of entertainment in place of edification. In worship the Christus orans (praying Christ) is the Christus laborans (Christ effectively at work). What he prays for is what he effects. It is not the liturgist’s job to effect the presence of the Name, to make the Word effective, or to effect the continued existence of the flock committed to his charge. To think this way is the height of hybris. And there is only a short distance between such pride and despondency, even despair. All that pastors are asked to do is to administer the sacred things under Christ, the worship leader. They are faithfully to dispense the Word–proclaimed and sacramentally enacted–and leave it to the Word to gather believers into the Name. Where there is a holy obsession to do just this there will be less pastoral failure of heart and nerve, less questioning of the role of the church in today’s world, less doubt about its mission to speak and act divine love. It is mission that Jesus has in mind as he prays for the disciples’ sanctification. They are already made ‘clean’ by the Word which Jesus has delivered to them from the ‘holy Father’ (v 11).10 Holiness 10. The term ‘clean’ (katharoi) in 15:3 presupposes the image of the ‘pruning’ (literally, ‘cleansing’) of a vine.

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certainly means separation from the sinful world of unbelief, but it does not mean a static existence in a haven. Sanctification means commission for mission! We possess no one word in English to cover the various nuances of the verb hagiazein in verses 17 and 19. The RSV breaks the connection between these verses by using two verbs, ‘to sanctify’ and ‘to consecrate’. The NIV and NRSV are more consistent, at least, in translating all three uses of hagiazein as ‘to sanctify’. Even better, the NEB and JB use the verb ‘to consecrate’.11 Jesus is the Son ‘whom the Father consecrated and sent into the world’ (10:36). Now he consecrates himself as a sacrificial victim for the completion of that mission in his death.12 But the mission of the Son will go on after he has returned to the Father. He who was sent now sends (v 18; see also 20:21). So, the sanctification/consecration of the disciples is their ongoing equipment for their work in the world. Holiness is more than a moral quality. As in 1 Peter 2:9, it is the very being and nature of God’s people as it exists for the world. ‘In the truth’ (v 17) is a typically Johannine, multi-faceted phrase. The preposition en can be read in both an instrumental and a locative sense. And aletheia (truth) has personal, relational, and propositional aspects. The incarnate Son, as God’s truth in person, is the revelation of a faithful God (14:6). The full confession of those who believe that to be the case is also the truth, a liberating truth (8:31–32). Combining these thoughts, we can say that those who are sanctified in/by the truth are united with the Son to live in his holiness and in union with the ‘holy Father’ (v 11). There is inevitably a tension between world-renunciation and world-affirmation. It is a tension that can be maintained only by being continually sanctified. Flight from the world into a ‘holy huddle’ means rejection of mission. Total affirmation of the world without holiness involves accommodation and conformity to the world. It is the praying Christ who ensures that we are in the world in service while not of the world in our identity. It is not difficult to draw connections between consecration for mission and worship. We are made and kept as the sancti (holy people) 11. The attempt at circumlocution in the TEV is at this point quite inadequate. 12. The preposition hyper (‘for their sake’) in verse 19 probably contains sacrificial connotations.

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through the sancta (holy things) by the power of the Spiritus Sanctus (Holy Spirit). It is important to note that Jesus’ final commissioning of the disciples (‘As the Father has sent me, even so I send you’) is followed by the gift of the Spirit (20:21,22). Christ is still the one who, through the operation of the Spirit, sanctifies and consecrates his people (see also Heb 2:11) as they gather around the holy things. That is why ‘Sanctify them in the truth; your word is truth’ is a fitting votum from the preaching pulpit?–though the full meaning of these words as a commissioning prayer are probably not understood by most hearers. That is also meaning of the announcement missa est in the Latin rite at the end of the Eucharist. Communicants are not only dismissed but also commissioned. Those who hear the Word and who receive the holy body and blood of Christ are demarcated from the world as God’s holy people to go back into the world on a sacred mission! Worship is thus the essential equipping of the faithful for mission in the world. They go out into the world armed with the revelation of God’s redeeming love in Christ. The Prayer For Unity (vv 20-26) The future existence of believers is predicated on the same basis as their present existence: on the Word (verse 21), on the revelation of divine glory (vv 22,24), and on the disclosure of the sacred Name (v 26). This final petition concentrates, however, on the unity of believers (vv 21–23), a unity which comes to light in the possession of knowledge of the Father and Son (verses 23,25) and of fellowship in divine love (vv 23–24,26). Further, it is a unity which will be perfected in glory (vv 23–24). It is difficult to understand how anyone with an ear attuned to Johannine thought could come up with the idea that Jesus is here praying for organisational unity of believers in the light of future sad divisions in Christendom. Whether such unity is even desirable, let alone necessary, could well be debated. In any case the oneness that Jesus prays for in verses 11 and 21–23 has its perfect model in the unity of the Father and Son–and we would hardly call that an organisational thing. The oneness of Father and Son is an ontological unity; the unity between the Binity and believers is relational. Believers can never be one with the Father as is the Son. And yet they are united with the Father through the Son.

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We may understand that better if we remember that the Name represents divine personhood, presence, and power. In revealing the Father’s name Jesus has also revealed his own perfect relationship to the Father, two persons in complete harmony of being and will. That the name is present among the disciples as power is clear from verse 11: ‘Keep them in thy name’, again understanding the preposition en in both a locative and instrumental sense. To be ‘in the Father and the Son’ means to possess the full revelation of the Name through the Word and the vision of divine glory which it imparts for faith. The unity of believers is thus a faith-reality. It is mediated by the Son; it is a gift. So, it is not something which believers create. They either keep their unity with God and each other by keeping the Word, or they lose their unity by surrendering the Word. They either continue to witness to the glory of God revealed in the cross and resurrection of the Son, or they surrender their identity as disciples. Unity does, of course, have a discernible aspect. Knowledge of God and his holy Name must lead to confession of the truth revealed by the Son. This faith-unity of the church throughout time is the necessary presupposition for its mission. Without it the unbelieving world has no reason to believe either in the Son as the Father’s emissary, or to accept the disciples of Jesus as his emissaries (v 21). In short, it is only the confessing church that can be a church in mission. Such confession is based on relational knowledge. To know the Father through the Son is to have experienced his love (v 26). The church is abiding witness to the perfect love of the Father, a love which unites believers and, through them, continues to reach out to the world. It is through his beloved that the praying Christ reaches out to embrace the world. Unity, also, is a gift for mission. We can and should strive for unity, but that means struggling to retain that which constitutes unity: a common confession of the truth and a common experience of love, both of which are givens. Over that struggle stands the interceding Christ, praying us into complete unity. The prayer that Jesus’ disciples in all ages might be ‘perfected into oneness’ (v 23) shows that unity is not a static quality. It is affirmed and confirmed as the church fulfils its task. To perfect (teleioun) means to bring something to its proper goal (telos). The verb is used in John to denote the completion of the task which Jesus ‘accomplished’ for the Father (4:34; 5:36; 17:4). So, it is not an overstatement to say that the church’s unity is perfected in mission.

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But there is another dimension to such perfection. Our present oneness in faith and love, and our present experience of the glorious presence of God through his Name and Word in worship are but foretaste of a final perfection: the unmediated vision of glory in eternity (v 24). The ‘righteous Father’ will bring his work to final completion where there is perfect knowledge, perfect love, perfect unity, and perfect worship. A Pastoral Postscript The Highpriestly prayer is a prescription for pastoral encouragement. It invites spiritual shepherds to surrender fretful care for trust in the Lord who prays over them and their people. It challenges them to surrender the delusion that the future of the church rests with their pastoral performance. It perhaps even shocks them into the renewed realisation that so much of what they do is peripheral to the essential task of ministry. But, above all, it offers comfort. What we are and what we do is all a gift. The central concepts of this prayer (glory; word; name; revelation; knowledge; truth; love; preservation; sanctification; perfection; eternal life; unity; mission) describe realities which we do not create. We are only servants of Christ who created the church and sustains it as his worshipping and witnessing people. We are required to do no more and certainly no less than preach, teach, and enact the Word.13 The Word will ensure that all the other gifts are present. We can, for example, work at creating a sense of the holy presence of the Triune God in worship. What we cannot create is the presence itself. There is comfort in knowing that people are in the care of the interceding Christ before we remember them in prayer. There is encouragement in knowing that the Lord himself leads us into the Father’s presence in worship and makes our intercessions his own. He is praying for us as we administer the holy things, embracing us in intercession as we preach and preside. He is there praying us into his mission. He is praying us into eternal perfection. The Highpriestly Prayer is not a prescription for pastoral prayer. Yet we can pray it with him as those who are in him and under him. It points us to what we should pray for. And it reminds us that only 13. See how logos/rhemata runs throughout the prayer; vv 6,8,14,17,20.

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those whose will is one with the Father have the right to ask for everything. ‘It is the will to pray that is the essence of prayer’, says Thomas Merton. But it is equally of the essence to pray according to the will of the Father. Jesus’ prayer surrounds us with that saving will. So, we pray in Jesus, through Jesus, and to a Father who always has the face of the praying Jesus!

The Coronation of the King: The Passion in the Gospel of John

A pastoral conference paper published in Currents in Theology and Mission, 4 (1977): 10–21

It is simple to divide John’s Gospel into two main sections under the heading: The revelation of the glory of the Son of God in word and deed.1 In what has been called the book of Signs (chapters 1 to 12), Jesus reveals his glory to the world. His words and deeds have a wide audience and provoke a crisis of faith in which some, though few, believe, but the majority, ‘the Jews’ or ‘the world’, to quote Johannine diction, reject Jesus. In this section Jesus points forward to that great hour in the future when his glory will be fully revealed. This hour of glory has not yet come at the wedding feast at Cana, even though we are given a proleptic glimpse (2:4–11), nor has it yet come in the great discourse at the Feast of Tabernacles (7:30; 8:20). It is only at the beginning of the second major section of the Gospel, the Book of Glory (chapters 13 to 20) that we find the statement, ‘Jesus knew that his hour had come (13:1). As Jesus looks to his impending death, we find him praying for ‘the glory which I had with you before the world was made’ (17:5). It is quite clear that Jesus’ crucifixion is nothing less than an hour of exaltation, the hour of triumph, of victory. God’s glory is to be revealed precisely on the cross! Even before we arrive at the actual moment of glory, John has carefully developed this theme in the Gospel. Admittedly, it is only the eye of faith that can view the cross as a glorification of Jesus, that can allow the writer to say, ‘We have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son of God from the Father’ (1:14). 1. For what follows, see the analysis by Raymond Brown, The Gospel According to John, XIII-XXI. The Anchor Bible (Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1970), 541,42.

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A quick reading of John’s Gospel soon reveals the close connection between the two major sections of the Gospel. From the wealth of material, we select only two dominant themes to illustrate this point The Trial Motif It is common knowledge that John is the dramatist among the evangelists. Not only does he narrate individual scenes with dramatic power;2 the whole Gospel develops a courtroom scene in which the Son of God who has come to Earth is on trial for his sonship. Thus, as we might expect, John’s vocabulary is full of legal terminology. In particular, the words ‘judgment/to judge’ (krisis/krinein) and ‘witness/to bear witness’ (martyria/martyrein) play a dominant role as the drama unfolds. In the Prologue at the beginning of the Book of Signs, we find the sad statement, ‘The world knew him not . . . His own people received him not' (1:10,11). Here we have the two main adversaries in his trial. Against the Son of God there stand both the kosmos, the world of sin and darkness under the prince of lies, and the Jews. The latter term, far from being an anti-Semitic expression,3 designates the personalised form of the kosmos, those who cannot bear to be exposed by the light (3:19–21; 8:44). The crisis-theology of the Fourth Gospel is perhaps best illustrated in 3:16-21 where the two opposing sides are pictured in typically Johannine dualistic terminology: death versus life, light versus darkness, goodness versus evil, salvation versus condemnation, belief versus unbelief. These opposing powers are at work throughout the ministry of Jesus. We also see progress reports of the trial. There are those few who see and understand the signs of sonship (2:11; 4:41,50,53). But the Book of Signs ends with the apparent victory of the world and the Jews over Jesus. We have the final resolve to kill him after the raising of Lazarus (11:57), and the first section of the Gospel ends with Jesus hiding himself from the crowds and crying out with the prophet Isaiah, ‘Lord, who has believed our report . . .?’ (12:38).

2. For example, the raising of Lazarus in chapter11, the trial before Pilate in chapter 18, and the resurrection appearances to Mary and Thomas at the end. 3. After all, Jesus, his disciples, and many others who believe in Jesus are also Jews!

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The world seems to have won the case against Jesus of Nazareth. He is no son of God; he is a pseudo-Messiah! But, in fact, the hour of his enthronement as king is only just beginning. However, before we follow this theme, we should first note the list of witnesses the Gospel cites as called to the bar in Jesus’ defence. 1. John the Baptist is the first great witness, pointing to Jesus as the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world (1:7,8,15,19,29,32,34; 5:33). 2. Jesus himself attests the truth concerning his own person and his divine origin (3:11,32,33; 4:44; 8:14,18), as well as the truth concerning John and his mission (3: 26) and the evil nature of people (2:25). The aim of his coming has been to witness to the truth (18:37), but his self-testimony is rejected (5:31; 8:13). 3. The greatest witness remains the Father who sent him (5:32–37; 8:18). 4. The works which the Father has given him to do witness to his person and divine origin (5:36; 10:25). 5. Likewise, the scriptures are a continual witness to his person and mission, if only the people will read and understand (5:39). 6. There are those few in his ministry who see, hear, and believe, and become witnesses to him: the Samaritan woman, and the crowd that sees the raising of Lazarus (4:39; 12:17). But it is only as the passion story begins that the circle of witnesses is closed. 7. Even though the words martyria or martyrein are not used, Pilate in effect, becomes a witness to the truth, albeit unwittingly (19:19–22). 8. In the future the Paraclete will continue to bear witness to Jesus and his truth (15:26) and to convict the world. 9. The circle of witnesses is only closed with the mention of those who saw and heard Jesus in a direct sense, his disciples (15:27), and the authority who stands behind the Gospel itself (19:35; 21:24). With all this in mind, we can approach the narrative of Jesus’ trial in John’s Gospel with a clearer vision; we can understand better, for example, why the Jewish trial is virtually over before it starts, and why the trial before Pilate assumes new prominence by contrast.

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The Glorification Motif The evangelist carefully builds a theology of the passion before the actual narrative has commenced. Before his ‘hour’ arrives, we know that it will be Jesus’ glorification. The evangelist does this, above all, using three passion predictions that occupy key positions, parallel to the passion predictions in the synoptic Gospels (Mark 8:31; 9:31; 10:33,34 and parallels). In the synoptic Gospels the context in each case shows the reader how the whole ministry of Jesus is to be understood as a prelude to the cross, as a path to suffering. While John does not have these sayings about the necessity of the Son of man going up to Jerusalem to suffer, he has three sayings which speak of the raising up or exaltation of the Son. • • •

3:14,15: ‘As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whoever believes in him may have eternal life.’ 8:28: ‘Jesus said, “When you have lifted up the Son of man, then you will know that I am he, and that I do nothing on my own authority but speak as the Father taught me.”’ 12:31-33: ‘” Now is the judgement of this world, now shall the ruler of this world be cast out; and I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.” He said this to show by what death he was to die.’

In these three passages we have a theology of the cross. 1. The suspension of Christ on the cross will, like the lifting up of the bronze serpent in the wilderness, be a saving event for those who look to him in faith. 2. Only then will the full truth of Christ person be revealed. Only then will it become clear what is meant by that mysterious selfdesignation Ego eimi (I am). 3. The hour of his death by crucifixion will, paradoxically, also be the hour of triumph over Satan and the world. It will be the hour which will inaugurate a new reign in which the king draws his subjects to himself in mercy and grace. The ultimate paradox is the use of the word hypsothenai (to be lifted up) to mean doxasthenai (to be glorified). John 12:33 shows the literal meaning of this ‘lifting up’ as a suspension on the cross. But we have already seen that the hour of his death is the hour of glory. A study of

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such passages as 7:39; 12:16,23,28; 13:31,32 and the Highpriestly Prayer in chapter 17 shows that the cross is the first stage of a total event in which Jesus returns to the Father and the glory that was his in all eternity. The hour of glory is, not the crucifixion alone, but that hour is completed only with the resurrection, which is seen as a return to the former glory (compare 12:16 with 2:22). The cross is part of a total event, the return to the Father via the coronation of the messianic King. The passion in John is thus a coronation event. One can readily understand how the verb hypsoun (lift up, exalt) could become a standard term in the exaltation Christology in the sermons and creedal formulae of the early church. In Acts 2:33,34 and 5:31, Peter proclaims that God has ‘exalted’ Jesus to his right hand, a phrase which takes up Psalm 110:1, a passage widely used in the early church to picture Christ’s ascension to glory—at least, that seems to be the case, judging from the letters of Paul and the letter to the Hebrews. The interesting thing is that while Peter (Luke, in Acts), Paul and the writer of Hebrews speak of Christ’s exaltation only after his resurrection, John speaks of the crucifixion itself as a glorification of Jesus! While not disputing that we have here a stroke of Johannine genius, a truly inspired vision of the cross, there may be considerations which make this Johannine picture more understandable. In the first place, the last servant song of Isaiah 53 begins in 52:13, with the announcement that the servant of the Lord will be ‘lifted up, and exalted’, or 'lifted up and glorified’. While the song may mean that the servant is to be exalted after his suffering, it is likely that John saw here, in the close connexion between suffering, being lifted up, and being glorified, the basic outline of his crucifixion/coronation theology. To be lifted up thus came to have a double meaning. However, there is the further interesting fact that there is an Aramaic word (zeqap) which also has both meanings. In the Aramaic sections of the Old Testament, it is found with the meaning ‘to be put on a stake or impaled’ (Ezra 6:11), and in the Syriac it is used regularly for ‘to crucify’. But the same word can also mean exalt, as can be seen from the Targum to Job found in Qumran Cave 11.4 4. See the article by M Black in Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 60 (1969): 1-8, and Barnabas Lindars, The Gospel of John (London: Oliphants, 1972), 157.

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It is possible that these and other observations are relevant as we try to explain Johannine diction and thought. But nothing can detract from the boldness of the Johannine conception, nor from the consistency with which he develops and maintains his conception. The Johannine Passion Narrative In a real sense the passion narrative begins with the foot washing in chapter 13 with its acted parable illustrating the meaning of Jesus’ impending death, also as it affects the relation of Christians to each other. Likewise, the Farewell Discourses of chapters14 to 16 provide a rich theology of the passion; the Lord prepares the disciples for the hour of separation and sorrow, an hour that must come if they are to experience joy and the presence of his Spirit. Above all, the Highpriestly Prayer in chapter 17 develops the picture of the passion as the glorification of the Son as the necessary presupposition for the sanctification, mission, and unity of the disciples. The immediate concern here is the passion narrative proper, namely chapters 18 and 19. By carefully noting the characteristic features of John’s account we will, hopefully, focus attention on the special Johannine contribution to the theology of the cross. The most significant differences between John and the Synoptics in the passion narrative are as follows: Paschal allusions Instead of the Last Supper in the framework of a Passover meal, John has the discourse with eucharistic allusions in chapter 6 and the foot washing in chapter 13. The historical problems raised by the different dating in John and the Synoptics of the last meal of Jesus with his disciples, and therefore of the date of his crucifixion, are well known. Suffice to say at this point that John seems concerned to show that Jesus was, indeed, what John the Baptist had attested him to be: the Lamb of God, sent to take away the sins of the world. Thus, Jesus dies in John’s gospel on the same day on which the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the temple, while in the synoptic Gospels Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, and thus dies one day later, though still on a Friday. His last meal with the disciples in John is on the Day of Preparation (18:28; 13:1; 19:14,31,42). Various attempts

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have been made to remove this apparent contradiction in dating, but all calendrical explanations have so far proven of little help. What is clear is this: John is working with a clear theological conception of Jesus as the pascal Lamb of God, the perfect Passover sacrifice. It is only to be expected then that the paschal motif should reappear in the actual passion narrative. It has been suggested that 19:29 is meant to echo the above theme. Where the Synoptics speak only of Jesus being given vinegar to drink, via a sponge placed on a long reed, John mentions a ‘sponge full of vinegar on a hyssop’ held to his mouth. The passage is difficult since the hyssop is a small plant, which certainly does not have a long, large stem, being rather a small bush, about the same size as a violet plant, with blue flowers and aromatic leaves. It remains just possible that John wishes to make a pascal allusion since the hyssop was used in Old Testament purificatory sacrifices (Leviticus 14:4–6) and dipped in blood to mark the lintels of homes as a sign of salvation on the night of Passover (Exodus 12:22; Numbers 19:6). But the Pascal allusion is clearer and stronger in John 19:36, 37, where the fulfilment of scripture, ‘Not a bone of him, shall be broken’ (Exodus 12:46; Numbers 9:12) certifies Jesus as the perfect paschal victim. A free-will offering There is a series of omissions and insertions in the Johannine narrative which, taken together, develop another theme: Jesus’ death as a freewill offering of himself. The actual events of the passion are seen as a brilliant illustration of the truth enunciated by Jesus in the Good Shepherd discourse: the Good Shepherd lays down his life for the sheep (10:11). Thus, to the end, both at his arrest and during his actual crucifixion, Jesus loves and looks after his own (18:9 and 19:25–27). John’s Gospel, even more than the Synoptics, stresses the fact that Jesus’ death was not the result of cruel fate; he was not the proto martyr either. He is not the object of base acts by people, but from the beginning to end in the proceedings takes the initiative. Rather than being arrested, he reveals himself with the divine ego eimi formula. The agony scene in the Garden of Gethsemane is missing, as is also the cry of dereliction, ‘My God my God, why have you forsaken me?’ Jesus acts on the cross as one who is in full possession of his faculties

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and can give his last will and testament like a man on his deathbed (19:25–27). At the end he does not die, but rather gives up his spirit (19:13). Why this emphasis in John’s Gospel? The early church was, of course, faced with a difficult task of showing how the death of Jesus was not a defeat, not an ignominious and shameful end, but a necessary beginning. It pointed to the resurrection as God’s great Yes to his Son. The Synoptics show at Jesus in his own lifetime had pointed to the necessity of his death, had interpreted it beforehand. Even the most critical analysis of the gospel material cannot remove the conclusion that Jesus, even if only as a rejected prophet, thought about the meaning of his impending and inevitable death. The Gospels relate the passion story to show that his death was a divine necessity. The divine dei (‘it is necessary’) of the Marcan passion predictions (8:31; 9:31; 10:33,34) finds its fitting parallel expression in John’s gospel where Jesus in his passion is the master of the situation at every turn. Theological perspective A third feature likewise reveals an interest in the interpretation of Jesus death in theological perspective. It is obvious even to the casual reader that John, unlike Matthew with his frequent use of the formula ‘in order that it might be fulfilled’, has few explicit Old Testament citations, though many Old Testament allusions. But when we reach the passion narrative, more exactly, the crucifixion scene, this situation changes. One is forced to ask: Why, suddenly now, these references to the fulfilment of scripture (12:8; 13:18; 19:24,28,36,37)? The reason is surely not hard to find. In showing that the cross was not a sign of shame but a victory, the early church could not only point to Jesus’ own interpretation of his death and its necessity, it could also turn to the Old Testament and find there in the prophets and the psalms a picture of the messianic suffering servant and king. Thus, Paul in First Corinthians 15:3 cites a piece of early Christian tradition which confesses that ‘Christ died for our sins in accordance with the scriptures’. This phrase means as much as ‘according to the will of God’. The death of Jesus is here theo-logically interpreted. It is of a piece with the will of God as revealed in the past in the sacred scriptures.

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John preaches interpreted history, but it is God’s own interpretation that decides the issue of Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus hangs on the cross and in that very moment scripture comes alive. The will of the Father is being done, the work which the Father has sent him to do (17:4 and 19:28–30). The events of the passion are to be seen not as strange coincidences but as pointers to the fact that everything is happening according to God’s will. People may do their worst to God’s Messiah, but all the time they are also perfecting the will of God, albeit unwittingly. The scripture passages are thus another way of pointing to the fact that the death of Jesus is not a cruel human fate, but the enactment of the divine saving will. Seen from another angle, we could also say that the passion interprets the Old Testament and reveals its ultimate meaning. The world on trial We have noted above the dramatic structure of John’s Gospel, one that provides a fitting scenario for his crisis theology. This theme is continued in the passion narrative proper. While it can also be said of the Synoptic Gospels that their narrative of Jesus’ trial is no trial, this is especially true in this story that John tells where the Jewish trial is virtually over before it begins. In 18:19 there is not even any mention of a formal charge. Jesus is simply questioned ‘about his disciples and about his teaching’, a very vague formulation, indeed. There is no mention of witnesses against him as in Mark 14:55–59, no charge of blasphemy as in Mark 14:64. It is only in the second stage of the trial, before Pilate,5 that the Jewish leaders bring a charge against Jesus, and even then, it is an indirect and very vague accusation: ‘If this man were not an evildoer . . .’ (John 18:30). The weight of John’s narrative skill is applied not to the Jewish trial but to the trial before Pilate, an episode that is more elaborate in the Johannine version. This trial is important for John because it serves, above all, to highlight the key theme of the passion: Jesus’ coronation and accession to glory. Thus, kingship is naturally the theme of Jesus conversation with Pilate. Here we note that Jesus is not so much the one interrogated as the interrogator and judge! Pilate is the one who squirms and turns to extricate himself from an embarrassing situation. 5. John does not have the Lucan episode of Jesus before Herod Antipas (Luke 23:6–12).

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Mark records Jesus saying at his trial before the high priest that he had daily taught in the temple, and no one had laid hands on him (Mark 14:49 and parallels). John gives us a longer, expanded form of this saying in 18:20,21: ‘I have spoken openly to the world; I have always taught in the synagogues and in the temple, where all the Jews came together; I have said nothing secretly. Why do you ask me? Ask those who have heard me, what I said to them; they know what I said.’ In typically Johannine repetitious formulation, the public nature of Jesus' teaching is stressed. The answer also mentions the two opponents of Jesus, the world and the Jewish leaders. But in fact, there is, according to the Johannine view of Jesus’ ministry no need of a further Jewish trial at the end. The verdict on Jesus of Nazareth has already fallen. The case is over before it begins. All the witnesses for the defence and the testimony of the Son have already appeared at the bar of history and the verdict of the Jews, who are the tools of superhuman powers of darkness have passed the verdict of death even before the passion narrative commences (see 5:18; 7:1, 25, 30, 44; 8:20, 59; 10:31, 39; 11:53). The Pilate pericopes now assume major significance because we have the final and decisive confrontation between Jesus and the cosmos. The Roman ruler represents the whole cosmos in its last attempt to do away with Jesus, the last attempt of darkness to extinguish the light. The fact that Pilate pleads for Jesus’ innocence, for his release, should not lead us to overlook the ultimate truth that he still does not recognise the light, that he works against the glorification of the Son and his victory as the king of the cosmos. Thus, Jesus’ trial becomes the trial of the world as promised in 12:31. Twice Jesus is presented to the crowd: ‘Behold, the man’ (19:5); ‘Behold your king’ (19:14). Both presentations are meant to soften the Jews in a dramatic display of a harmless, miserable creature. Paradoxically, Pilate becomes not only the representative of the world against Jesus; he also becomes the last witness in the hour of glory. Apart from his testimony to Jesus’ innocence and his—though in mockery—crowning of the king (18:38; 19:5), he has the last say against the Jewish leaders with the superscription over the cross, which attests to the whole world, in three languages, that Jesus is the king of the Jews (19:19). The dramatic technique of John serves to highlight the two-fold character of Pilate, as representative of the world against Jesus and

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on the side of the Jews, and as the last witness for Jesus, who must himself be judged by Jesus. In 18:28 to 19:16 we find no fewer than seven different scenes as Pilate moves in and out of the Praetorium between Jesus and the Jews. The scenes are as follows: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

outside with the Jews who demand Jesus’ death. (18:28–32) inside with Jesus and the discussion on kingship (18:33–38) outside with the Jews who choose Barabbas (18:3b–40) inside with Jesus and his scourging (19:1–3) outside with the Jesus’ presentation (19:8) inside with Jesus and the discussion on power (9:9–11) outside with Jesus and the final presentation and delivery (19:12– 16a)

We here have the literary form of the ‘chiasm’, in which 1 = 7, 2 = 6 and 3 = 5 in terms of setting, content, and even length— only 4 drops out of the scheme and here Pilate is not the central character.6 But this careful balancing of the story should not lead us to overlook what John obviously wishes to say. The man on trial is, finally, not Jesus but Pilate himself. The almost pathetic, if not frenzied, running to and fro of Pilate expresses, ‘spatially’, the turmoil of the man’s soul as he is faced by the innocent king and feels himself under judgment. In the case of the Jews, John again highlights the supreme irony of the scene when we see a Roman ruler presenting them with their messiah and insisting that that is how he shall be called, right to the bitter end. The superscription is Pilate’s last mocking thrust at the Jews, but it still contains the truth. The Jewish leaders suffer defeat. The royal motif We finally return to a search of possible features which served to picture Christ’s passion as the glorification of the King. Some of the features mentioned above are again relevant at this point, and it is a matter of simply drawing together all the threads. The captivity scene is characterised by Jesus’ calm control of the situation (18:1–11). The agony of Jesus over his impending death is certainly found in John 12:27,28, but not in the passion narrative itself, that is, in the Gethsemane scene. Even the capture of Jesus is 6. See Brown, Gospel According to John, 859.

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marked by his perfect knowledge in18:4: ‘Jesus, knowing all that was to be happen to him . . .’. This is the same lordly control of the situation that we find at the beginning of his path to the cross in 13:1: ‘Jesus, knowing that his hour had come . . .’ It is as if he deliberately invites his arrest; his knowledge includes Judas (contrast v 4 with v 2). Twice Jesus answers his captors with the formula ego eimi (18:6,8). Of course, a predicate is to be supplied from the context. To the soldiers who said they are seeking Jesus of Nazareth, he replies, ‘I am he’, namely Jesus! But readers of the Gospel who have their ears attuned by now to Johannine diction hear more than a simple selfidentification. From 4:26 to 15:5 the ego eimi formula is used to identify Jesus as the Messiah. We recall the second passion prediction in 8:28: ‘When you have lifted up the Son of man, then you will know that I am he’, and 13:18,19: ‘I know whom I have chosen. It is that the scripture may be fulfilled, “He who ate my bread has lifted his heel against me.” I tell you this now before it takes place, that when it does take place, you may believe that I am he.’ Clearly, John wants us to see in this scene of the arrest of Jesus and identification of both the person betrayed and of the King, the Messiah. All that follows is the story of the progress of the King to his throne. It has been suggested that we have a picture of a king in his royal procession to the throne, that is, the first stage of the royal ritual, consisting of procession, presentation, and enthronement. What is clear is that is that the person of Judas is no longer as important in the arrest scene as in the Synoptics. There is no kiss of betrayal. We simply read that ‘Judas was standing with them’ (18:5). He has taken his stand with the powers of darkness (see 13:30). Not Judas, but Jesus, is in control of the situation. Not even the soldiers are in control. At the word of Jesus, they fall back to the ground (18:6). Is this merely the reaction to what could be considered brazen affrontery on the part of a dangerous man, or does John imply more than that? We perhaps think of Daniel 10:9, Revelation 1:17, or Philippians 2:8-11: at the epiphany of God and at the name of Jesus people must fall on their knees and pay homage to the heavenly King! Perhaps we are meant to recall Psalm 56:9: ‘My enemies will be turned back . . . Behold, I know that you are my God'. There is a Christian legend reported by Eusebius that when Pharaoh heard Moses speak the sacred name of God had had to fall down speechless!

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The temptation to overinterpret John, to see hidden symbolic meanings behind every verse, is real and should be resisted as much as an interpretation that sees only a narration of history without deeper spiritual meanings. Raymond Brown sums up his consideration of the scene with a cautious assessment: ‘The Johannine scene illustrates that Jesus has God’s power over the forces of darkness because he has the divine name. It reinforces the impression that Jesus could not have been arrested unless he permitted it.’7 We certainly see the same royal serenity and control in the rebuke of Peter who draws his sword. In his hour of glory, the messianic king needs no armies in his defence. In the brief Jewish trial (18:12–27) it is Jesus who calmly speaks the truth, whereas his judges cannot even present an accusation and are able to react only with violent gestures. In contrast to the control of Jesus we see Peter lost in the moment of trial. The contrast between Jesus and Peter is, perhaps, even more marked in John than in the Synoptics. The Jewish trial can be brief because the verdict of guilt has long since been passed. The mistreatment of Jesus and the false witnesses of the Synoptics are missing, and Jesus’ saying about the destruction of the temple and its restoration (Mark 14:58; Matt 26:61) has already come at the early cleansing of the temple (2:19). That there are no explicit messianic allusions in this section need not surprise us. The question of his messianic identity, his Sonship, has been decided long ago. The way in which the trial of Peter is woven into this section shows how Jesus must face his hour of glory alone, even without those whom he has loved to the end, including Peter. The trial before Pilate (18:28–19:16) highlights the key issue: Is Jesus king or not? And if so, in what sense? As we noted, the rapid changes in scene provide a dramatic framework in which to present the final confrontation of the kosmos and the King. And in this scene, we not only again see the lordly calm Jesus. We see, by way of contrast, the desperate manoeuvring of Pilate to find a way out of his dilemma. Above all, it is this scene which offers the second part of the royal enthronement ritual, the presentation of the king to his subjects — even if 19:3 and especially 19:14 depict a mock presentation, and even if the king’s subjects do not cry ‘Long live the king!’, but rather ‘We have no king but Caesar.’ 7. Brown, The Gospel According to John, 818.

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The royal ritual reaches its third stage and the climax, with the actual enthronement on the cross, the crucifixion (19:17–37). The narrative naturally begins with an elaborate reference to the superscription with its testimony to Christ as ‘the king of the Jews’ (19:19). That titulus which usually bore the description of the criminal’s guilt here becomes a public announcement of the King’s authority. In the details of the crucifixion, John and the Synoptics are closely related. We find Jesus hanging between two others (Mark 15:22,27), the royal superscription (Mark 15:26), the division of Jesus’ robes (Mark 15:36), and the presence of women at the scene (Mark 15:40). But John has other unique and, perhaps, characteristic features. Simon of Cyrene does not appear, and Jesus therefore bears his own cross (compare Mark 15:21). There is no mockery of Jesus on the Via Dolorosa, no mockery from those under the cross or from one of the fellow sufferers. There is no commiseration for Jesus from the weeping women of Jerusalem. From start to finish, all attention is focused on Jesus, on his mock throne. There is no darkness, no portents, not even the centurion’s confession as in (Mark 15:38,39). Again, one should not make too much of individual omissions or special features but, taken together, the features of John’s narrative paint a consistent picture. Jesus’ behaviour on the cross is nothing less than regal; it is fully consistent with his behaviour during the arrest and trial. From start to finish he takes the initiative. He seems to be like the director of a play who at the same time acts out the central role. There is no delirious cry of dereliction; always he is fully conscious. Like a man on a death bed, he dispenses his last will and testament for his loved ones (19:25–27). There is no cry of dereliction, but instead a cry of victory: ‘It is finished!’ (v 30). On the cross he is still at work, completing what the Father sent him to do. Even his death is marked by his perfect knowledge (v 28). And at the end he does not merely die; he ‘gives up’ the spirit at the exact moment he chooses. The three references to the fulfilment of scripture complete the picture. The king is on the throne, doing and declaring the will of the Father. Royal features are not difficult to find in the last scene with its description of the burial of Jesus (19:38-42). The huge supply of spices gathered to prepare Jesus’ body for burial is a princely amount. And the tomb that finally receives his body is also fitting for a king. Jesus is king, even in death.

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Summary Without claiming to have exhausted the theological themes running through John’s passion narrative, we can detect at least five major motifs. In his passion Jesus shows himself to be • • • • •

the perfect Passover lamb dying for the sin of the world the Good Shepherd freely offering his life for his own the Son who perfects the will of the father to the last detail the judge of the world and of the powers of darkness the messianic King enthroned in glory.

While we can never know for sure how many features John deliberately included or omitted to serve these themes, his own unique and clear conception of the meaning of Jesus' passion has emerged. In John’s understanding, Jesus’ second stage of glorification is Easter, the conclusion of the return to the Father. Thus, John needs no ascension narrative. For the raising up of Jesus on the cross is the beginning of his ascent to heavenly glory (doxa). In translating John’s vision for our day, the offence and shame of the cross remain. The focus lies not in a new theology glory, but in the theology of the cross that glorifies the Son of man as the one who still has holes in his hands, feet, and side. For the glorified Christ remains the suffering Christ (Hebrews 2:10–18; 4:14–16). Surely this means that God’s glorified people also remain a suffering people, suffering in and for others in the world, but now in victorious suffering.

‘They Knew it was the Lord’. The Place and Function of John 21:1–14 in the Gospel of John

Published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 20.2/3 (1986): 84-95

The account of the miraculous catch of fish at the beginning of the last chapter of John cannot be discussed without reference to the many questions posed by the entire chapter. Taken by itself, the pericope has been the subject of much discussion and speculation, especially with respect to two questions. Why does the evangelist record the exact number of fish contained in the net? —153 according to 21:11. And does verse 13 contain deliberate eucharistic allusions? Even more important is the problem of the position and function of the entire story within the Fourth Gospel. Problems of Chapter 21 We need only allude, without detailed explanation, to the well-known problems. 1. There is the question of integrity. Is John 21 part of the original Gospel, or a later, perhaps redactional, addition? If the Gospel ended at 20:31 it is improbable than any reader, even the most imaginative, critical, modern scholar, would ever suggest that it is incomplete. Chapter 20 forms a fitting climax to the Gospel with its Easter appearances and the call to ministry, accompanied by the gift of the Spirit. A final statement on the purpose of the evangelist in 20:30,31 has rounded off the message with no suggestion that anymore need be said. Yet suddenly we find some disciples back at their old location, at least for a few of them,

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fishing in Galilee. After the statement of 20:29, it is surprising to read of another appearance of Jesus. Why should those who have heard that from now on believing is seeing, be required to see him once more? Further, it is usually agreed that the climax of 21:1–14 is another call to mission. Why another call when this is already been implied in the previous chapter (20:21-23)? Why should two disciples be singled out for special consideration, especially about their role in the future of the church, when the farewell discourses have surely developed the thought that the disciples are the first of a host of believers who are called to carry on the work of the Lord in the world after his departure to the Father? Finally, 21:25 reads like a repetition of 20:30—a rather feeble imitation, according to CK Barrett.1 There cannot be the slightest suggestion that the Gospel ever appeared in any form but that in which it is passed down to us. It is generally accepted by scholars that both the Prologue (1:1–18) and the Epilogue (21:1–25) are editorial additions appended to the Gospel before its ‘publication’. Yet, with the single exception of one Syriac manuscript dating from the fifth or sixth century, the Gospel of John has always been known as containing these twenty-one chapters. That this one manuscript ends at 20:25 would seem to suggest that it is incomplete, rather than a witness to a different ending to the Gospel. 2. There is, secondly, the question of the authorship of chapter 21. There is no need to repeat the detailed analyses of vocabulary, structure, and style which have been undertaken to find a solution to the problem of the origin of this chapter. It is, of course, striking that in such a short chapter of only twenty-five verses, there are twenty-eight words not found in the rest of the Gospel. But new words are required by new subject matter. A fishing scene has not been recorded elsewhere in the story told by John. Although there are some linguistic peculiarities, an editor—if that be the case— has been careful to align her or his own style with that of the main part of the Gospel. It is interesting to note that those who detect redactional elements in 21:1–14, for example, do so on more than linguistic and stylistic grounds. Noting both typically Johannine 1. CK Barrett, The Gospel According to St John, 2nd edition (London: SPCK, 1978), 577.

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features as well as linguistic features not found elsewhere in John, Raymond Brown concludes that the evidence is ambiguous.2 We seem to be on surer ground in verse 24. The Prologue has included the witness of a group: ‘The word dwelt among us . . . we have beheld his glory’ (1:14). We seem to have the same group testifying at the end of the Gospel with respect to the faithful witness: ‘We know that his testimony is true’ (21:24). If, as seems most logical, we take 21:23 as implying that the Beloved Disciple is already dead, it is also logical to take the whole of the last chapter as the work of either a group, the so-called Johannine Circle, or at least a redactor who speaks on behalf of this group. That is the common assumption. 3. This raises the question why a redactor in view of the apparent completeness of the gospel at 20:31, would have added the last chapter. Was he or she too naive to see that an addition would raise problems for the reader? One common suggestion is that a writer wished to augment or supplement the Gospel with additional material known to the readers from other gospels. True, only in this last chapter is there a hint that some of the disciples had been fishermen before they were called to follow Jesus (v 3); only here do the sons of Zebedee appear together (v 2). The large catch of fish has its parallel, to some extent, at least, in Luke 5:1–11. The appearance to the disciples in Galilee, presupposed by Mark, parallels the appearance in Matthew’s Gospel. According to Luke 24:31,32,42,43, Jesus eats with his disciples after the resurrection. Finally, the dialogue of Jesus with Peter, it is suggested, bears some relationship to Matthew 16:17–19. The theory of augmentation suffers from one obvious defect. It presupposes that which must be proved: that John’s Gospel used other gospel accounts. It presumes that in the case of chapter 21, we have additional material which was known to the readers and had to be recorded for their sake to keep the record complete.

2. Raymond E Brown, The Gospel According to John, xiii-xxi. Anchor Bible 29A (New York: Doubleday,1970), 1079–80; see also John Marsh, The Gospel of St John. Pelican Gospel Commentaries (Harmondsworth: Pelican Books, 1968), 653,654, and Rudolf Bultmann, The Gospel of John: A Commentary (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1971), 700-01.

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4. John 21 certainly raises the question of sources. Attempts at reconstructing the history of the material contained in 21:1–19 (both the catch of fish and the dialogue of Jesus with Peter), have led to a variety of conclusions. For example, what was originally the first resurrection appearance to Peter has been combined with an old account of Jesus’ first Galilean appearance to Peter after the resurrection. This appearance included sharing in a meal of bread and fish with the disciples. The two stories preserve an original, ancient sequence of events. In fact, John 21:1–19, despite editorial amplifications, preserves an historical confrontation, reporting that which has ‘otherwise been fragmented and scattered through the synoptic accounts of the ministry’ at Matthew 14:28–33 (Peter walking on the water); 16:16b–19 (the confession of Peter at Caesarea Philippi); Luke 5:1–11 (the miraculous catch of fish and Jesus’ call for Peter to follow him). ‘These stories had already been combined long before they came to the redactor responsible for chapter XXI.’3 Even the ecclesiastical and sacramental symbolism which is found in the story of the draught of fish was there before the redactor took up the story for later inclusion in the Gospel. Characteristic of the redactor’s editorial work is the insertion of the figure of the Beloved Disciple in the whole of the chapter.4 Although he agrees with Brown’s contention that 21:1–14 and 15–19 form an original unity, Rudolf Bultmann also concludes that the fishing story told of the first (and only?) appearance of the risen Jesus to the disciples. John, unlike Luke, has retained the original post-resurrection setting. Likewise, Jesus’ conversation with Peter preserves the tradition of a post-Easter encounter which has been predated into Jesus’ early ministry in the other Gospels. In contrast to Brown, Bultmann sees the hand of the redactor in the stress placed on the role of both Peter and the Beloved Disciple—the latter being seen in chapter 21 as a definite historical person, not as an ideal disciple as in the rest of the Gospel. Two points here are striking. Both Brown and Bultmann suggest John’s Gospel preserves very old accounts, perhaps even more faithfully than do the other Gospels. Secondly, they agree that the appearance of Jesus in chapter 21 must predate those in chapter 20. 3. Brown, 1082-95, especially 1084,85. 4. Bultmann, 701, 705.

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The key argument employed by both commentators in this matter is that, according to John, none of the disciples who are out fishing recognise the Lord. How is this possible after his appearances to them in the previous chapter? It should not be suggested that the above conclusions represent anything like a consensus. Conservative commentators, such as Leon Morris, and FF Bruce,5 can move into chapter 21 with relative ease without discussing at length the questions of integrity, authorship, and sources. On the other hand, some other critical analyses of chapter 21 have led to different conclusions. Possibly the most detailed study of 21:1–14 and of its relationship to Luke 5:1–11 has been offered by Rudolf Pesch. After attempting a detailed reconstruction of an original miracle story and its development in two independent traditions in the Lucan and Johannine accounts, Pesch concludes that ‘the account of the rich catch of fish seems originally to have been conceived as a miracle story which in a special way placed Simon Peter (as the recipient of the miracle) alongside of Jesus, the miracle-worker’. The story does not seem to presuppose historical tradition, but rather a timeless legend which has later been anchored in the story of Jesus at two different places. Both situations, whether pre-Easter or postEaster, are literary constructions.6 To complicate matters, RT Fortna has argued that John 21:1–14 originally belonged to a pre-resurrection context, a view shared by RH Fuller.7 And Bultmann, while arguing in his commentary that John preserves the original post-Easter setting of the miracle, can elsewhere state that John’s version of the story is later, and that Luke’s version and its setting is the more original.8

5. Leon Morris, The Gospel According to John. New International Commentary on the New Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), 858,59; FF Bruce The Gospel of John (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1983), 398, 399. Older English commentators, such as EC Hoskyns, had no difficulty in seeing John 21 as an original part of the whole Gospel. 6. Rudolph Pesch, Der reiche Fischfang (Düsseldorf: Patmos Verlag, 1969), 153,54. 7. RT Fortna, The Gospel of Signs: A Reconstruction of the Narrative Source Underlying the Fourth Gospel (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1970), 87-98; RH Fuller, The Formation of the Resurrection Narratives (London: SPCK, 1972), 148–52. 8. See note 22 above, and Bultmann’s History of the Synoptic Tradition (Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1963), 217, 218.

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A Methodological Problem Recent preoccupation with source analysis has led to anything but assured results. This is to a large extent the result of considerable confusion over what can be called ‘redactional’.9 This is something of an elastic term, capable of various meanings. It can denote the changes made by an editor to source material—alterations in vocabulary and style, or even in setting or context. It can also mean the theological thrust or purpose which any such changes are meant to serve. Further, there is a decided lack of agreement on the objective criteria according to which scholars may detect what is redactional, especially in the first sense just noted. Any objective detection of editorial activity must surely presuppose agreement on the exact form in which a prior source existed. What we find, however, is that supposed redactional elements are stripped from a narrative to determine in the first place what a source looked like. That this constitutes a major methodological dilemma in Gospel studies is indicated, to cite one obvious example, by redaction-critical studies of Mark’s Gospel. According to the commonly accepted theory of Marcan priority, we have no sure knowledge of the actual content of the sources used by Mark. Is it any wonder that the contribution of Marcan redaction can be viewed in a variety of ways? To return to the Gospel of John, it is arguable that literary-, source-, and redaction-critical studies will not solve the many problems posed by this last chapter. Above all, they will not clarify the place and function of the material it contains within the total Gospel. What we are doing is not negating the question of redaction; rather, we are seeking to understand Johannine redaction in a strictly theological sense. The suggestion that an editor added the last chapter to augment the Gospel with further traditions is unsatisfactory, if only because it fails to ask the vital question: Why do these stories come precisely here and not after 20:29, with 20:30, 31 placed at the end? That the writer did not do so demands that we look at how the material in this chapter takes up earlier motifs of the Gospel and brings them to a fitting conclusion. Our study is redactional in the sense that it 9. See Grant R Osborne, ‘John 21: Test Case for History and Redaction in the Resurrection Narratives’, in Gospel Perspectives: Studies of History and Tradition in the Four Gospels, Volume II, edited by RT France and David Wenham (Sheffield: JOTS Press, 1981), 293-328, especially the comments on page 293.

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seeks to locate characteristic theological motifs which are part of the total concept of John’s Gospel. In this way, the study reflects much of the same concerns as recent studies by Stephen Smalley and Grant Osborne.10 The Johannine Character of Chapter 21 Apart from minute stylistic differences between John 21 and the rest of the Gospel, there are features in the chapter which immediately strike one as typically Johannine: 1. the use of distinctive names such as Tiberius, Simon Peter, Thomas the twin, Nathanael of Cana (vv 1,2) 2. the prominence given to the Beloved Disciple (vv 7,20–24) 3. the failure of people to know, recognise, and understand (v 4) 4. the hesitancy of the disciples to ask a question (v 12, recalling 4:27) 5. the reminiscence of 6:11 in verse 13, as Jesus takes the bread and fish 6. the threefold restoration of Peter following his threefold denial (vv 15–17) 7. the use of synonyms for ‘love’, ‘sheep’, and ‘know’ (vv 15–17) 8. the sheep and shepherd image, recalling the Good Shepherd discourse in chapter 10 9. the characteristic formula ‘Truly, truly’ (v 18) 10. the parenthesis of verse 19 which parallels 12:33 11. the reference back to 13:25 in verse 20 with the description of the Beloved Disciple as the one who had laid on Jesus’ breast 12. the obvious connection between Jesus’ command, ‘Follow me’ in verse 19, and his earlier statement to Peter, ‘You cannot follow me now’ in 13:36 13. the motif of misunderstanding (v 23). Such typically Johannine features and references to earlier parts of the Gospel, especially where features are more than merely linguistic, make it difficult to assume that we are dealing with a different author

10. Stephen S Smalley, ‘The Sign of John XXI’, New Testament Studies, 20 (1974): 27588. For Osborne, see the previous note.

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in chapter 21, at least up to verse 23. ‘A redactor too far from the Johannine swim would not have caught such a trick.’11 Smalley, taking up an insight of Barnabas Lindars, has pointed to a further Johannine feature in the entire chapter. Even if we may question whether the miraculous catch of fish is a sign in the stricter Johannine sense, we again encounter a common cyclic pattern found in the Book of Signs (chapters 2 to 12). Sign, theological statement, and witness, form a repeated cycle.12 The Miraculous Catch of Fish Turning more specifically to 21:1–14, we note that there are features in the account of the catch of fish which mark it as a distinct account which cannot easily lead to the conclusion that it is based on the same tradition as that behind Luke 5:1–11. Apart from the different setting, we note: 1. there are seven disciples in John, three in Luke. John has one boat, Luke has two 2. in John the full nets do not break, in Luke they do 3. in John the beloved disciple recognises and confesses Jesus; in Luke it is Peter who makes a confession 4. in John the beloved disciple, not Peter, is arguably the central disciple 5. only John has the motif of non-recognition and Peter swimming to shore 6. the conclusion is not the same; Luke has the call to become fishers of people, in John there are hints of the mission to come, but there is strong emphasis on the ongoing fellowship of the risen Christ with his disciples. The non-recognition of Jesus in verse 4 is a key factor in the argument for taking the two stories in Luke and John as pointing to a common event, one at which must, however, be located before the Easter appearances in chapter 20 of John. The common objection is: How could Peter have failed to recall a similar prior event, and how could 11. Smalley, ‘The Sign . . .’, 276; for arguments on the literary unity of John’s Gospel with reference to the Gospel’s structure, see Osborne, 296. 12. Smalley, 278.

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the disciples fail to recognise Jesus after he had already appeared to them in Jerusalem? The answer to such objections is not to be found in differentiating original sources and redaction, and in attempting to find an original setting for the story, but in noting the redactional meaning— meaning theological emphases—of features in the present setting of the story. It is to these we now turn. The Setting of the Miracle As noted earlier, the setting of the miracle in Galilee causes commentators no difficulty. On the other hand, the timing of the event is the subject of much discussion. It is commonly agreed that the miracle occurred before the appearances in chapter 20. It could be argued on purely logical grounds that appearances in Jerusalem and Judea are more likely to have taken place before an appearance in Galilee. But there is another reason why John should close with an appearance in Galilee, a reason which no one has so far seemed to notice. The transition from chapter 20 to 21 with ‘after this’ (meta tauta) is certainly less precise than ‘after eight days’ in 20:26. The phrase occurs in 11:7 where it marks a progression of events as Jesus moves from the territory east of the Jordan back into Judea. Here the reverse is the case; the scene moves from Judea to Galilee. The writer’s purpose is surely not simply to bring his account into line with Matthew’s report of a Galilean appearance (28:16,17). As John 20:30 implies and as 21:25 explicitly states, no attempt has been made to provide a comprehensive report. The reason for reporting a final Galilean appearance must lie elsewhere. The reminder that Nathanael came from Cana in Galilee (21:2) takes us back to chapter 1, strictly speaking to 1:45–2:1, and provides us with another example of the familiar Johannine inclusio. The manifestation of the Son of God in the flesh begins outside Judea, in Peraea where John is baptising. We are then taken to Galilee. It will be recalled that, in John’s Gospel, Jesus is rarely outside Judea. Yet it is also a striking fact that the further Jesus moves from Judea and the centre of Judaism, the better he is received. This comes out in almost programmatic fashion in chapter 4 as Jesus is first welcomed by the Samaritans and then finds faith in an official whose son he heals—in Galilee! The two episodes are linked by 4:43–46:

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After two days he left for Galilee. Now Jesus himself had pointed out that a prophet has no honour in his own country. When he arrived in Galilee, the Galileans welcomed him. They had seen all that he had done in Jerusalem at the Passover feast, for they had also been there. Once more, he visited Cana in Galilee, where he had turned the water into wine. (NIV)

The repeated mention of Galilee drives home a point. It is not only the place where Jesus revealed his glory for the first time (at Cana); it stands in contrast to Judea as the home of ‘the Jews’, the religious leaders who are soon exposed as the real enemies of Jesus. It is in the Transjordan, in Samaria, and in Galilee that Jesus finds faith. That runs counter to contemporary expectation, as indicated also by the suggestion of Jesus’ brothers that he should leave Galilee and go to Judea, ‘For no man works in secret if he seeks to be known openly. If you do these things, show yourself to the world’ (7:3,4). Locality is an expression of the Johannine version of the messianic secret. The Messiah whose human origins in Galilee are known (1:46; 7:27,41,52), remains unrecognised and must be rejected. Bultmann’s claim that a further Galilean appearance in 21:1–14 ‘now has no real meaning at all’ is to be rejected.13 Our suggestion is that Galilee has theological significance in John’s gospel. It is the place of faith and recognition, not simply because Jesus’ first disciples came from that place, but because it stands for the locality which is scorned by the Jerusalem leaders who themselves reject Christ. It could be objected that Galilee also is the scene of rejection. There is murmuring against Jesus’ claim to be the bread of heaven (6:41,43). Yet we should note that the evangelist concentrates on the reaction of the disciples (vv 60–71). Some do leave him, but Peter is the spokesperson for those who remain and confess the Lord. The chapter ends on the note of faith, not of rejection.14 The Event as Revelation John 21:1–14 is neatly marked by another typical inclusio. It begins with a note that ‘Jesus revealed himself again to the disciples’, and that 13. Bultmann, 701. 14. The reference to Judas as the betrayer in verse 71 does not negate this point. It serves to highlight the faith of those who are ‘chosen’, who have been given faith by the heavenly Father.

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‘he revealed himself in this way’. It ends with their reminder that ‘this was now the third time Jesus was revealed to the disciples’. The key questions are: What is the nature of this revelation, and how does it relate both to the theme of revelation in the whole Gospel and, more specifically, to the manifestations of the risen Lord in chapter 20? The verb ‘to reveal’ (phaneroun), used three times in this passage, appears only six times in the first twenty chapters. John the Baptist summarises the purpose of his mission in one short statement: that the coming one might be revealed to Israel (1:31). At his first sign at Cana, Jesus revealed his glory and his disciples believed in him (2:11). Via the mention of Nathanael of Cana in 21:2, there is a strong reminiscence of this sign. In 7:4 we find the brothers of Jesus pleading that he should leave Galilee and ‘show’ himself. In other passages, Jesus sums up his mission as that of revealing the works of God, or the Father’s name (9:3; 17:6). In the evangelist’s own programmatic summary of Jesus' mission as the Son of God, the verb phaneroun is used for the revelation of deeds done in God in contrast to the exposure of sin by the Light (3:21). In each case the verb sets out a program. But how does chapter 21 complete the program? Why does the writer place this manifestation of the risen Lord at the end of the Gospel, and not before the appearances of chapter 20, where it properly belongs, according to some commentators? They see in the reference to the 'third time' (v 14) a redactional attempt to sew the two chapters together, an attempt which has not quite succeeded. We note first the repeated reference to disciples in verses 1 and 14. Clearly, the writer does not include the appearance of Jesus to Mary Magdalene in the series of three appearances. This already gives us a clue to the writer’s concern in this last chapter, and to following the way in which he wants the reader to understand this third appearance. What takes place here is not a manifestation of Jesus’ glory for the world, but for a few disciples. It is usually assumed that John 21:1–14 is a sign in the usual Johannine sense. Yet there may be good reasons why the writer can add this miracle after speaking of the many signs which Jesus did, thereby implying that it is not a sign in the strict sense.15

15. Smalley (see note 31) simply assumes that this miracle is a ‘sign’.

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There is no doubt that the signs of John 2 to 11 are miracles with christological significance. Their significatory meaning can be perceived only by faith, for the element of the miraculous is itself not the point (see 4:48; 6:26). At the same time, the sign as effective word in action creates faith. There is, further, a twofold movement or progression as the sequence of signs is revealed. We are specifically told that it is the disciples who believed after the miracle at Cana (2:11). This is soon followed by a note that others believed in Jesus after seeing his signs at the Passover in Jerusalem (3:33). Thereafter, until 11:15, there is no mention of the faith of the disciples in connection with a sign. It is rather the faith of those whom Jesus heals and feeds, and more particularly, the reaction of others who reject Jesus because of his signs, which is portrayed as the crisis of faith and unbelief is depicted. At the end of the last sign, the raising of Lazarus, Jesus clearly speaks and acts for the sake of those who are standing by (11:42). The progression from a smaller circle to a larger one is matched by a second progression. All the signs, as revelations of divine glory, are pointers to the great hour of glory. This comes out most clearly in the raising of Lazarus, where we have unmistakable allusions to Jesus’ death and resurrection (in 11:4,13–16,25,27,38,44). Thus, the hour of the cross and empty tomb is never called a sign in John. It rather confirms the revelation of glory already received by the disciples. Thomas’s confession to Jesus as Lord and God is climactic and inclusive, because the kyrios confession includes all the Christological titles developed earlier in the Gospel.16 All this means that the event in John 21:1–14 does not create new faith in Christ as the Son of God. The Beloved Disciple, after recognising Jesus, simply echoes Thomas’ confession: ‘It is the Lord’ (v 7). This highlights the real question: What is the point, in the writer’s view, of this third revelation of Jesus after those of chapter 20? As noted earlier, scholars frequently see little more than a problem in the non-recognition of Jesus in 21:4b. How was it that the disciples did not know that it was Jesus so soon after the events of the previous chapter?17 Bultmann suggests that this is a redactional note,18 but he does not explain in what sense and why it was included. Admittedly, 16. The kyrios title is prominent already in 20:18,20,25. 17. See the comments of Brown, Gospel of John, 1070. 18. Bultmann, 703.

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redactional processes in New Testament time may not have reached the refined level demanded by modern readers, but it is questionable whether one should ascribe extreme literary naivete to a redactor in this case, one who has not edited out a comment which stands in tension with the previous chapter. The most logical conclusion is that the evangelist himself saw no conflict. He not only wanted verse 4b to stand; he wanted to highlight the statement. The formulation of John 21:4b is typically Johannine,19 and the statement that the disciples did not recognise Jesus recalls a very Johannine motif. There is no need to posit some natural reason for the failure of the disciples to recognise Jesus, such as tiredness and frustration after a bad night’s fishing, morning mists or swirling fog, or the distance from the shore. No explanation is given because the reader is expected to understand the point being made. ‘To know’ is a synonym for ‘to believe’ in John. Yet not to know does not necessarily mean failure to believe. What does not seem to have been noted sufficiently is that John chapters 13 to 20 develop a contrast between Jesus who knows, and others, especially the disciples, who do not know or understand. Jesus knows when his hour has come (13:1,2). He knows the identity of the betrayer and those who will remain faithful (13:11,18). In the same context of the Last Supper and the Farewell Discourses, the disciples do not know what Jesus is doing in washing their feet (13:7,12), nor do they know where he is about to go (14:4,5). They can only confess that he knows all things (16:30). John’s passion narrative is framed with the same motif. At the beginning, Jesus knows all that is to happen to him. At the end, he dies knowing that all is perfected (18:4; 19:28). In all cases the same Greek word is used for ‘knowing’, eidenai not ginoskein. Significantly, the same theme runs through the Easter chapter where the disciples, including Mary Magdalene, are caught by surprise and do not know/ understand what has happened (20:2,9,13,14). What the evangelist develops with this motif is a theology of revelation, one that is continued in the resurrection appearances with good reason. Jesus must manifest himself to be known. There is no natural perception of his person and mission. It is thus doubtful whether we should speak of a recognition motif in 21:4.20 Jesus is 19. Barrett points to the use of the particle mentoi in verse 4b as typically Johannine. 20. Osborne, ‘John 21’, 299.

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not so much recognised as known by his self- revelation. That this takes place after chapter 20 is a reminder that, although the first appearances involved the definitive revelation to the first witnesses, it is not the end of revelation, but a new beginning in which the Lord continually comes to his church. What is revealed in the catch of fish is not something new about his person but about his will and abiding presence. The Call to Mission There is no need to recall all the hints at the wider mission of Jesus through the disciples that are found before chapter 21 (see only 10:16; 15:16,27; 17:18). The gift of the Spirit to the disciples in 20:21–23 also belongs in the context of a ‘sending’ (compare v 21 with 17:18). Yet commentators are agreed that there are clear hints at a call to mission here in 21:1–14. Is this needless repetition? It strikes us as strange that the disciples, at least some of them, are back at their old occupation of fishing. It seems that the writer wants us to note the need for the Lord to call them back to their proper vocation. Perhaps the fruitlessness of the night’s fishing is meant to underline the truth that they are in the wrong business! In any case, there are hints at the same motif which is quite explicit in the parallel account of Luke 5:1–11, which climaxes in the call to be fishers of people. There is no need to speculate on the precise meaning of the 153 fish (v 11); explanations vary from the bizarre to the ingenious but are never quite convincing. Nor can we be sure that the unbroken net, like the seamless robe of Christ in 19:29, must stand for the unity of the church from which none are to be lost. We are on safer grounds in noting that the same verb is used for ‘drawing’ in the net and in Christ’s promise to ‘draw’ all people to himself after his hour of glory (12:32). Even without such details, two observations suggest that ‘mission’ is the prime purpose of the event, not a new revelation of the person of Jesus nor a new understanding of his glory. Following our pericope, we have details about how two leading disciples are to serve the Lord from now on until their death, each in his own unique way. Yet they are not unique in being called to ‘follow’ Jesus (v 19). Each in his own way is a model of discipleship.

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Secondly, the other Gospels (we may include Mark because his ending is incomplete) do not end with Easter appearances but with the commissioning of the disciples for mission (Matt 28:19,20; Luke 24:47,48). It is difficult to imagine a Gospel being complete which begins with Christ’s glory before the incarnation and does not hint at the ongoing revelation of that glory after his return to the Father. Prologue and Epilogue in John frame the story of the incarnation. The former states the eternal origin of Christ’s mission to the world; the latter implies the ongoing mission since his return to heavenly glory. The Lord’s Presence According to Luke 24:30,31, Jesus reveals himself to two disciples in the breaking of bread. Later he eats fish with the Eleven. There are echoes of this in John 21:9–13, though John does not state that Jesus himself ate anything. John’s purpose is not to provide evidence for the bodily resurrection. Jesus is the provider of the catch, yet there are fish on the fire when the disciples reach the shore. He himself hands out the bread and the fish, an action described in words which deliberately recall the miracle of the feeding of the 5000 (compare John 21:13 with 6:11). There seems little point in arguing whether we are meant to detect eucharistic allusions in the story. A decision here will depend on whether one find such allusions earlier, especially in chapter 6. It is safer to say that the writer wants us to see a simpler point. Matthew’s Gospel ends not only with the mission command, but also with the promise, ‘I am always with you’. Jesus breaks bread with and feeds his disciples to assure them of his continual presence. It is surely significant that the comment, ‘They knew it was the Lord’, comes late in the story, immediately after the invitation to eat with him. The story makes much the same point as Jesus’ own words in Matthew. The mission of the church is to be accompanied by the continual presence of Christ, the provider. It presupposes abiding in him. The Beloved Disciple and Peter The prominence given to Peter and the Beloved Disciple in John 21 is redactional in the strictly theological sense. But the redactional

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emphasis is the same as that found in the rest of the Gospel. The two disciples are consistently found together: at the Last Supper, during the passion narrative, and especially in the Easter narrative of chapter 20. It is to be expected that the Beloved Disciple should recognise Jesus first. He mediates with Jesus for Peter at the last meal in 13:23– 25. After Peter has denied his Lord at the high priest’s palace, this other disciple alone stands with Mary under the cross. He is the one of whom it is said that he believed, though Peter was the first to enter the empty tomb (20:8). Since the Beloved Disciple is the guarantor of the truth, attested in this Gospel (see especially 19:35; 20:8; 21:24), it is only natural that he should receive special prominence. It is thus unlikely that chapter 21 was added to the rest of the Gospel as a kind of postscript meant to ease the growing tension between two church communities, that of Peter in Rome and that of John in Ephesus. In no way is one disciple played off against the other. For the community addressed by John’s gospel, it was important to document the special role of the Beloved Disciple, and at the same time to squash a false rumour about him not having to die (21:20–22). Conclusion Contrary to the commonly accepted opinion, it can be maintained that John 21:1–14 is an integrated story, and not the product of redactional composition in the sense that various stories have been combined. More importantly, it is of a piece theologically with the rest of John. It is stretching the imagination to suggest that a much later writer could compose this piece while at the same time maintaining the same thematic consistency found in the earlier chapters. It is quite legitimate to speak of John 21 as epilogue, but it belongs to the Gospel as much as does the Prologue, which as CK Barrett has argued, is an integral part of the Gospel.21 That these conclusions do not solve the problem of the authorship of John should be clear, They may, however, provide further argument for the position that, if there is a later postscript to the Gospel, it is 21:24,25 which was added, not the entire chapter. Of course, it may still be argued that Prologue and Epilogue were additions to a first draught of the gospel, and that the homogeneity of the total Gospel 21. CK Barrett, The Prologue of John’s Gospel (London: Athlone, 1971).

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must finally be traced to its origin within a school of John.22 While that possibility cannot be rejected outright, it is worth asking whether such a brilliant conception of the story of Jesus could ever be produced by of a community. The final writing had to be done by one or two individuals. And if there are any redactional additions to the Gospel, they came from one who perfectly knew the mind of the master who originally witnessed in this Gospel, and who conceived its theological structure and message.

22. See O Cullmann, The Johannine Circle (London: SCM, 1976); RA Culpepper, The Johannine School. SBL Dissertation Series 26 (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1976).

Luther as Interpreter of John’s Gospel, With Special Reference to his Sermons on the Gospel of St John

Published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 18.2 (1984): 65–73

This paper may be marked more by temerity than by expertise. Audacity is involved since it is a venture into the domain of the specialist, the Luther scholar who in the anniversary year of 1983 enjoyed the spotlight on the international stage. In Luther studies the writer is but a novice, an amateur at best. Yet curiosity mingled with a modicum of historical and theological understanding will, hopefully, provide a modest contribution to the celebrations of the ‘Luther Year’. I spoke of curiosity. At the beginning of 1983 I set myself a project to read the three volumes of Luther’s sermons on John in the American Edition of his works.1 In the first instance I wanted to listen to Luther before attempting to write a popular commentary on what has always been my favourite book of the New Testament. More importantly, I wanted to test the validity of what I had believed or assumed to be the case, probably based on secondary sources, including opinion of reputable scholars, that Luther’s theology was, from the start, essentially Pauline in character. At the end of my reading, I could conclude that some assumptions about Luther’s understanding of John’s Gospel were shown to be true, others false. Above all the study demonstrated Luther’s own unique appreciation of this precious jewel of a Gospel, as well as his own characteristic hermeneutic. 1. Luther’s Works, Volumes 22 to 24. A popular version of this talk was published in Perspectives on Luther. Papers from the Luther Symposium . . . March 1996, edited by MW Worthing (Adelaide: Faculty of Luther Campus, 1997), 117–27. In this paper LW refers to the American edition of Luther’s works, and WA to the German Weimar edition. References are to volume, pages, and lines.

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Most will be familiar with the Reformer’s famous words in his New Testament Prefaces, which make clear that he considered John as part of his ‘canon within the canon’. We may refresh our memory by recalling his statements on which are ‘the true and noblest’, ‘the best’ books of the New Testament. John’s Gospel and St Paul’s epistles, especially that to the Romans, and St Peter’s First Epistle, are the true kernel and marrow of all books. They ought properly to be the foremost books . . . For in them you do not find many works and miracles of Christ described, but you find depicted in masterly fashion how faith in Christ overcomes sin, death, and hell, and gives life, righteousness, and salvation . . . If I had to do without one or the other— either the works or the preaching of Christ—I would rather do without the works than without his preaching. For the works do not help me, but his words give life, as he himself says (John 6:63). Now John writes very little about the works of Christ, but very much about his preaching, while the other evangelists write much about his works and little about his preaching. Therefore, John’s Gospel is the one, fine, true, and chief Gospel, and is far, far to be preferred over the other three and placed high above them.2

These words illustrate both Luther’s special love for John and his reason for it. We might like to debate whether the words of Jesus are more important than his deeds, but it is more to the point to note two other questions raised by this quotation. It hardly needs demonstration that Luther’s understanding of the gospel is usually expressed in terms of the forensic doctrine of justification by faith in Paul’s letters. Thus, his special predilection for Romans and for his Käthe, Galatians.3 We might well ask, Can we expect from Luther any true appreciation of, or profound 2. LW 3:361,362; the emphasis is added. 3. See his confession to indebtedness to Paul in his Table Talk, LW 54, nos. 335 and 347. Also, Roland Bainton’s assessment: ‘If he [Luther] did not have before him the Pauline words, “The just shall live by faith”, he could readily extract the same point from the example of the paralytic in the gospels, whose sin was forgiven before his disease was cured’; Here I Stand: A Life of Martin Luther, (Nashville: Abingdon, 1950), 274.

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insight into John’s message on its own terms, if the presuppositions for understanding are basically Pauline? We are entitled to ask this question since an analogous situation—regarding Luther’s interpretation of the Psalms—has been noted by Karl Holl in his famous 1920 essay which, in some ways, marks the beginning of modern studies in Luther’s scriptural hermeneutic. If Luther can do violence to the original historical intention of a Psalm by his Pauline interpretation (Deutung ins Paulinische), as Holl remarks, does he not do this also with John’s Gospel?4 The second question is this. In view of Luther’s oft-expressed love for John, why have scholars devoted so little special attention to his interpretation of this Gospel? From the day in 1514 on which he preached his first sermon on the opening words of the Johannine Prologue,5 Luther never ceased studying this Gospel and treating it in his sermons, commentaries, letters, disputations, and table talk. Some attention has been given to his confrontation with Eck at the Leipzig Debate in July of 1519, at which John 5:19 (‘The Son can do nothing of his own accord, but only what he sees the Father doing’) played a significant role in the debate on papal supremacy. In arguing against Eck that this text did not relate to the establishment of ecclesiastical hierarchy, Luther enunciated certain key hermeneutical principles as Pelikan has noted.6 Even more famous is Luther’s non-sacramental view of John 6, which took shape during his debate with Zwingli at the Marburg Colloquy in 1529. It will be recalled that he took this stand after John 6:63 was thrown up against his insistence on the real presence (‘It is the Spirit that gives life, the flesh is of no avail’).7 However, there is in general, it would appear, a significant gap in Luther studies when it comes to his interpretation of John. Holl’s famous essay, referred to above, has but passing references, and even Ebeling’s very helpful monograph on Luther’s hermeneutic devotes 4. Karl Holl, ‘Luther’s Bedeutung für den Fortschritt der Auslegungskunst’, in Gesammelte Aufzätze zur Kirchengeschichte, Volume I (Tübingen: JCB Mohr [Paul Siebeck), 6th edition, 1932), 549,50. 5. A sermon to his fellow Augustinian monks in Latin; see LW 22 ix. 6. Jaroslav Pelikan, Luther the Expositor, LW Companion Volume, 110–14. 7. On this debate, see Pelikan,122–34 and174-90, and H Sasse, This is My Body (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1959), 229–57.

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no special attention to the subject.8 The standard studies are all many years old.9 The Pre-eminence of John One could understand this gap if Luther’s praise for John were not sustained, were limited to occasional overstatements typical of the man! But a letter of March 11 1534 to his friend Amsdorf, sums up an opinion expressed in various ways and at various times throughout Luther’s long Reformation career. ‘Next to Christ, John is the highest authority for Christians.’10 This being so, we can also understand why the German Mass (Deutsche Messe) of 1526 suggested that John’s Gospel provide the texts for all Sunday sermons. Why is John ‘a master above all the other evangelists’, ‘the highest and foremost evangelist’, ‘a mighty powerful evangelist’, ‘the kind . . . to bring laughter to one’s heart’?11 Why is his the ‘one, fine, true, and chief Gospel’, one which Christians ought to learn off by heart?12 Put briefly and generally, John is ‘a delightful preacher’ because he proclaims grace, not law.13 But we can be more specific than that.

8. G Ebeling, Evangelische Evangelienauslegung (Munich: Kaiser, 1942; reprinted by Darmstadt Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1962); many valuable quotations from Luther on John, used in this paper, are on 211–19. 9. Walther von Loewenich, Luther und das johanneische Christentum (Munich, 1935); Carl Stange, Der johanneische Typus der Heilslehre Luthers im Verhältnis zur paulinischen Rechtfertigungslehre (Gütersloh,1949), and his article ‘The Johannine Character of Luther’s Doctrine of Salvation’, Lutheran World Review, 2.2 (1949): 65–77—strangely, of the twelve pages only three deal directly with Luther’s understanding of John—See also James Atkinson, ‘Luther’s Einschätzung des Johannesevangeliums’, in Lutherforschung heute, edited by V Vajta (Berlin, 1958), 49–56. 10. WA, WBri 6:2093. Stange, ‘Johannine Character’, 76, in drawing attention to this statement wrongly assumes that a similar thought is contained in Luther’s introduction to his first lectures on the Psalms (LW 10:6). Luther does quote several texts from John at the outset but does not include the evangelist in the list of ‘witnesses’ which follows. 11. LW 23:77 = WA 33:116, 26–117, 10; WA 32:353, 1–6; WA 27:529, 8,9; WA 36:185, 24,25. 12. See the New Testament Prefaces, note 44 above, and WTi 5:5719. 13. LW 22:44 and his statement in the Prefaces.

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1. John is ‘pre-eminent among the apostles in his powerful portrayal of the deity of Christ, the Lord’.14 2. John is a ‘fine Evangelist who writes little on the humanity of Christ, but quickly passes over it and says: Verbum caro factum est (the Word became flesh). He leaves it at that, for he sees that Matthew and Luke have diligently described the humanity of Christ.’15 3. Whereas Luther sees the Synoptic Gospels omitting Jesus’ speeches and reporting so much history, John records Jesus’ speeches and few of his deeds.16 Indeed, compared to John with his long discourses of Jesus, the other Gospels are ‘nothing but German chroniclers’ (schier deudsche Historienschreiber)!17 John deliberately omits the miracles of Jesus to concentrate on Jesus’ words which directly issue a call to faith in him. 4. Thus, John’s true greatness, in the final analysis, rests on the fact that he is the master in the chief article of faith: justification by grace through faith in Christ. ‘The evangelist John . . . treats of this article of faith more than the other evangelists.’18 Commenting on John 6:53, Luther states: This article of justification is the chief doctrine. St John expounded it, especially. In this he proved himself a master. St John cannot be sufficiently praised for treating this doctrine of justification. I cannot discourse on it more clearly and more forcefully than John did here through the Holy Spirit.19

This last observation does not mean that the other gospels are to be denigrated. Commenting on John 6: 47-51, Luther insisted the whole of Scripture must be interpreted in the light of the chief article of justification by faith. He explains:

14. WA 46:557, 33-35 = LW 22:25. 15. My translation; Wti 5:5156. 16. WA 37:109, 9–11. 17. WA 336:215, 30,31. Ebeling also draws attention to Luther’s observation that John passes over the actual account of the institution of the Lord’s Supper, adding, sed melior est concio Christi, quam signum, quamquam hoc carere non possumus; WA 15:505, 23–25. 18. LW 23:112 = WA 33:171, 39 to 172, 3. See also LW 23:56 = WA 33:82, 15-36 19. LW 23:129; WA 33:200, 9–24.

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When Matthew and the other evangelists speak of good works, we must first give the floor to John. He teaches us how to obtain eternal life and righteousness: righteousness must precede all good works . . . When Matthew and Luke speak about good works, they must be understood against this background. The evangelist does not emphasise this important and true doctrine of faith in Christ as much as John does; he expounds the other part, the works and fruit of faith. The evangelist John, however, stresses the Christian faith more vigorously than the other evangelists, who have described mainly the miracles of Christ.20

There can be no downplaying of the other Gospels, even if John is better, since, as Luther says in his ‘Brief Introduction on What to Look for and Expect in the Gospels’ (1521), there is only one gospel of Jesus Christ, not four.21 Luther’s Hermeneutical Principles At this point, it might be helpful to comment generally on these principles, especially as they are reflected in his interpretation of John. Luther works critically, but not with the methods developed by modern historical criticism. One finds little or nothing on such modern questions as whether John’s world of thought, his background, is Palestinian-Jewish or Hellenistic, little on the literary relationship between John and the Synoptics, though he seems to presuppose that John knew the other Gospels.22 He simply reflects, without a challenge, the tradition that the author was John Zebedee,23 who wrote his Gospel to counteract the heresies of Cerinthus. That is why John stresses the deity of Christ.24 Again, Luther’s study of John reflects little original detailed work on the Greek text. Some linguistic observations are quite false. For 20. LW 23:108,109; WA 33:167, 15-20; see also WA 32:352 to 353, 6. 21. LW 35:117,118. 22. WTi 5:5516. 23. Se WDB 6:145 where, referring to Mark 3:17 and the description of John as a ‘son of thunder’, Luther describes his Gospel as a powerful sermon that shocks, smashes and converts, and makes the earth fruitful. 24. This tradition, going back to Irenaeus, is often repeated. See, for example., LW 22:7,18,21,37,67.

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example, Aenon and Salim in John 3:23 are called Greek names, when in fact they are Semitic. Yet Luther developed a feel for Johannine diction. ‘John writes in the different and more apostolic way than the other apostles.’25 His style is marked by lapidary simplicity which Luther recognises as characteristic of Hebrew diction. Indeed, John expresses better in simple words what others might say in many words.26 The Greeks may have spoken ‘with the best and sweetest words, but Hebrew flourishes with such simplicity and majesty, that it cannot be imitated. John gets close to imitating it.’27 Some might, to be sure, find his style annoyingly repetitious, and Luther admits that John often repeats himself and is a bit wordy (saepe repetit quasi loquax),28 but this arises from the fact that faith in Christ is a theme that is incomprehensible in the fullest degree and at the same time inexhaustible. More important than all this, are Luther’s basic hermeneutical principles, especially as they are reflected in his interpretation of John. For him, the whole of John’s Gospel is God’s Word because he had spoken it. ‘It is not man’s (sic) Word which could lie and be wrong. It is the Word of God who is the eternal truth.’29 Thus, ‘Christ, wants to exhort us to adhere and cling to the oral word’, Luther adds. This last phrase reminds us that Luther always stressed the oral word of proclamation, the viva vox Dei. Indeed, ‘the gospel should really not be something written, but a spoken word which brought forth the scriptures, as Christ and the apostles have done. That is why Christ himself did not write anything, but only spoke.’30 But it remains true that believers have Christ only in the scriptures. While the Spirit makes the Gospel a ‘living voice’, he always does so through the Word which he has inspired in the first place. There is no faith which is not grounded on the written external Word. Yet the external Word can only be so many words, unless there is the other factor. Scripture is God’s Word precisely because it proclaims 25. WA 15:505, 3,4. 26. WTi 1:86. Luther cites First John 2:23 and John 1:17 as examples of profound simplicity; see also WA 29:36,111, 12. 27. My translation; WTi 2:2779 and 5:5792. 28. WA 20:376,21-23; also 20:526, 23-27; LW 52:69. 29. LW 23:95. 30. LW 35:123; Luther has previously noted that in the New Testament only the Old Testament is called holy scripture.

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Christ. As Luther’s famous dictum states: ‘Take Christ from the scriptures and what will you find left’?31 Or again, ‘Everything in the Bible is about Christ’.32 Christ is the goal and heart of the scriptures. Luther’s sermons on John work on us with such power mainly because they continually insist that we can only hear God’s Word when we hear this voice of the Son and respond in faith. That is why John is a master of the chief doctrine of justification, not in the sense that John must use the same formulation as Paul, but in the sense that the Christ of John’s Gospel presents, with brilliant clarity, the central truth that God in Christ is pure, unadulterated, and undeserved grace that necessarily negates human works as meritorious. It has often been observed that Luther gave up the traditional medieval, scholastic interpretation with its four divisions: • • • •

historical, pointing to the history of what happened, allegorical, pointing to the church, tropological, pointing to the individual Christian’s life, anagogical, pointing to the eschaton.

Instead, Luther adheres to an historical method. Correctly understood, this assertion is true. Yet if one wishes to consult a Reformation commentary on John which provides detailed observations on the meaning of the text in literal, historical terms, one would probably do better to turn to Calvin, rather than to Luther! Again, it is not true to assert that Luther gave up all allegory and that he never employed a tropological or anagogical method of expounding and applying a text. Luther’s method is historical in the sense that he sees the ‘history of Christ’ calling for faith. Properly speaking, his method is Christological. Ebeling puts it very nicely. ‘In Luther, the logic of his hermeneutic is none other than the logic of Christology. If one wants to learn the way to interpret the Gospel one must learn it from Christ himself.'33 Therein lies the special authority of John. a) He expounds the clearest, most profound Christology, and b) he does so by recording the words and speeches of Christ himself. At the same time, Luther’s 31. Tolle Christum e scripturis, quid amplius in illis invenies; De Servo Arbitrio, WA 18:606. 32. Es ist alles umb Christus zu thun in der Biblien; WA 7:600. 33. Ebeling, Evangelienauslegung, 452.

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Christological exegesis helps to explain two other features of his interpretation of John. In the first instance, Luther returns, even if rarely, to allegory. Commenting on John 3:23–26 (John baptised beyond the Jordan), he says, ‘John delights in allegorical speech. His note that the Jordan at Aenon held much water is mystical and allegorical speech. Holy scripture is also, as it were, a winding and deep body of water.’34 Though first stating that this is an unimportant story, Luther enters into a rather lengthy allegory of the geography of the Jordan. It is a symbol of the law . . . which points to Christ . . . John wants to indicate mystically and spiritually, that John was the last preacher of the Jordan, that is, that the law was to be terminated now. The river descends gradually and drops down until it is swallowed up in the Dead Sea . . . John could not have chosen a more appropriate symbol for Moses and the law, which the Ten Commandments teach. The teaching of the law is also sinuous and steep. No one can come to this Jordan, that is, to this doctrine, and drink of it . . . All is dead there and drops into the Dead Sea.35 This is hardly historical interpretation, neither is it pure allegory. Luther’s concern is to proclaim Christ as the end of the law. As he himself says, the Word is here symbolical. If anything, Luther’s interpretation is pneumatic, or spiritual. It is meant to serve faith in Christ.36 In the second place, the insight that Christ is the one scopus of scripture explains the freedom with which Luther can approach historical problems posed by the sacred text. He shows no trace of any anxious harmonising designed to rescue God’s Word in the light of obvious difficulties for the human mind. He does not smooth over these difficulties, but faces them openly, even stressing where one 34. LW 22:414 =WA 47:32. For John’s supposed love of allegory, see also WBri 2:533, no. 492, 20-25, and WDB 6:406. 35. LW 22:422-23. Luther is here recalling that the letters of ‘Jordan’ in Hebrew (yarad) form the verb ‘to go down’. 36. See also his comments on John 1:51 (‘you will see heaven opened’) at LW 22:202,203.

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Gospel differs from another. For Luther, there is only one essential harmony, the harmony of the two natures, divine and human, in the one person of Christ, and the harmony between the Father and the Son. In fact, Luther stresses the need to distinguish between the right method of interpreting Paul and of the Gospels. One should first note the differences between the Gospel records.37 But since Luther is concerned about the central question, faith in Christ, he is little concerned with historical difficulties which lie on the periphery of scriptural statements. In his view, the evangelists were not particularly concerned about an exact documentation of chronology or topography. ‘The evangelists were not greatly concerned with the time and place of an event, but only with this: “This took place that the scripture might be fulfilled”.’38 As he says, others have been most concerned to make the evangelists agree but he does not share that concern, but only the aim to grasp the truth of the matter.39 We may cite one example from his sermons on John to illustrate Luther’s approach in this matter. After noting that there are problems in harmonising John’s dating of the cleansing of the temple early in John 2 with its placing in the Synoptics at the end of Jesus’ earthly ministry, Luther says: These are problems and will remain problems. I shall not venture to settle them. It is only that there are so many sharp and shrewd people who are fond of bringing up all sorts of subtle questions and demanding definite and precise answers. But if we understand Scripture properly and have the genuine articles of our faith—that Jesus Christ, God’s Son, suffered and died for us—then our inability to answer all such questions will be of little consequence. The evangelists do not all observe the same chronological order . . . It may be that the Lord did this more than once, and the John reports the first, Matthew the second event.

After weighing the options, Luther adds,

37. LW 23:82. 38. WA 7:472, 23-25. 39. Commenting on Mark 14:34–42; WA 17/1:353, 2–12.

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When it took place is immaterial. If one account in Holy Writ is at variance with another and it is impossible to solve the difficulty, just dismiss it from your mind. The one confronting us here does not contradict the articles of the Christian faith. All the evangelists agree on this, that Christ died for our sins. But in their accounts of Christ’s deeds and miracles they do not observe a uniform order and often ignore the proper chronological sequence.

When giving his own opinion, Luther suggests that John is recording an event which took place three years later, just before Christ passion during the Passover. And he concludes, ‘I hold that this event occurred only once. But even if it happened three times, that would not be heresy.’40 It is because Luther is concerned to listen to the Hauptartikel, to the caput or chief point of scripture, to the voice of Christ through his Spirit, that he would have no difficulty in agreeing with modern commentators that the Gospels are not chronological biographies. Thus, the beatitudes in Luke 6:20 are a collection of sayings not necessarily recorded in the order in which they were first spoken— just as Proverbs, Jeremiah, and other prophetical books record material spoken at various times.41 Luther can say that the evangelists were not concerned with small details but wanted only to ensure that the message got across; the words by themselves did not contain power.42 The words were important only in so far as they served the Word, the preaching of Christ. Thus, the sheer variety of scripture, sometimes a problem for us, belongs to the blessed servant-form of the scriptures, as they reflect the servant-form of Christ himself. Even what are seen as discrepancies cannot deny the truth that Christ died for our sins.43 After noting that the New Testament writers do not bother to give a detailed and exact account of Jesus’ resurrection, Luther can add that ‘the evangelists have described the story simply . . . they snatch 40. Lines 16–19. 41. LW 22:218,219; see also his comment on John 1:29 at LW 22:160: ‘Occasionally the evangelists reverse the order of things; they often report them out of their chronological sequence’. A similar observation on John 3:22 suggests that John has conflated his record at this point (LW 22:413). 42. WA 45:450,6-8. 43. See the entire comment in WA 17/1:179, 15-25.

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us away from the story to its core meaning, so, that we do not linger on what is unnecessary and thereby miss out on the profit’.44 That is, problems have the positive end of directing our attention away from the story to its meaning— to the heart of scripture, Christ himself. The Sermons Themselves It is impossible within the confines of this short paper to offer a detailed analysis of Luther’s sermons on John’s Gospel. A few characterisations and observations may help to underline the findings to this point. These sermons were preached by Luther in the absence of Johannes Bugenhagen from his parish pulpit in Wittenberg. They were later edited into the form of a running commentary. In his Saturday sermons, Luther preached on chapters 6 to 8 from November 1530 to March 1532, on chapters 14 to 16 from about March to June / July. 1537, and on chapters 1 to 4 from July 1537 to September 1540. Luther was especially proud of the second series in its final edited form, saying, ‘This is the best book I have written . . . Next to the Holy Bible this is to be my most worthy and precious book’—a view not necessarily shared by later generations who would probably always place such works as the two Catechisms, the Reformation tracts of 1520, The Bondage of the Will, and the Commentary on Galatians at the top of the list.45 The sermons do not provide a complete running commentary but dwell on key passages, especially on what Luther calls the ‘golden texts’ of John, those which in a simple yet profound way proclaim the Christ pro nobis (for us).46 They contain the usual polemics of the Reformer, especially against the papacy, religious orders, and the Turks. Yet the polemical element is never excessive nor as vitriolic as in earlier writings. Ironically, Luther, who could grant the John tends to be rather repetitious and wordy, must himself carry the same charge. To his credit, he occasionally admits that his digressions have taken him far from the text: ‘But how did I get so far afield when discussing this matter?’ he asks at one point.47 Commenting on John 3:19, he 44. WA 46:727, 12-17; 20:303, 14-18. 45. See Pelikan’s ‘Introduction’, LW 24 x. 46. Such ‘golden texts’ are 1:9,14,16,29; 3:14–16. 47. LW 22:395.

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finishes preaching a sermon on the trials of the current plague.48 Such digressions may have occasionally been caused by being in a depressed state of mind, caused either by increasing annoyance at having to do Bugenhagen’s work for him, or by continual ill health, to which he sometimes refers.49 In some instances, Luther’s interpretation is quite traditional. For example, he accepts the perpetual virginity of Mary, thus assuming that Jesus’ brothers were his cousins.50 Overall, however, despite their wordiness, a freshness and vitality mark these sermons. They come from the mature Luther and still breathe the excitement and joy of the first gospel discovery many years earlier. Often the tradition of patristic and scholastic interpretation of scripture failed to supply the answers to exegetical problems. In 1519, in replying to a query from Spalatin on John 6:37, he complains that he has in vain turned to Chrysostom or Augustine for help. In contrast to Matthew’s gospel, John is one ‘in which we find few have laboured’.51 Though it was, as he says, a Gospel to his own taste, he admitted feeling inadequate to tackle its exposition.52 Included in Luther’s comments are examples of plain misinterpretation, but these all relate to incidentals, never to the main issue. For example, he assumes that the 46 years in John 2:20 refer to the time taken to build the pre-Herodian temple. At other times, his explanations are odd, to say the least. The phrase ‘born of the will of the flesh’ in John 1:13 is seen as referring to adoption, whereas John clearly means sexual procreation. ‘The will of man’, he suggests, refers to the special relationship between a teacher and his pupil.53 Yet all the aberrations we might note, even the long-winded digressions and protracted polemics, do not detract from the final powerful impression gained from a reading of these sermons. The explicit Christology of the Gospel itself provides the perfect springboard for Luther to launch into long treatments of the essential elements of a Christology: the unity of the two natures, divine and

48. LW 22:416–19. 49. E.g., LW 22:412-16, also Pelikan’s ‘Introduction’, LW 23 xi. 50. LW 22:23 and 214:215. 51. See Ebeling, Evangelienauslegung, 217, note 378. 52. WA 29:366, 14-16. 53. LW 22:245, 246.

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human, in the one person of the Son, and his perfect unity with the Father. Those who suggest that the Reformer’s doctrine of Christ tends towards the Monophysite error should read not only his polemic against Apollinaris of Laodicea,54 but all the sermons. Admittedly, he does stress the hypostatic union of Christ’s two natures and the communicatio idiomatum.55 He does so not to indulge in academic exercises in orthodox Christology. This is the very bedrock of the gospel, the basis for pro nobis proclamation. For example, after arguing from John 3:13 for the hypostatic union of the two natures in the person of Christ, Luther continues: If we differentiate two sons in Christ, then it must follow that there are two persons; this would nullify our redemption and forgiveness of sins. No, the two natures must be the one Christ. Otherwise, no satisfaction could have been rendered for our sins, and nothing would come of our salvation. If Christ were only man, his suffering would have been useless; for no man’s suffering has ever been able to overcome my sin . . . Therefore, it was necessary for him to be God, and, in order to suffer, also true man.56

One would, of course, expected an emphatic soteriology where this is explicit in the text of John’s Gospel. What marks Luther’s approach is his ability to develop pro nobis statements and Christological symbols, even when they are not explicit in the text. A somewhat surprising discussion develops on John 1:51, ‘You will see the heaven opened, and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of man.’ In line with the Johannine accent on a realised eschatology, noted and appreciated by Luther,57 he insists that this text must be ‘interpreted spiritually’. ‘Now Christians see heaven opened, always hear God the heavenly Father conversing with them, and behold the dear angels continuously ascending and descending upon us.’58 Again, 54. LW 22:96–98. 55. WA 22:110 with footnote 83; 24:90, 91 with footnote 52. LW 22:324 also 23:104. 56. See LW 22:328, 346, 352, 361,491, 492; 24:106. See Luther’s comments on John 3:16 at LW 22:375, 376, also on 6:47 at LW 23:105, 106. 57. LW 22:201, 202. 58. Page 205.

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God sends the angels up and down to us to carry our prayer up to him and to return to us with the message of prayer fulfilled. If the angels did not guard us and ascend and descend upon the body of Christ— that is, upon us—and did not remain with us, our adversaries would long since have devoured us alive.59

One might object that all this is not in the mind of John, but for Luther there can be no statement about Christ which is not at the same time a promise for the believer. Thus, the statement in John 23:13 that only the Son who has descended can again ascend to heaven, must be a promise of our own return to the Father. It is not surprising that such soteriological application should sometimes lead to surprising interpretations, though it should be stressed that these are homiletical rather than exegetical. Modern commentators would find the real tertium comparationis between Christ and the bronze servant in John 3:15 in faith which saves. But Luther goes much further and finds in verse 14 a picture of Christ who hung on the cross like a poisonous, evil, and harmful worm. Yes, he resembles the serpent which got us into trouble in Paradise, that is, the devil . . . Christ must be a veritable bronze serpent, that is, a most despised person, but a serpent, which does us no harm with its venom; for this is a healing servant serpent without venom.60 The Jesus of the Fourth Gospel is always the God-man for us. That is the ultimate reason for the Reformer’s passion for this Gospel. But this point must be viewed in conjunction with another motif in John’s Gospel which Luther develops extensively throughout his sermons. Since Christ is clearly one with the Father, the Gospel is the perfect answer to a long history of speculation about the knowledge of God and his revelation. The unity of Father and Son expresses the unity and completeness of revelation. Thus, ‘a Christian must learn to say: “I know no other God than the one God who is called Jesus Christ”.’61 ‘John bakes the two persons, the Father and the Son, together as solidly as possible. For Christ says . . . “Where you find me you find the Father also.” He forbids our 59. LW 20:330. 60. LW 2:341, 342; also 343, 345. 61. LW 24:140.

eyes to wander any farther into heaven . . . Do not search for God the Father outside or beside Christ.’62 Here there is no room for speculation about other ways of knowing God. There is only the one saving vision of God in Jesus Christ. All of Luther’s passionate appeals for faith, his polemics against the impotence of human reason, his repeated stress on divine, absolute grace, on the efficacy of the external Word and the sacraments, on the theology of the cross, must be viewed on this background.63

62. LW 23:54, 55. 63. See also LW 23:89: ‘Outside this Man Christ I must not search for God, and I will find no God . . . If we come to the Son, we are at the same time with the Father.’

E. The Witness of St Paul

The Theology of the Cross: First Corinthians 1–4

Meditation for a pastoral conference, first published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 5.1 (1971): 221–32

The cross is the Christian church’s most precious and sacred symbol. It stands atop steeples and church buildings, it adorns Bibles, it figures prominently on badges and insignia as representing the essence of the faith. Originally a sign of shame and disgrace it had, even before the famous vision of Constantine on the eve of his last struggle with Maxentius at the Milvian Bridge, become the sign of power and victory. But a surprising observation is made when we examine the New Testament to look for the place of the cross in the early kerygma of the church. It is an astonishing fact that the early church clearly believed in a crucified (and risen) Messiah, and yet the kerygma hardly speaks of this cross in so many words. It is thus understandable that the textbooks on New Testament theology hardly speak of the kerygmatic significance of the cross, and even a book like Leon Morris’s The Apostolic preaching of the Cross1 has no comments on the subject. A brief look at some of the well-known examples of primitive kerygmatic formulation, taken up by Paul in his letters, underlines the above observation. In First Corinthians 15:3,4, a piece of prePauline Palestinian tradition, possibly also showing a catechetical stamp, there is no mention of the cross, only of the fact that ‘Christ died for our sins’. Again, in Romans 4:23,24, we simply read ‘put to death for our transgressions’, and First Corinthians 11:23 only refers to the night of his being delivered up, while Galatians 2:20 speaks of 1. (London: Tyndale,1965).

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the ‘Christ who gave himself for me’. The Christian reader in each case knows what stands behind the text, namely the crucifixion, but this is not stated in so many words. We might also note that the New Testament at various points makes much of the blood of Christ but does not accent the way in which it was shed (Col 1:20 is a rare exception, apart from Hebrews). These findings led Bultmann to conclude that the cross is itself relatively unimportant for the New Testament writers. He sums up: ‘The rise of the Easter faith made necessary a way of understanding the cross that would surmount it, yes transform the scandal of the curse, which in Jewish opinion had befallen the crucified Jesus; the cross had to make sense in the context of the salvation process.2 The view here is that the mere historical event of the cross is unimportant. Vital is the ‘historic’ message that is read into it. Now, while the New Testament does show a theologising of the event of the crucifixion, we must ask whether that was possible without the event itself. It is hardly possible that the story of the cross was ever told in the early church without conscious theological interpretation. From the very beginning, it had received its ultimate interpretation through the Easter event. Thus, the Synoptic Gospels present the passion story under the sign of the divine necessity (Greek, dei) of Jesus’ death as a part of the plan of God (see, for example, Luke 24:26; Matt 16:21 and parallels). Some form critics3 maintained that the whole passion narrative was formed under cultic and kerygmatic influences, whereby the aim was to show that prophecy had been fulfilled in every detail. The synoptic Gospels could hardly tell the story of the passion without mentioning the cross, and yet little seems to be made of the fact that Jesus’ death was precisely on a cross. The same seems to be the case with John’s Gospel, though we do have a special theology of the cross. In the first place, this gospel links together the raising of the serpent in the wilderness with the raising of Jesus on the cross itself (John 3:14). Here is a typological evaluation of the cross. In the second place, John links his use of hypsothenai with that of doxasthenai: to be lifted high means to be glorified. The hour of Christ’s glorification is, paradoxically, the hour of his crucifixion. Here we are very close to 2. R Bultmann, Theology of the New Testament. (London: SCM, 1952), 45,46. 3. For example, G Bertram, The History of the Synoptic Tradition (1963).

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Paul’s theology of the cross insofar as faith’s vision of, and participation in, glory is only to be seen and received via the cross. We might expect the great sermons of Acts to contain some precise references to the cross. In fact, such references are rare; indeed, the noun stauros never occurs. Only the verb ‘to crucify’ appears in 2:36 and 4:10, in accusations against Jews. More significant for our purposes are two passages which speak of the xylon: the Jewish leaders are accused of hanging Jesus on a tree (5:30; see also 1:29). The direct citation of Deuteronomy 21:23 in Galatians 3:13 (‘Cursed is everyone who hangs on a tree’) may suggest that the Deuteronomic passage conditioned the use of this noun in Acts. We thus approach the explicit theology of Paul: Christ has become a ‘curse’ (Semitic expression for cursed person) for us. We return to the original question: Why does the cross as the means of Jesus’ death occupy such a minor position in the early kerygma? The answer that the explicit proclamation of the cross is presupposed in the New Testament, which offers later instruction of Christians who have already learned the foundations of the faith in early instruction, is only half an answer. The mention of the cross is still preserved in the record as a reminder of the ignominious death of the Lord (see also Heb 12:2 and Rev 11:8). Important is this; the cross gains its importance only from the person who died on it. In a sense, the manner of Christ death could remain relatively unimportant. The fact of his death was all important. If the cross was stressed at all, we can suppose that it was because it stood for the concrete historical foundation of the faith. Already in the Roman baptismal confession, the basis of the Apostles Creed, we have a reference to the concrete manner of Jesus’ death: ‘crucified under Pontius Pilate’. Christian faith is tied to history and cannot be dissolved into myth. But the Why of this death remains the key issue, not the How. So far, we have omitted the letters of Paul in our examination. Here we must change our observations. Suddenly the cross as the means of Christ’s death becomes important. His theology becomes a theology of the cross, the theological presentation and proclamation of the crucified Christ. It has been said, with some justification, that a theology of the cross was founded by Paul.4 The ten occurrences of stauros and eight of the verb stauroun in Paul’s letters are enough 4. J Schneider, stauros, in TDNT, VIII.

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to suggest the key importance which the apostle attaches to the cross. But this can be documented in another way. In his pioneering study on the Carmen Christi in Philippians 2:5–11,5 Ernst Lohmeyer showed that the words in verse 8, ‘even death on a cross’, are a Pauline addition to an earlier hymn. They form an insertion which breaks the original hymnic structure. Here is the apostle’s own theological signature to the recital of Christ’s path from humiliation to glory. The Servant’s death is a death on a cross and, as such, the greatest demonstration of self-abasement and humiliation possible. It is possible, as Käsemann has argued,6 that Colossians 1:15–20 is also an early Christian hymn which Paul has taken up for his own purposes. Again, it is probable that Paul left his own mark on the original form with the last phrase, ‘making peace by the blood of the cross’. We are justified in asking: Why this stress on the cross in Paul’s thought? Do we find with him anything more than the early church’s insistence on the fact of the cross as an anchor point in history? The other early missionaries certainly did not hide the fact of the crucifixion as the precise manner of Christ’s death, but why does Paul now ‘glory in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ’ (Gal 6:14)? We are on the way to an answer when we note that the characteristic Pauline emphasis on the cross appears in the two great polemical writings of the apostle, in Galatians and First Corinthians, in situations where he is attacking errors. We can imagine that it was some Jews who first attacked the Christian faith as directed to a Messiah who died a criminal’s death on the Roman gallows. The scandal of the cross for Jewish Christians included the curse spoken over everyone hanged on a tree. In Galatians, the cross belongs to Paul’s discussion of the law and the proclamation of Christ who brings freedom from the law (Gal 3:1). The cross is a scandal or stumbling block because it is a sign of shame and disgrace. The crucified person bears a curse. But just this, says Paul, is the exact meaning of the cross. ‘Christ redeemed us from 5. See E Lohmeyer, Kyrios Jesus (1927), reprinted by Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, Darmstadt (1961). See also Lohmeyer’s commentary on Philippians in the Meyer series (1961), 96. On the Christ hymn, see RP Martin, Carmen Christi. Philippians 2:5–11 (Cambridge: CUP, 1967). 6. For the hymnic structure and setting of the passage, see E Käsemann, ‘Eine urchristliche Taufliturgie’, Exegetische Versuche und Besinnungen, Volume 1 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1960), 34–51; Essays on New Testament Themes (London: SCM, 1964), 149–68.

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the curse of the law, having become a curse for us, for it is written, “Cursed be everyone who hangs on the tree”.’ The second reason why the cross is a scandal lies in the exclusiveness of its salvific claims (Gal 5:11). It brooks no competition from other conditions for salvation. So central is the cross that Paul can picture the new life of faith as life lived within the body of the crucified Lord (Rom 6:1-11). Being crucified and raised with Christ, means being dead to the sins and enticements of the old self and of the world (Galatians 5:24 and 6:14). Conversely, to oppose Christ and the gospel means to be an enemy of the cross (Phil 3:18). One could argue that, in the latter passages, the manner of Christ’s death is still not the important issue; the cross is simply a sign of the saving significance of Christ’s death. The same could be said to apply to the appearance of the cross in Galatians 6:12 and Ephesians 2:16, Colossians 1:20, and 2:14. In each case, the picture Paul paints becomes more graphic with the mention of the cross, but it still would have been possible to speak merely of the death of Jesus without mentioning the How. The situation is somewhat different in First Corinthians, especially in the first four chapters. If the apostle faced a Jewish Christian distortion of the Gospel in Galatia, he here must contend with its Hellenistic counterpart. Where formerly he had to contend with an attack on the exclusiveness of the cross over against the law, he now must fight for its exclusiveness over against the wisdom of the world. In the first case the error was nomism, here it is an ‘enthusiasm’ which perverts the meaning of Christ and the understanding of the event of salvation. The Situation in Corinth A brief reminder of the situation in Corinth may help to highlight the setting in which Paul’s theology of the cross must be seen. We can essay such a reconstruction with some confidence since recent years have seen a new era in the study of this letter. From the writings of Irenaeus, we have always known of the great gnostic systems of the second century, for example, those of Valentinus and Basilides. It has now become possible to see an incipient gnosticising movement reaching back into New Testament times. Its threats can perhaps be seen behind the errors which Paul fights in First Corinthians. The

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origins and teachings of this movement are hard to delineate, but the following seems safe to assume. Firstly, at least some at Corinth claimed special knowledge and wisdom (gnosis), which prompted them to set themselves up against the apostle and his authority. There is enough on the role of the gifts of the Spirit, especially in chapters 2, 12 and 14, to suggest that it was a boasting in the possession of the Spirit which led them to make their bold claims. They considered themselves ‘spiritual’ (2:14), thus claiming perfection (3:1,6; 6:4). Dualistic thinking lies behind their understanding of a person as especially spiritual (pneumatikos). The spirit of human beings is liberated by the Spirit of God, so that their body no longer holds any power. What persons do in the body no longer reflects the released and purified self. It is not surprising that this led to grave moral abuses in Corinth, for this false anthropology led to two different ethical positions which at first sight seem to be mutually exclusive. On the one hand, the suppression of the desires of the flesh led to severe self-denial and rigorous asceticism, and the lack of a positive and joyous ethic based on the forgiveness of sins. On the other hand, we find a related position where the spiritual person regarded self as free of all somatic bonds. What a person did in the flesh was no longer moral or immoral. It could no longer touch the true self. Thus, a person could allow gross immorality (chapter 5), could have intercourse with prostitutes while keeping oneself clean from all sexual contact within marriage, could drag a neighbour to court without any moral compunction (chapter 6). In fact, the slogan or catch word which Paul quotes has become, ‘All things are lawful for me’ (6:12; 10:23). On the one hand, a person could be concerned about contaminating oneself through marriage (chapter 7), but on the other hand, be free and easy when it came to compromising the faith and the conscience of a fellow Christian by participating in heathen cults (chapters 8 and 10). A person could claim the gifts of the glorified Lord in the sacrament but deny the same Lord and his gifts by loveless and selfish behaviour at the love-feast and sacramental meal (chapter 11). Individuals prided themselves in their possession of the Spirit’s gifts but used them to vaunt themselves instead of for the building up (oikodome) of the church. They did not understand that spiritual people are marked by love, the opposite of being ‘puffed up’ (chapters 12 to 14). They were happy to believe in the resurrection

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but not if it involved the raising of the dead body (nekros). Here Hellenistic thinking was again operative; it said that the body was base, something to be cast off by the spirit in the future life of glory (chapter 15). We have a theology of glory also in Second Timothy 2:18 where Paul polemicises against those who see the resurrection only as a past event, that is, as nothing more than a spiritual resurrection. Secondly, in First Corinthians Paul also seems to be fighting against an interpretation of Christ that somehow seeks to bypass the facts of his death. Scholars are not in agreement on the way some were trying to avoid the scandal of the cross.7 It has been suggested that the error was a gnostic teaching of wisdom which sought to usurp the gospel anchored in history and testifying to history. The danger came from outside the church.8 On the other hand, it is suggested that the ‘eloquent wisdom’ (1:17; sophia logou) against which Paul had to fight was a heretical Christian teaching which placed all the emphasis on the risen and glorified Christ and on the present possession of the perfected spiritual person but had no time for history, represented by the cross.9 In support of this theory one can cite the way in which the discussion of spiritual gifts begins in 12:1–3: ‘No one speaking by the Spirit of God ever says, “Jesus be cursed”.’ Such a surprising statement, it is argued, presupposes that a formula of cursing was known in Corinth. But who could possibly have said such a thing? Was it not the ‘gnostics’ who had no time for the Jesus of history, but proclaimed only the glorified Christ? Paul’s answer is this: The glorified Lord is none other than Jesus who suffered crucifixion. The Christ of faith remains Christ crucified (1:22; 2:2). It is only by the power of the Spirit that one can make this confession. This argument may be reading too much from later sources on fully fledged Gnosticism. It seems clear that First Corinthians is addressed to the church itself, and not to outsiders who have wormed their way into the church. The whole letter is addressed to ‘saints’, wonder of wonders (1:2)! It is the people in the body of Christ who are in danger of losing the gospel by denying the cross at that point where the entire plan of God can be seen in perspective. 7. See W Schmithals, Die Gnosis in Korinth (1965), and U Wilkens, Weisheit und Torheit (1959). 8. Schmithals, 56–58. 9. See Wilkens, 20.

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We are back with the cross as stressing the gospel’s roots in history, and all that this means in terms of the offensiveness of the particularity of God’s historical actions. The cross becomes the special symbol for the way in which God acts, contrary to human expectations. At this point, Paul develops his own theology of the cross which goes past any early Christian insistence on the mere historical fact of the crucifixion on Calvary. The cross now assumes hermeneutical significance. It stamps the nature of God’s dealings with human beings, it determines the nature of the gospel and how it is to be grasped and understood. It stamps the very nature of the church and the communio sanctorum. All true theology is stamped by the cross with its apparent weakness and folly, and any theology that seeks to bypass the offensiveness of the cross has not begun to understand what theology is: to know Christ crucified. With this analysis of the Corinthian situation in mind, we can see how, for Paul, the theology of the cross stamps the nature of revelation, the gospel, the church, its ministry, and vital function in the world. 1.  The Cross and Revelation in History Jesus once thanked the Father for revealing his truth to babes and sucklings; it is they who are led to praise God (Matt 21:16, taking up Ps 8:2). In First Christians Paul does not speak of the simplicity of God’s revelation. He rather speaks in paradoxical function of the weakness and foolishness of God. The way in which he has revealed himself in history means that we have the great antithesis: cross versus human wisdom. The Old Testament has a rich store of literature to show what the Hebrew mind understood by wisdom. It was nothing theoretical but related to the practical knowledge and practice of the will of God and his actions in history. It confessed his mighty acts of redemption but was also able to see in nature the same wise God at work. Wisdom was fear and love and obedience under God’s will. There is little of the intellectual or experimental or meditative about such wisdom. On the other hand, Greek culture considered wisdom as one of the higher goals of human aspiration. Here also, at least originally, wisdom had to do with what was practical. For example, a man was sophos if he knew his trade. But wisdom came to mean knowledge of ultimate reality which could be acquired in several ways: by philosophical reasoning and meditation, by initiation into the

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mysteries, or by the revelation of some esoteric truth. By and large, the Greeks saw wisdom as an intellectual possession. In both cases, Hebrew and Greek, wisdom could have a theological character. It had to do with absolutes. Thus, Paul’s attack on the wisdom of this world is an attack on false theology, not on all philosophy in the name of theology. He attacks the human attempt to dictate to God how and when and where revelation should take place. Thus, the first chapter of First Corinthians does more than assert the historicity of the crucifixion. It is a statement on the nature of revelation itself. We have here a parallel to the doctrine of justification in Romans, a parallel to which Schlatter has drawn attention in his commentary on First Corinthians, Paulus der Bote Jesu (1934). In the one case, human hybris consists of presuming to stand before God in one’s own righteousness, In the other, it is thinking that one can find God and understand his ways through human insight and intellectual prowess. It is obviously a particular type of speculation about God that incurs Paul’s anger. Any human wisdom must falter when confronted by the cross as the focal point of revelation in history. This God breaks our pictures of how he should act. God who is totaliter aliter must be removed from the limitations of time and space, but he becomes human, born of a woman and under the law (Gal 4:4). He must be removed from all that is imperfect, from all this world’s ills and tragedies, but he moves among and touches the sick and the dead. God needs nothing, but exists and persists within himself, yet he weeps and hungers and thirsts. God is justice itself, but see, he allows himself to fall prey to human injustice. He is power but hangs limply on the cross and refuses to use his power to come down. What is the sense of this self-surrender in apparent weakness and folly? Paul knows, as well as we do, that history is open to interpretation, that the bare facts of data and events do not necessarily tell a clear story. But he also knows that the cross has received its own interpretation in the resurrection of Jesus. This is where the Easter event fits into Paul’s theology of the cross. Karl Barth was right when he said that the whole of First Corinthians leads up to its climax in chapter 15 and the proclamation of the resurrection—Christ’s and ours.10 There is an essential connexion between the proclamation of the cross in 1:18 and the preaching of the resurrection in chapter 15. 10. K Barth, Die Auferstehung der Toten (1935), reprinted 1953.

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Despite the message of future glory, Paul’s is a theology of the cross, not a theology of glory. Glory remains a future eschatological hope. Life here and now is the life of faith lived under the cross. This means for our proclamation now that the message the church has for a world out of step with God is bound to his historical action in Christ. We should note the exact wording of the thematic statement in First Corinthians 1:18. ‘the word (= proclamation), namely, that of the cross’. The definition is as precise as it is exclusive. Theologising about the mystery of the cross is legitimate where people seek to understand the mystery of God’s revelation in Christ. But this theologising must begin with what God has done in history, as offensive as this limitation might be. This, of course, means the end of a speculative theology which might seek to overcome the offence of the particularity of history, the claim that the fate of one person at one point of history must determine the fate of all human beings. But Paul’s theology, and that of John’s Gospel, is that the cross is the sign of divine judgement (krisis), that people, by their attitude to the cross and all that it stands for, are already under judgement— for good or evil. 2.  The Cross and the Power of the Word (First Corinthians 2) There is hardly any more pressing issue for the church than the relevance and power of its message. We hear much about the problem of communication, about whether it is the calling of the church to speak the Word at all, or whether it should not rather act out the love of God in a broken and loveless world. What is the power of the church and its message? We can be sure that those in Corinth who claimed a special gift of insight and spiritual wisdom based this claim on the gift of the Spirit. And yet there was something amiss with their wisdom. Paul’s answer to their claim is three-fold and can be distilled with relative ease from the whole letter. 1. There are spirits and the Spirit (2:8; 12:1–3). There is not only the Spirit of Christ; there are the spirits of this world. Whether any wisdom is truly ‘spiritual’ depends on which spirit has inspired or given it. 2. If their perfection in the spirit is as genuine as is claimed, if their boasting is justified, how are the Corinthians to explain the

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divisions in this church and the abuse of their gifts, and that their life together is marked not by love but by crass selfishness (11:21 and chapters 12 and 14)? 3. Paul points to the social and cultural background of his readers. According to the standards of this world not many were wise or of noble birth. The sum total of the apostle’s argument is this: If the preaching of the cross is God’s dynamis (power), it is not because of any human presuppositions but despite them. The theme of this section is ‘divine power operative in human weakness’. If the stress on the cross as God’s medium of revelation in condescending to identify with humanity is a message of grace, the same applies to the nature of human preaching of the cross. It is God’s gracious power in action. The power of the Word is in no way dependent on human eloquence. Paul has an outstanding example to prove his point: himself. He is no great orator, has no public presence, is not a commanding personality in front of an audience, and yet there is the church in Corinth as proof of the effectiveness of the word that really counts, the message of Christ crucified (2:15). The question of the effectiveness of proclamation is first God’s problem, not ours. From a human point of view the amazing thing is not that so few believe, but that anyone should believe. If faith is born there is sufficient proof that God’s power has been at work. In his Second Corinthians Paul again speaks to those who ‘desire proof that Christ is speaking in me’. And once more he simply points to his preaching of the Christ ‘who was crucified in weakness but lives by the power of God (2 Cor 13:3,4). The preaching of the gospel is powerful only if it remains just that, the message of God’s apparent foolishness and weakness as he acts out his will. The gospel is not a set of theories, ideas, or concepts. It begins with the report of a person and an event, ‘Christ crucified’ (1 Cor 1:23; 2:2). The message to a suffering humanity must begin with the assertion that God who is in Jesus Christ, is none other than a suffering God. But the question remains: How is this a message of power? The answer is given in 2:10–16, a section which contains a polemic against the enthusiasts in their own terms. The power of God is not an It but a person, God’s own Spirit. He is the hermeneutical link between the events of the cross and Easter, and the hearer who is brought to faith. Of course, the Corinthians would have granted this point. Just this

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was their claim that they possessed the Spirit. So, it is necessary to remember the one basic presupposition to Paul’s claim to the Spirit which separates him from his readers. The Spirit does not work over and above the Word of the cross, but in and through that message. That is the reason for the careful formulation in 2:2: ‘For I decided to know nothing among you accept Jesus Christ and him crucified.’ Any talk of the meaning of Christ which bypasses the historical action of God with all its offensiveness runs the risk of being mere wisdom of this world, pure speculation, or even the product of human pride which dares to impose its own interpretation on the appearance of Christ in the world. Paul is certainly not advocating foolish preaching to imitate God’s ‘folly’. In 1:21 he speaks not of foolish preaching but of the folly of what we preach. And there is a big difference between the two. God knows, there is enough human foolishness in the church, enough people who do not know the difference between simple trust and naivete, who cannot make the correct distinction between childlike and childish faith. If preaching the gospel is more than reciting historical data, if it is proclamation in the form of appeal, challenge, and address, it requires work on our part. It must be spoken in pointed fashion to specific people in specific circumstances as address. Nor is Paul advocating the end of theology as the reasoned approach to plumbing the mysteries of God in Christ. Rather, he is pointing to both the necessary prerequisites of a true theology and of the proclamation of the truth. Insistence on the inherent power of the Word, that it effects faith when and where the Spirit sees fit, is a message of grace and comfort. It is not a negation of homiletical and catechetical gifts for which preachers should pray and which they should continue to cultivate. It does imply rejection of the powers of the preacher or hearer as decisive for the growth of faith in the first place. Paul would not advocate that we throw away our manuals on homiletics. He rather gives us a humbling reminder and a comforting assurance that the power of the Word is not ours but his. We cannot brush aside modern problems of proclamation, but one thing is clear. We must know what to proclaim and not exchange the inherent power of the message for an updated gospel that is all gimmicks and rhetoric meant to give preaching some ‘kick’. We are challenged to let the Word of the cross stand, not exchange it for

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the myths on which people seem to thrive: the myth of unending human progress to greater heights of achievement and morality, the myth of the social gospel, of involvement in this world while denying the citizenship that is above. The church can be a servant only if it preaches the Servant on the cross. Without him there can be no powerful Spirit-worked call to serve in love a suffering and estranged world. 3.  The Cross and the Church (1 Cor 3) The church is presented with two images, that of a plant (verses 6-9) and that of a building (verses 10-15). Since the purpose of the letter is to fight against the disruption of the unity of the church this is no interpolation into the argument on the antithesis between the wisdom of the world and the message of the cross. Unity is on a shaky foundation where it is based on attachment to God’s servant and not to his Servant (1:10–17; 3:4–6). Secondly, the church’s unity is threatened where a false distinction is made between those who possess special knowledge (‘gnostics’) and those who only have ‘faith’ (‘pistics’). Paul challenges the claim of some of his readers that through their special knowledge and perfection, they are more ‘spiritual’ and superior to others. The only spirituality and perfection he is ready to grant is the life of faith under the cross. This ‘spiritual’ theology is a theology of glory that does not consider the harsh reality of present human existence. Perfection is an eschatological reality—this stress lies already behind 1:18 and 2:6; it is here only apprehended in faith, not by special gifts of esoteric knowledge hidden from the uninitiated. Perfection has nothing to do with mystical gifts, nor is it a moral quality. The apostle underlines that tension between perfection in faith and the empirical reality of human, historical existence with the introduction of his key term ‘flesh’ to describe humanity as it is, a part of the old aeon under sin: ‘You are still of the flesh.’ Christians remain saints and sinners (1:2,3) as long as they are in this life and live by the message of the cross. There certainly will be a theology and life of glory, but only after the resurrection. The question of the power of the word was answered with reference to the Spirit who works through the word of the cross. It is the same preaching and the same power that stamps the life of the church and

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its growth. Paul directs attention away from the people who baptise, preach, and teach, to the Lord who alone builds his church. Christ crucified is its only foundation—other pseudo bases will crumble either in this life or at the final divine evaluation of human work (vv 10–15). Paul concludes with a stern warning to those who disrupt the church (vv 16,17), with another polemical thrust against ‘the wisdom of this world’. The church must be built on Christ alone, for to God alone belongs glory (vv 18–20). The nature of the church is an abiding illustration of the theology of the cross, for it remains the weak communion of saints and sinners, entirely dependent on the word of forgiveness. As an entity in history, it has no real pretensions to greatness, or to the glory of this world. As time passes, any hope that the church will inherit this world seems to fade more rapidly. That which has from time to time called itself church has aped the external signs of power that the organisations and structures of this world have created. It has tried to base its strength and power on strict forms of ecclesiastical organisation, even on voices of human authority, on great systems or codices of theology and morality. It has a great heritage of church architecture, music, and the other arts to impress the eye. It has its own pomp and ceremony. With all this, the church is an increasing minority with no promise of external success in the future. For many, ours is another age of the martyrs. What are we to do? Press the panic button and reach for props to support the failing church? Should we tighten our organisational straps, go in for better public relations, adopt a hundred-and-one pressure packed methods designed to give the church a shot in the arm? Should we admit that the gospel is what it appears to be: the admission of defeat on the part of a dying God, and exchange it for some form of religious philosophy or psychology, or for social action? We need some of the things just mentioned. We need a good external organisation for the church since it is no Platonic idea but made up of men and women who are flesh and blood. We need those whose task it is to represent the church to the unbelieving majority in our society. We need church programs, Christian philosophers, and pastoral psychologists. We need to be reminded of our call to suffer with this world, to become involved in it, to wrestle with and for it. The servant Lord insists that his people remain a servant church.

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If the amazing word of the cross is not the basis and impulse for all our faith, love, and hope, our worship and service, we can agree with those who confidently predict the death of the church soon. On the other hand, if we believe the foundation of the church to be God’s action in Christ, the objective word and objective power of the Spirit, and not our subjective ideas and plans, the future of the church is bright. ‘For all things are yours . . .; and you are Christ’s; and Christ is God’s’ (verses 21–23; see also Rom 8:37–39). 4.  The Cross and the Ministry (1 Cor 4) With all this stress on God’s activity and on the efficacy of his Word through the Spirit, where is the place of the ministry? With its defence of the honour of God’s servants, this chapter is quite understandable in the immediate context. Paul has been under attack, necessitating a defence which climaxes in Second Corinthians 10 to 13. Here in chapters 1 to 4 he is not merely concerned with defending his own honour, let alone his own human dignity. On reading chapter 3 the readers could be left with the wrong impression regarding the position of the servant of the ‘word of the cross’. A denigration of the ministry must be combated but not by insisting on the high position of ministers by virtue of their status as an elite with a superior wisdom. This would be to replace the ‘spiritual people’ of Corinth, who lauded over others with another superior class: those possessing theological knowledge. Paul speaks, again paradoxically, of the authority of God’s servants in terms of service, of subordination under him who alone is the Lord of the church and judge (v 4). The subject of the verb ‘to call’ in the New Testament, whether relating to the call to faith or to a particular vocation, is always God and never a human being. But it remains possible that any person could stand up with the claim to be called by God. Indeed, this has often happened in the history of the church. A thousand-and-one ‘ministers’ have appeared with such claims, producing a similar number of different gospels. How can the church be sure who is a true minister of God? There is one criterion for judgment. We cannot always be sure of the person’s motives. The ministry has also been used for the advancement of personal glory and prestige. Motives will come to light only when God passes the final verdict on

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people’s lives (v 5). A minister is one who is a steward of the mysteries of God– or is a fake. And Paul has made it quite clear what these mysteries are. They are all related to the mystery of the cross of Christ as the message of God’s condescending grace, a mystery found in scripture, not in human speculation. A servant’s authority does not lie within that person, but with the Master who calls to service. The word that one speaks remains the only authorisation. Personal visions and experiences, even personal piety, are no replacement for the objective call. Paul advances a further, somewhat bold, thought. The cross marks all who proclaim its power and meaning. According to Romans 6, every Christian is stamped by the cross in baptism. But the servant of the cross is marked by that cross in a special sense. At the end of these four chapters, there is a confession of the weakness of God’s servants which runs parallel to the hymn of praise to the ‘weakness’ and ‘folly’ of the cross itself in the first chapter. Here we have a shorter version of the famous laus stultitiae in Second Corinthians 11:1 to 12:13. Where one could reasonably expect God’s spokespersons to speak with the voice of great human authority, one can see only frailty, a spectacle for all to deride. Why does Paul parody the strength, wisdom, and honour of his detractors by boasting of his own weakness, folly, and dishonour? Clearly, the cross also means a reversal of human values and standards with respect to those who proclaim it. The servant is not above the Master also in suffering abuse. But there is a deeper reason for the necessary weakness of God’s servants. The cross as revelation in time, as gospel at work in the church, requires no human presuppositions or props. The weakness of the minister is also a sign of grace. God does not equip his servants with external trappings of power and authority so that the honour and glory might remain his, and that where there is only human weakness, he might prove his gracious strength. ‘We have this treasure in earthen vessels, to show that the transcendent power belongs to God and not to us’ (2 Cor 4:7). The ministry is in many parts of the globe, a suffering ministry. But we are called to remember that it is always and everywhere to be a serving ministry, one that can well exist and work without human applause and honour, which does not need any props apart from the self-authenticating Word.

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We are well acquainted with the popular notion of the parson as a stuffed shirt, out of touch with the realities of daily life. We have seen clergy parodied on TV and know how many people regard clerics. Caricatures are sometimes the fault of ministers themselves and are a legitimate attack on the hypocrisy, parsonic detachment, and plain ineptitude of some who call themselves God’s servants, even if such criticisms come from ‘outsiders. What should cause us real concern is both the quest for popularity and the fact that we meet with no real opposition from an unbelieving environment? The gospel causes confrontation and possible rejection, as well as faith. Where rejection is totally missing there is the possibility that we are not presenting the gospel with all its offensiveness. We should work to destroy the scandals of our own making, but never apologise for the cross as a symbol of our weak humanity. Will the ministry remain content to be no more than servants, and willing to suffer the cross of weakness? If we say our personal Yes to this, we do so not in a spirit of resignation but confessing that the strength of ministry lies not in us, our superior intellect, our piety, our orthodoxy, our organisational skills, or our eloquence, but only in ‘the word of the cross’.

The School of Jesus: Jesus Traditions in Pauline Paraenesis

First Published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 3.2/3 (1979): 22–35

Like all contributions in this Festschrift, this one is a reminder that Dr Siegfried Hebart has never been what the Germans call a Schmalspurtheologe, a narrow-gauge specialist who knew only the one track of systematic theology. His interests ranged widely over the entire spectrum of theological endeavour. For a few years, he also lectured on the New Testament at the old Immanuel Seminary. He led students to discover the joy to be found in reverent yet scholarly study of the New Testament, teaching them that understanding begins with proper listening. ***** No such phrase as ‘the school of Jesus’ occurs anywhere in the New Testament, but there are frequent references to tradition in the Gospels and epistles. Since the ancient world often preserved tradition within a school, it is reasonable to expect that a study of traditions may, from place to place, indicate the existence of schools behind some writings of the New Testament. Thus, Krister Stendahl proposed a school of Matthew.1 Theories on a Johannine school have been examined by Oscar Coleman and R Alan Culpepper,2 and the possibility of deutero-Pauline letters continues to be argued on the 1. K Stendahl, The School of St Matthew (Lund: Gleerup, 1954; reprinted, Philadelphia: Fortress, 1968). 2. O Cullmann, The Johannine Circle (London: SCM, 1976); R Alan Culpepper, The Johannine School (Missoula: Scholars Press, 1975).

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hypothesis of a school which developed the theology of the apostle after his death. The title of this study indicates interest in only two aspects of this question of school traditions in the New Testament. The first is this: To what extent is Jesus to be seen as a rabbi teaching his disciples in the same, or similar, way a Jewish master instructed his talmidim? Did Jesus and his followers constitute a school, and if so, does the existence of any school tradition explain the preservation of Jesus teaching from oral tradition to written gospel? The second question is of more immediate concern here: Are there indications in Paul’s letters of a Jesus tradition to which the apostle could refer, particularly in paraenetic sections? What is the function of these appeals to tradition, and to what extent may we speak of a Jesus halakah in Pauline paraenesis? 1.  A Brief Review of Some Theses Beginning with the work of Dibelius and Bultmann, form-critics analysed the synoptic tradition in terms of its sociological life setting, its Sitz im Leben, in the early church. Depending on the criteria used— and there are still no commonly accepted critical norms—scholars attributed various amounts of the tradition to the early church. A scholar like Joachim Jeremias could still presuppose the basic Jewish character and the reliability of Jesus’ logia,3 and another like Norman Perrin even argued that the onus of proof must rest with those who hold to the authenticity of a dominical saying.4 This much seems to be sure. Where the examination of Gospel tradition works with the early church as the only certain Sitz im Leben of Jesus’ sayings, we will continue to find a wide range of conflicting views on the historical origins of the gospel tradition. Of course, the redactional goals and emphases of the evangelist often help to explain the present written form of the tradition, but 3. See the detailed linguistic studies in his New Testament Theology, Volume I. The Proclamation of Jesus (London: SCM, 1971) 4. Perrin’s views on the authenticity of Jesus’ sayings became increasingly marked by scepticism; see the progression from The Kingdom of God in the Teaching of Jesus (London: SCM, 1963) to Rediscovering the Teaching of Jesus (London: SCM, 1967), and his final statement in A Modern Pilgrimage in New Testament Christology (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1974).

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redaction-criticism only takes us further from the original question of origins, from the primary life setting of Jesus of Nazareth himself. Ernst Käsemann, the disciple of Bultmann who took issue with his teacher in 1953 in arguing for the lasting relevance of the historical Jesus, further complicated the issue by identifying some of Jesus’ sayings as ‘sentences of divine law’ (Sätze des heiligen Rechtes), mediated to the church by the exalted Lord through the early prophets.5 Here there is the same problem as with form-criticism: the lack of objectively verifiable criteria in the detection of such sentences of divine law, and the inability of such an approach to explain not only the bulk of the tradition, but also the preservation of such tradition to which such ‘sentences’ might later be appended. The study of the Jesus tradition on an original Jewish background has always had its proponents ever since the famous statement of Papias that Matthew collected the signs of Jesus in the Hebrew language. Interest in a school of Jesus analogous to rabbinic schools of first century Palestinian Judaism were awakened by Harold Riesenfeld. In his essay, The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings, A Study in the Limits of Form-Geschichte,6 he argued that Jesus taught his disciples as a rabbi taught his pupils, that is, by careful transmission of material committed to memory. While Stendahl suggested in the first edition of The School of Matthew (1954) that there was possibly an ‘unbroken line from the School of Jesus via the teaching of the apostles to the preaching and teaching of the evangelists and Paul (only to reject the idea in the second edition),7 Riesenfeld maintained that Jesus had delivered to his disciples a ‘holy word’ which was to be transmitted intact according to the laws of oral tradition in Judaism. The original life-setting of the Jesus tradition is not the kerygma or 5. ‘Sentences of Holy Law in the Testament’, in New Testament Questions of Today (London: SCM, 1969), 66–81. Though Käsemann’s analysis is more concerned with certain Pauline texts (like 1 Cor 3:17; 14:38; 16:22; Gal 1:9; 2 Cor 9:6; Rom 2:12), he also discusses Mark 8:38 and parallels. 6. First published in 1957 and reprinted as chapter 1 in Riesenfeld’s collected essays, The Gospel Tradition (Oxford: Blackwell, 1970). 7. Compare The School of Matthew, 34, in the first edition with page x in the second edition, where Stendahl was more cautious. TW Manson had, even before Riesenfeld, suggested that Jesus’ sayings were transmitted verbatim in the early church, even to the extent that ‘the early church remembered better than it understood’! TW Manson, Review of J Jeremias, Die Gleichnisse Jesu’, New Testament Studies, 1 (1954/55): 57–62, particularly 58.

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didache (teaching) of the early church, but the words of the historical Jesus. He argues: If we suppose the existence of . . . an interrelation between early Christian community preaching and Gospel tradition, then it remains inexplicable that while in the Christological and theological parts of the New Testament Epistles, we have countless allusions to the sayings of Jesus [though not to the narrative material of the Gospels] we have no expressed citation of his words.8

Paul, Peter, and James seem to refer to the sayings of Jesus, while not expressly citing them in their original form. In First Corinthians 7:10,11 and First Thessalonians 4:1 Paul doubtless alludes to the Gospel tradition but does not cite it. According to Riesenfeld, the fact that some early tradition is cited in First Corinthians 11:23 and 15:3 and introduced with the technical terms for the transmission of such tradition, confirms the general rule in epistles. In his argument the following points make sense.9 1. The Gospel tradition has its primary setting with Jesus, not with the post-Easter Church. 2. The first links in the subsequent chain of transmission were the apostles as eyewitness of Jesus, not an anonymous ‘primitive community’ (Urgemeinde). 3. The best analogy to such a process of transmission remains the rabbinic tradition of first century Palestinian Judaism. Other aspects of the argument fail to convince. It is unlikely that the tradition of Jesus’ logia was treasured by arcane discipline, only memorised by catechumens, and not repeated in public gatherings or addressed to outsiders. This concept of the tradition as esoteric hardly explains the paucity of explicit references to the teachings of Jesus in the Epistles. The most famous exponent of this Scandinavian thesis of a school of Jesus as the basis of the gospel tradition is Birger Gerhardsson. His Memory and Manuscript. Oral Tradition and Written Transmission in 8. See The Gospel Tradition and its Beginnings, 14. 9. See the critical review of FF Bruce, Tradition Old and New (Exeter: Paternoster, 1970), 68.

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Rabbinic Judaism and Early Christianity which appeared four years after Riesenfeld’s study,10 provided a detailed analysis of the laws operative in rabbinic tradition, something lacking in Riesenfeld’s brief treatment. The central thesis was the same, however: Jesus made his disciples commit his teaching to memory, and the apostles exercised a controlling function in the preservation and transmission of the tradition, a normative role which Paul granted to the authorities in Jerusalem (Gal 2:2). Gerhardsson and Riesenfeld have been criticised for drawing too many conclusions from minimal evidence.11 Though the gospel accounts do picture Jesus teaching his disciples, there is no evidence that their function as disciples (mathetai literally means learners) was to commit his teaching to memory. Nor is there any evidence that the tradition was committed to notebook form before becoming the basis of our Gospels. Since few ipsissima verba from the rabbinic schools of Hillel and Shammai or from the age of the Tannaim (AD 70 to 200) have survived in the huge body of Jewish halachic tradition, we cannot assume that the laws of oral transmission were as clearly fixed in Jesus’ day, as Gerhardsson presupposes. Can we so easily speak of rabbinic Judaism as the normative form of Judaism in first century Palestine before Johanan Ben Zakkai established his famous school at Jamnia? It seems, then, that we can speak of a school of Jesus only with some reservations. Jesus was certainly seen as a rabbi by his contemporaries; he was surrounded by his own talmidim. A saying like Matthew 23:8–10 reveals school language. But you are not to be called rabbi, for you have one teacher, and you are all brothers. And do not call anyone father on earth, for you have one Father who is in heaven? Neither be called masters, for you have one master, the Christ. 10. Issued as Acta Seminarii Neotestamentici Uppsaliensis, XXII (Lund: Gleerup, 1961). See also T Boman, Die Jesus–Überliefering im Lichte der neueren Volkskunde (Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1976). 11. See M Smith, ‘A Comparison of Early Christian and Early Rabbinic Tradition’, Journal of Biblical Literature, 82 (1963), 69; also, WD Davies, 'Reflections on a Scandinavian Approach to “The Gospel Tradition”, Neotestamentica et Patristica. Supplements to Novum Testamentum, 6 (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1962). Gerhardsson replied to his critics in a later study, Tradition and Transmission in Early Christianity (Lund: Gleerup, 1964).

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The school setting of such language may have a pointed use in the Matthean redaction, as Stendahl suggests,12 but that does not prove that the saying cannot be attributed to Jesus himself. Again, a synoptic study of the Gospel tradition reveals that there is less variation in the form in which Jesus’ instruction was preserved than is generally the case with the narrative sections of the gospel tradition.13 The question remains whether Jesus’ disciples had the same function as Jewish talmidim. While the language to describe them and their activity reminds us of rabbinic diction, ‘following’ (akolouhein) rather than ‘learning’ (manthanein) is the primary duty of the disciple of Jesus. Disciples were not simply given information, but called to commitment,14 one which also meant preparedness to suffer (Luke 14:26). Unlike Jewish talmidim who could become masters, Jesus’ disciples remained disciples even after he was known to them as the risen Lord. They were not so much bearers of a tradition as witnesses and participants in his ministry. Martin Hengel in Nachfolge und Charisma15 also rejected the idea that the description of discipleship as found in Matthew 8:18–22 is to be explained on the model of the rabbinic master-pupil relationship. Jesus is rather an eschatological prophet calling people to witness and share in the preaching of the Kingdom. It remains true that Jesus was a teacher who taught his disciples to follow his instruction (Matthew 7:24; Luke 6:47). They in turn participated in his teaching activity (Mark 6:30). Why must this be read back into the tradition? Why was the designation of Jesus as ‘teacher’ not expunged from the records after he became the Easter kyrios of the early church, if the designation was not original? Jesus’ peripatetic teaching may have been somewhat unusual but he, like the rabbis, sat while he taught (Matt 5:1; Luke 4:20, 21); he taught and studied the scriptures by night like any good. rabbinic scholar (this is the probable meaning of John 3:2); he also taught in the 12. The School of Matthew, 20; see also WD Davies, The Setting of the Sermon on the Mount (CUP, 1966) for a discussion of this passage in which Davies finds a polemic against the rabbinic school of Jamnia. 13. Bruce, Tradition Old and New, 70. 14. KH Rengstorf, manthano in TDNT IV, 406. For an excellent summary of the chief differences between Jesus and his disciples as a school and rabbinic schools, see Culpepper, The Johannine School, 222–32. 15. Nachfolge und Charisma (Berlin: Töpelmann,1968).

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synagogues. His teaching on the law was always public and never in secret. Whereas his private teaching dealt with discipleship, the Kingdom, and the fate of the Son of man, his public teaching spoke to a central rabbinic concern and can hardly have been made up by the early church.16 Not Jesus’ teaching as such, but what and how he taught marks him as different from the Jewish schoolmasters. He offered a new teaching (Mark 1:27); he taught as one having authority, that is, as one who did not need to cite an unbroken chain of authority (Matthew 7:29). He spoke with the authoritative ‘But I say to you . . . ’, as one who knew immediately, without any school mediation, the original will of God. Above all, he not only taught but acted out his teaching of God’s claim in mercy on all people. Is it then surprising that the mathetai remembered what he did and spoke? They may not have constituted a school in the rabbinic sense that they were called to be Tannaim, that is, repeaters who had learned their lessons by rote. They were people stamped by Jesus and their personal commitment to him who, unlike a rabbi who received applications to join his circle, went about calling people with a simple command: ‘Follow me’. Properly speaking then, the school of Jesus should more correctly be called the school of Christ, for the lasting discipleship was not that of a small group of Galileans gathered around their earthly teacher who founded a school with masters to follow him, but a movement intent on proclaiming the living Lord and his will. Despite the ongoing scholarly discussion and sometimes wide disagreement on the origins and role of the apostle in the early church, the following must be stressed. What united the church with the historical Jesus was not a group of tradition bearers but authorised agents who claimed to have been commissioned by the risen Lord. It was thus, according to Luke, at least, the teaching of the apostles around which the first Christians gathered (Acts 2:42). This teaching can hardly be reduced to a recitation of the sayings of Jesus in the light of events which Luke records in Acts 2. We can conclude this brief study of the school of Jesus with another Scandinavian scholar’s reminder that history is born of both 16. A point made by Culpepper, 229, who contrasts Jesus’ public teaching with his teaching kat’ idian in Matthew 17:19; 20:17; Mark 4:34; 6:31; 9:28; Luke 10:23.

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memory and tradition. But Niels Alstrup Dahl correctly observes that the remembering (anamnesis) of Jesus, whether in the Gospels or epistles, is not simply the recitation of remembered tradition, but rather a commemorating of the past as present reality.17 As we turn to an examination of the possible use of a tradition of Jesus’ teaching in the Pauline letters, we can project from the outset that we will find no recollection of Jesus’ sayings that is not at the same time a reminder of the present will of the exalted Lord. 2.  Kyrios and Tradition In view of the widespread scepticism of scholars with respect to the gospel tradition and its reliability, it is not surprising that it has been stated, almost as an accepted dogma, that Paul is not at all interested in the historical Jesus. It is maintained that, apart from a few isolated references to the historical Jesus or the Jesus tradition (Rom 1:3; Gal 4:4; 1 Cor 11:23–25; 15:3–7), Paul is concerned only with the glorified Christ, the exalted kyrios in the worship of the church. The Christ event has been compressed into the events of crucifixion and exaltation. It would be interesting to pursue the question to what extent this thesis is based not so much on the evidence of Paul’s letters as on the preconception of what one rightly should expect from Paul—if he were a good theologian! One can with some justification speculate whether the ghost of Wilhelm Bousset is still very much alive. In the first edition of his Kyrios Christos, Boussett argued that Jesus became the Lord in the cult of the Hellenistic church by analogy with the many kyrioi of the Hellenistic cults.18 Bultmann accepted the argument — despite the observation that the maranatha (‘Come, Lord’) of First Corinthians 16:22 (also Rev 22:20 and Didache 10:6) shows that Jesus was acclaimed as mar (Lord) in the Aramaic-speaking Palestinian church. The cultic origin of the kyrios title is also placed in question

17. NS Dahl, ‘Anamnesis: Memory and Commemoration in Ealy Christianity’, in Jesus in the Memory of the Early Church (Minneapolis: Augsburg,1976), 11–29. 18. Published in 1918; second edition, 1921; English version, Nashville/New York: Abingdon,1970.

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by the observation of Ernst Lohmeyer that the adoration of Jesus as Lord in Philippians 2:11is not cultic but cosmic or universal.19 It has often been noted that in Paul the designation of Christ as Lord frequently occurs in ethical contexts, or in close connection with the tradition to which Paul is referring. Oscar Cullmann’s thesis is that instead of ‘tradition’ Paul can sometimes say ‘Lord’ (1 Thess 4:15; 1 Cor 7:10,25; 9:14).20 Thus, Paul says that he received the tradition of the institution of the Lord’s Supper from the Lord; he sees himself standing at the end of a chain of tradition beginning with the Lord. The content of the tradition is either ethical teaching (1 Cor 11:2; 2 Thess 3:6; Rom 6:17; Phil 4:9; Col 2:6), kerygmatic formulations (1 Cor 15:3,4), or narratives from the life of Jesus (1 Cor 11:23–26). But, according to Cullmann, all references to tradition in Paul have the risen and exalted Christ as author, not the historical Jesus. It is the exalted Lord who now proclaims, through the tradition, what he had taught his disciples during his life on earth.21 Ultimately, transmission of the tradition is performed not by human beings, though the apostle as direct witness is the prime mediator of the tradition, but by Christ the risen Lord. Thus, Paul can say that he received the gospel not from people but by direct revelation (Gal 1:12). Cullmann’s thesis goes far in explaining the fact, already noted by Riesenfeld and others, that Paul seldom explicitly refers to ethical teaching of the historical Jesus (1 Thess 4:15; 1 Cor 7:10; 9:14), and yet seems to presuppose an extensive knowledge of this tradition. The explanation is not to be found in a concept of the tradition as esoteric teaching but in the concentration on the will of the exalted Lord, which is mediated and interpreted authoritatively by the apostle. We need not discuss all the problems posed by Cullmann’s treatment of tradition. We need only note two criticisms. It is highly doubtful whether all Paul’s references to tradition belong to the same class, whether the simple equation, tradition equals revelation of the exalted Lord, is valid. Second, it is highly debatable that, as he

19. E Lohmeyer, Jesus Kyrios, 1927; reprint by Darmstadt: Wissenschafftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1961, 60,61. 20. O Cullmann, ‘Kyrios as Designation for the Oral Tradition Concerning Jesus (Paradosis and Kyrios)’, Scottish Journal of Theology (1950): 180,81; also ‘The Tradition’, in The Early Church (London: SCM, 1956), 59–78. 21. The Early Church, 68.

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maintains, Christ as Lord replaces the tradition of the Jewish law, just as the historical Jesus opposed the tradition of the elders! Our concern here is not with the whole body of primitive tradition, only with the question of the importance and role of Jesus’ ethical instructions in Pauline ethical exhortations (paraenesis). If there is evidence of a tradition of Jesus’ sayings long before they were incorporated into the Gospels, how was this tradition used? Is the Christian ‘way’, the way of Christ, equal to the synoptic concept of discipleship? Such an examination is relevant since studies on the teaching of Jesus in Paul have devoted little attention to these questions. The study of the sayings of Jesus in the churches of Paul by David L Dungan is an exception.22 Dungan devotes attention to explicit references to the command of the Lord cited by Paul in First Corinthians 9:4–18 on support for the apostles, and on marriage in First Corinthians 7:10,11, but draws relevant conclusions from his study of these two passages for Paul’s use of the Jesus tradition generally. As Duncan points out, there is little point in guessing at the number of parallels and allusions to the teaching of Jesus to be found in Paul’s letters. Even though some scholars like WD Davies are confident that Paul rests heavily on the Jesus tradition,23 and others have from time to time at least raised the question of Paul’s dependence and use of this tradition, there are no scholars who would today follow Arnold Resch who, at the beginning of the century, claimed to have discovered no fewer than 925 allusions to Jesus’ teaching in Paul’s letters, including 133 in Ephesians, 100 in the Pastoral Epistles, and—wonder of wonders— sixty-four in the speeches of Paul in Acts!24 Little is to be gained by such guessing games. The more fruitful question relates not to the number of such sayings, but to their use in the Pauline churches, especially where such references are assured. More directly, our question is whether there is a pattern of thought in Pauline paraenesis which suggests a school tradition as the setting for such references.

22. Subtitle, The Use of the Synoptic Tradition in the Regulation of Early Church Life (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1971)—it is significant that Stendahl supervised this dissertation. See also GN Stanton, Jesus of Nazareth in New Testament Preaching (Cambridge: CUP, 1974). 23. WD Davies, Paul and Rabbinic Judaism (London: SPCK, 1948), 140–46. 24. A Resch, Der Paulinismus und die Logia Jesu (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1904).

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3.  The Language of School Tradition in Paul25 Our own analysis of the Pauline material begins by looking at those passages which Alfred Seeberg noted as he attempted to demonstrate a consistent pattern in the paraenetic sections of the New Testament epistles.26 Based on Romans 6:17 and First Corinthians 4:17, he concluded that Jesus’ teaching had passed into the stock of catechetical material in the early church, mixed in with standard Jewish paraenetic material. In Romans 6:15,16 Paul contrasts living under the law with living under grace, a contrast then continued with the pairs of concepts sin/ obedience and death/righteousness. He then continues in verse 17: ‘But thanks be to God, that you who were once slaves of sin have become obedient from the heart to the standard of teaching to which you were committed’ (RSV). Here there is a comparison between two courses, two ways, the second of which is typified in the teaching the readers have heard and obeyed. But to what does the ‘standard of teaching’ (typos didaches) refer, and what is the meaning of the grammatically awkward phrase ‘to which you were committed’ (eis hon paredothete)? Some have argued that the teaching referred to is a creed, perhaps a baptismal creed, but it is best to see here a reference to the ethical tradition which was transmitted to the readers. The awkward asssimilation of the relative eis hon . . . typon = ton typon eis hon, and the passive paredothete can be explained by analogy with the phrase ho episteuthen ego (‘which has been entrusted to me’) in First Timothy 1:11 and Titus 1:3. The meaning is, ‘the standard of teaching which was delivered to you’.27 Paul uses this indirect formulation because he is writing to people to whom he cannot say, ‘I delivered the teaching to you’, since this was a congregation he did not found. There is confirmation of this interpretation in Second Thessalonians 2:15 where Paul asks his readers to stand firm and hold to the ‘traditions that were taught by us’. That Paul is referring to a tradition of ethical teaching is made clear a few verses later in 3:6 where he 25. This study includes the Deutero–Pauline letters under the assumption that Paul’s disciples continued the school language of their master. 26. Der Katechismus der Uchristenheit (Leipzig: A Deichert, 1903); reprinted with an introduction by F Hahn (Munich: Chr Kaiser, 1966), 1–44. 27. See Seeberg, Katechismus, 3. The Jerusalem Bible and the TEV reflect the same understanding of this text as denoting obedience to a tradition of teaching, although JB translates ‘teaching’ with ‘creed’.

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commands ‘in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ that you keep away from any brother who is living in idleness and not in accord with the tradition that he received from us’. Here again we have the technical terminology of tradition as well as the usual Pauline description of ethical life as walking (peripatein) a certain path or way. The tradition contains the teaching of the way which Paul himself teaches. Romans 16:17 confirms the fact that Paul’s tradition included a stock of ethical teaching. Here Paul appeals to his readers to mark those who create dissensions in opposition to the teaching they have received. The phrase ‘according to the teaching’ (Rom 16:17) contrasts with ‘against the tradition’ in Second Thessalonians 3:6. In both cases the tradition is not kerygma, creedal formulations, hymnic material or the like, but a stock of ethical injunctions which can even be presumed to be known far off in Rome. That such instruction was seen as a teaching of the way of Christ is indicated by First Corinthians 4:17, though the exact meaning of this passage is also contested. The apostle reminds his readers that he sent Timothy to them to remind them ‘of my ways in Christ as I teach them everywhere in every church.’28 The question is, does ‘ways’ (hodoi) refer simply to the way in which Paul lives, or to his teaching? It might be argued that the addition of ‘my’ as well as the phrase ‘in Christ’ mean that Paul is here holding up his own life as the ethical standard which he teaches. But a number of points rather indicate that Paul is here using school language and pointing to a doctrine of ways. a) In verse 16 Paul asks the Corinthians to become imitators of himself. We will see more closely the role of imitation (mimesis) in Pauline paraenesis, noting here only that it can belong to the language of the school and the teaching of a certain kind of life described as ‘walking’, a Semitism. b) The repetition of the article (literally, ‘my ways, the ones. . .’) has the function of precisely identifying what has been previously mentioned. This parallels First Corinthians 1:18 where the word of the cross is specified as ‘the word’(article repeated) as the cult-

28. The variant reading ‘in Christ Jesus’ may be original but cannot be used to prove that Paul is tracing this tradition back to the historical Jesus.

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narrative with which the Corinthians are familiar.29 Within the one letter there are references to two kinds of traditions: the cultic narrative of 1:18 and 11:23–25 (the logos of 15:2 which is then specified as the tradition of 15:3–5), and the ethical teaching of 4:17. c) As often in Paul’s letters, ‘even as’ (kathos) refers to the content of something alluded to earlier. We can conclude that the teaching of Paul in all the churches is his instruction in the ‘ways’. The phrase ‘everywhere in every church', suggests a standard teaching not subject to local variations.30 It must be admitted that Paul closely connects his teaching and traditions with the way he himself lives. This comes out in Philippians 3:17 and 4:9 where we again have the combination of imitation and tradition. ‘Brethren, join in imitating me, and mark those who so live as you have an example (typos) in us.’ ‘What you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, do.’ We have already noted that Second Thessalonians 2:15 and 3:6 speak about Paul’s tradition of ethical teaching. We should further note how Paul again combines the reference to tradition with the call for the readers to become imitators of himself.’ For you yourselves know how you ought to imitate us; we were not idle when we were with you . . . [We gave] you in our conduct an example [typos] to imitate’ (3:7,9). To the above evidence we can add two more passages. Paul’s reference to his teaching of the ‘ways’ in Christ is preceded in First Corinthians 4:16,17 by a call to be his imitators. But earlier in the chapter at 4:6 he reminds the Corinthians of his purpose in applying to himself the picture of Christ’s servants as stewards of the mysteries of God (4:1). The purpose has been ‘that you may learn from us to live according to scripture, that none of you may be puffed up in favour of one against the other.’ The appeal to scripture shows that Paul’s behaviour is not the absolute norm, but rather a typos or personal exemplification of the norm. Scripture and tradition are the content of the ethical teaching; Paul only exemplifies 29. See KH Rengstorf, Die Auferstehung Jesu (Witten, Ruhr: Luther Verlag, 4th edition, 1960), 19. This interpretation of 1 Cor 1:18 is accepted by J Jeremias, Der Opfertod Jesu Christi (Stuttgart: Calwer Verlag, 1933), 12. 30. This understanding of the text is shared by H Conzelmann, I Corinthians. Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1975), 92. See also W Schrage, Die Einzelgebote in der paulinischen Paränese (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1961), 132,33.

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in his life what is commanded in the Scripture and by the Lord. That the imitatio Pauli includes holding fast and maintaining the tradition is shown by First Corinthians 11:1,2: ‘Be imitators of me, as I am of Christ. I commend you because you remember me in everything and maintain the traditions even as I had to delivered them to you.’31 In First Thessalonians 1:6,7 Paul writes: ‘You became imitators of us and of the Lord, for you received the word in much affliction, with joy inspired by the Holy Spirit; so that you became an example (typos) to all the believers in Macedonia and Achaia’. That the context is ethical follows from the same connection between the acceptance of tradition and the thought of imitation in 2:12–14. The readers have been exhorted by Paul to ‘lead a life (peripatein) worthy of God’ who has called them’. He continues by thanking God that they received the Word of God and became imitators of the churches of God in Christ Jesus which are in Judea.’ The word that Paul preached, and they received is, of course, the gospel. But with the gospel Paul told the story of the church, its origins, and its progress, also the story of suffering. The Thessalonians have become imitators of Christ, the prophets, and all who have been ‘driven out’ because of the faith (2:14–16). It is clear from the evidence adduced that the terms ‘imitation’ and ‘example’, when applied to Paul as teacher, belong together with such terms as ‘receiving’, ‘passing on’, ‘teaching’ and ‘learning’ to the language of school tradition. Significantly, Paul like other New Testament writers apart from the evangelists never uses the word mathetes (disciple), just as he never uses the verb ‘to follow’ (akolouthein). The term ‘disciple’ was reserved for those who belonged to the original ‘schools’ of John the Baptist and Jesus of Nazareth. ‘Disciple’ was replaced by other terms, such as ‘imitator’. In the Gospels the function of the disciple is to follow Jesus. To imitate is not completely identical with following, but there are passages in ancient Greek and Hellenistic literature which show that ‘imitation’ is 31. On the connection between mimesis and tradition in Paul, see DM Stanley, ‘”Become Imitators of me”: The Pauline Conception of Apostolic Tradition’, Biblica, XL (1959): 859–77. W Schmithals, The Office of the Apostle in the Early Church (London: SPCK, 1971), while underplaying the connection between the call to imitation and tradition, is right in remarking that imitation does not always rest on a fixed complex of inherited, specifically apostolic, and authoritative doctrinal tradition (43, note 91).

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used of a student’s relation to a teacher.32 The words of Alexander in Plutarch, Life of Alexander 332ab show that imitation and following are closely allied. ‘I imitate Heracles, and emulate Perseus, and follow in the footsteps of Dionysus.’ That this Hellenistic background is also found in Paul’s summons to imitation is suggested by his use of the father/son model, commonly used in Hellenism to describe the relationship between initiator and instructor and the one initiated into the mysteries, that is the pupil.33 Thus, Paul sometimes first calls himself the readers’ father in Christ before summoning them to be his imitators, as in First Corinthians 4:15, 16 and, similarly, in 1 Thessalonians 1:6, 7, and 2:11, 12. A similar statement occurs in Ephesians 5:1 where the readers are called to ‘be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk (peripatein) in love as Christ loved us’. This passage suggests that the background of imitation in Paul is not exclusively Hellenistic, but rests on another Old Testament phrase.34 Marcus Barth draws our attention to the phrase ‘to follow Yahweh’ or to ‘walk in his ways’, the opposite being to follow after idols or the Baals.35 Thomas Aquinas was thus correct when he held that the Old Testament and the gospel phrase ‘to follow the Lord’ provided the essential key to understanding Ephesians 5:1 which he thus translated, ‘Be therefore followers of God.’36 It is reasonable to assume that the thought of following God and the description of the life that Christians should live as a ‘walking’ 32. Conzelmann, I Corinthians,92 with note 16. 33. For the mystagogue as ‘father’ of the initiand, see Reitzenstein, Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligionen (Stuttgart: B Teubner, 1926; reprint by Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1956), 40,41; also, G Schrenk, TDNT V, 958,59. HD Betz, Nachfolge und Nachahmung Jesu Christi im Neuen Testament (Tübingen: JCB Mohr/Paul Siebeck, 1967), traces the mimesis concept in Paul back to the Hellenistic mysteries. While he is correct in suggesting that the imitation of Christ in Paul is based not on the concept of following Christ as a model but on living in Christ, his study fails to do justice to the school setting of Paul’s call for others to imitate him. Nor does Betz consider Jewish conceptual or linguistic parallels to Paul’s concept of mimesis (see especially 136–89). 34. The idea of imitation is lacking in the Old Testament but appears in the literature of Hellenistic Judaism, e.g., Epistle of Aristeas 188,210,281; Wisdom 4:2; 4 Macc 9:23; Josephus Bellum 4.562; Philo Op. Mund. 79, etc. 35. M Barth, Ephesians 4–6, Anchor Bible (New York: Doubleday,1974), 556 with notes 8 and 9. 36. Barth, 556.

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are closely connected via the Old Testament. With the one exception of Job 9:8, peripatein in the Septuagint always represents the Hebrew halakh. According to Proverbs 8:20, the righteous man walks in the way of the righteous, in the paths of justice; in Second Kings 20:3 the ailing king Hezekiah asks God to remember ‘how I have walked before you in faithfulness and with a whole heart and have done what is good in your sight’.37 The normal Hellenistic verb to describe conduct is anastrephesthai. While Paul does use this verb once in Ephesians 2:3, and the noun anastrophe in Galatians 1:13 and Ephesians 4:22, he prefers the verb peripatein, as in Ephesians 2: 2. This ethical use of ‘walking’ which is foreign to Greek and Hellenistic usage, suggests that Paul can combine the thought of following after the Lord and walking in his ways on the basis of Old Testament thought. Thus, we have some explanation for the combination of imitation and walking (Eph 5:1,2; Phil 3:17,18; 2 Thess 3:6–18.). In the Old Testament, we not only have the concept of walking after the Lord but also of walking in his paths. The doctrine of the two ways finds classical expression in early Christian writings, in Didache 1–6, Barnabas 19–20, and Shepherd of Hermas Mandata 6.1.2–5. The seeds of this tradition appear in Psalm 16:8–11 (where ‘following the Lord’ in v 8 equals ‘walking in the path of life’ in v 11), Jeremiah 21:8, Ezekiel 18:23–25, and Psalm 34:12–22. The Qumran community saw itself as preparing the way of the Lord in the wilderness (Isaiah 40:3 plays a prominent role also in the Dead Sea Scrolls) and saw in its sectarian Rule the teaching of the right ‘way’ (1QS VIII 1e–16; IX 18–21; X 21).38 Jesus, too, taught the two ways of life and destruction in Matthew 7:13, 14, and was acknowledged as a teacher who taught the way of the Lord truthfully (Mark 12:4 and parallels). It is only to be expected that Paul, who was trained as a rabbi and was zealous for the traditions of the fathers (Gal 1:14), which included the midrashic halakah, should also reflect the doctrine of

37. See also Eccles 11:9 and Testament Issachar 5:8. 38. There is a wealth of material on the teaching of the two ways in F Nötscher, Gotteswege und Menschenwege in der Bibel (Bonn: Peter Hanstein, 1958); see also S Wibbing, Die Tugend– und Lasterkataloge im NeuenTestament (Berlin: Töpelmann, 1959), 61–64, and E Kamlah, Die Form der katalogischen Paränese im Neuen Testament (Tübingen: JCB Mohr/Paul Siebeck,1964), passim for parallels in the Dead Sea Scrolls.

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the two ways.39 We have noted how Romans 6:17 speaks of Paul’s standard of teaching in a context which contrasts law and grace, sin and obedience, death and righteousness, slavery, and freedom. Romans 6:4 pictures the new life in Christ as a walking in Christ’s new resurrection Life. It is a walking not according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit (8:4; Gal 5:16). We can find this kind of contrast in many of the thirty-one uses of peripatein in Paul’s letters, if we include Ephesians and Colossians. We need cite only a few examples where such a contrast is either explicit or implied. Christians walk in the day or in the light, not in the darkness (Rom 13:13 Eph 5:8). They no longer walk in sin as they did in their Gentile past (Eph 2:24; 4:17; Col 3:7), not in a worldly fashion (2 Cor 10: 2,3), or as enemies of the cross (Phil 3:17,18), but in good works (Eph 2:10), in love (Eph 5:2), and in an honourable way, pleasing to God (1 Thess 4:1,12). They are not to be idle, but live (walk) industriously (2 Thess 3:6,11), not as foolish, but as wise people (Eph 5:15; Col 4:5). 4.  The Way of Christ We can now review our picture of school language in the Pauline letters. Not every mention of ‘walking’ occurs in the context of a tradition of ethical teaching and a call to imitate, but that is often the case. The major passages which indicate such a school tradition are: Roman 6:17, First Corinthians 4:15–17 and 11:1,2, Ephesians 4:17–21, 5:1, 2, Philippians 3:17,18, First Thessalonians 4:1,2, and Second Thessalonians 3:6–12. Not included in this list are Colossians 2:6–8, First Thessalonians 1:6, and 2:12–14. These passages, while using school language, speak rather of the traditions of the gospel itself rather than of ethical instruction. It seems that Paul could presuppose that the tradition was well known also in congregations, which he had not founded (Rome, Colossae and, if Ephesians is a circular letter, other churches in Asia Minor. Confining ourselves to the tradition of ethical teaching, we can now ask: Did this tradition contain the sayings of the historical

39. Accepting the thesis of WC van Unnik, Tarsus or Jerusalem (London: Epworth,1962) that Paul’s formative years and education years were in Jerusalem rather than Tarsus.

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Jesus? Is Paul’s teaching on the way of Christ based on the actual sayings of Jesus? We can expect that references to Jesus’ teaching might be found within the orbit of the above school tradition texts, especially when there is reference to the commands of the Lord or to his will, as in Ephesians 4:1,17 and 5:8,15. We cannot here scour all these passages for such allusions but must limit our examination to several examples. It may be best to begin with Colossians 1:9–12 to see how the call to walk worthy of the Lord is followed by thinly veiled references to the gospel tradition. Kyrios here cannot mean the historical Jesus or merely the teaching of Jesus, but it is not by chance that in this prayer of Paul we have words which recalled the teaching of Jesus in his parable of the sower. Paul prays that the divine filling with knowledge, wisdom, and understanding, may result in the readers bearing fruit, so that they increase in good works through such knowledge. The parable of the sower pictures the good soil as one who hears the word and understands and bears fruit, according to Matthew 13:23. Mark 4:8 adds that the good soil produces seeds which grow and increase. Such a connection might seem tenuous until we note the added parallel: in Colossians 1:10,11 bearing fruit is possible only through the strength of God who provides endurance. In Luke’s version of the parable (8:15), the seed produces fruit through patience (hypomone in both texts). We seem to have evidence that Paul could presuppose some knowledge of the Gospel tradition. That he uses a Kingdom parable in a paraenetic context need not surprise or be used against our argument, since for Paul the Kingdom of God is to be seen its effects in the life of God’s children—in such things as’ righteousness and peace and joy in the Holy Spirit’ (Rom 14:17). We further note how Paul speaks of the kingdom of God with reference to his teaching of the ‘ways’ (1 Cor 4:16–20). Instead of examining each of the above passages for references to the Jesus tradition, we turn to one passage which has caused difficulty for commentators, and which may now make more sense in the light of our examination. No other letter speaks more often of the way that Christians should walk, than Ephesians (2:2,10; 4:1,17; 5:2,8,15). After picturing the futile and ignorant ways of the Gentiles in 4:1719, Paul continues:

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You did not so learn Christ!—assuming that you have heard (about) him and were taught in him, as the truth is in Jesus. (4:20, 21)

What does it mean to ‘learn Christ’, and what is the meaning of that strange phrase, ‘truth is in Jesus’? Marcus Barth suggests that we have here, and in the following exhortation, evidence of an early Christian school of wisdom.40 The suggestion may not be far off the mark if we remember that for Paul, as in the Old Testament, wisdom means knowledge of God’s will and obedience to that will. To learn Christ and to live in him must mean the same as to receive Christ and live in him (Col 2:6), but the added phrase ‘truth is in Jesus’ justifies the question whether the paraenetic section in Ephesians 4:22 to 5:1 up to the household table of duties, contains references to the teaching of Jesus himself. We can only briefly indicate that such is the case. After the call to put off the old and put on the new nature (vv 22–24) there are six ethical appeals. Except for verse 30, there is in each case a tripartite structure: a negative and a positive command followed by an accompanying motivational statement. In the five cases, we can detect reminiscences of the synoptic tradition: • • •

•

verse 25. The call to speak the truth recalls Matthew 5:37: ‘Let what you say be simply yes and no’; the context is slightly different since Jesus is speaking about oaths. verses 26,27. The command to ‘be angry but do not sin’ recalls Matthew 5:22 and Jesus’ teaching on anger with one’s fellow. verse 29. The command to avoid filthy talk and to speak edifyingly recalls Matthew 15:11 and Jesus’ saying about what goes in and out of a person’s mouth. It is possible that James 3:10 also has the same logion in mind. Further, the words ‘that it may impart grace to those who hear’ may be a reminiscence of Jesus own speaking in Luke 4:22 where people wonder at his gracious words (literally, ‘words of grace') coming out of his mouth. verse 30. The command not to grieve the Holy Spirit recalls not only the scene of Ananias and Sapphira in Acts 5:3,9, but also Jesus’ words concerning the sin against the Holy Spirit in Matthew 12:31; Mark. 3:28.

40. See M Barth, Ephesians 4–6, especially Comment III: The School of the Messiah, 529–33, and Comment IV: Truth in Jesus, 533–36.

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verses 31,32. A brief catalogue of six vices is followed by three contrasting virtues. But the motivational phrase, ‘forgiving one another as God in Christ forgave you’, recalls the parallel word in the Lord’s prayer (Matt 6:12,14; Luke 11:4), altered in the light of the revelation of God’s forgiving love in his Son.

The prominence of Matthean material behind this section suggests that the call to be imitators of God as his beloved children in the next verse (5:11) is meant to recall Matthew 5:45–48: the children of the Heavenly Father are to be like him, perfect. The allusion is even more probable since the context in both cases is the call to love. The prominence given to the love command (Gal 6:2; Eph 5:1; Col 3:14; Rom 14:15) in just those places where Paul speaks of the way that people should walk probably reflects the prominent position of that command in Jesus’ teaching. Paul speaks of instruction to love as part of the tradition passed on to the Thessalonians (1 Thess 4:1,2,9). This helps us to understand the absolute use of hodos (way) in First Corinthians 12:31. As in Jewish halakah, the basic command is explicated in view of given situations, though there is no casuistry in Paul’s application. When he says he will show the Corinthians a ‘still more excellent way’, he is not merely talking of a way to use the spiritual gifts of chapter 12. He is outlining the path that Christians are to walk. We have an extension of Romans 14:15: ‘Walk in love’. 5.  Conclusions for Pauline Ethics This study has indicated that Paul was not as disinterested in the historical Jesus as has been maintained. We find not only explicit references to the command of the Lord (1 Cor 9:10 and 9:14, or the word of the Lord (1 Thess 4:15; see Matt 24:30, 31 and par), but allusions to Jesus’ sayings in paraenetic contexts. That he alludes without expressly citing need not surprise. Just as the apostle can from time to time allude to the Old Testament and assume that his readers understand the reference, so he can presuppose a living tradition of Jesus’ teaching. The repeated command to prove and approve the will of God and what is pleasing to the Lord, especially in the context of Paul’s teaching on the Christian way (Eph 5:10–17) would make added sense if the apostle was referring to a tradition of the Lord’s

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sayings which could be viewed as something like a treasury of his will. Thus, the phrase, ‘Truth is in Jesus’ in Ephesians 4: 21 may be an early Christian formula which expressed not only the conviction that God had fully revealed his saving truth in Jesus Christ, but also that the truth of God’s will was to be found in the tradition of his teaching handed down to the churches. Did not Jesus’ contemporaries have to admit, ‘Teacher, we know that you are true . . . and truly teach the way of God’ (Mark 12 :14)? Granted that all this is true, can we still speak of a school of Jesus in Pauline ethics? That this is possible only in a very limited sense, is clear from the following points. 1. Paul speaks of learning or receiving Christ in terms that remind us of school traditions. Yet the will of God has been revealed not simply in the ethical teaching of Jesus of Nazareth, but in God’s action in and through Jesus as the Christ. When Paul says, ‘Walk in love’ as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us’ (Eph 5:2) he is not basing his appeal on a historical tradition of sayings but on an historical action. The foundation of ethics for Paul is an eschatological event. 2. The will of God, as expounded in Paul, is the will of the risen and exalted Lord, who can claim the obedience of his subjects. But the Lord of the church’s confession and the historical Jesus are one person. He is the Lord Jesus, and the kyrios title can even be used for the historical Jesus.41 Living in Christ has replaced following the historical Jesus, but the will of the Lord is one even as there is only heis kyrios (one Lord, 1 Cor 8:6; Eph 4:5). So, it is not at all strange that Paul should say, ‘You have heard Christ and were taught in him’, and then say, ‘truth is in Jesus’ (Eph 4:21). 3. While the Jesus tradition serves to underline the continuity of faith and obedience between the first disciples and the early church, they do not form the starting point or basis for Paul’s paraenesis. 41. Besides 1 Cor 7:10; 9:14; 1 Thess 4:15, also note Gal 1:19 and 1 Cor 9:5 where Pauls speaks of the brother(s) of the Lord. According to Acts 18:24,25, Apollos had been instructed about the way of the Lord and then ‘taught accurately the things concerning Jesus’. Here kyrios probably refers to both the historical Jesus and the exalted Lord. The context suggests accurate instruction in the life of Jesus as well as his teaching. The adverb ‘accurately’, here and in 1 Thessalonians 5:2 suggests careful memorisation as part of the process of instruction.

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If we can speak of a ‘school of Christ’, it is only in the sense that Christians follow the Lord by living in their baptism. The school language in Ephesians 4:20, 21 is immediately followed by the call to put off the old and put on the new person (see also 3:9,10), a standard picture which, based on Galatians 3:27, can be seen as belonging to early Christian catechetical language: ‘As many of you as were baptised into Christ have put on Christ.’42 4. That the gospel is the basis of the Christian way is clear from Paul’s use of the verb ‘to walk’. Living in the Way does not mean conformity to a new legal codex of school tradition but walking worthy of one’s calling (Eph 4:1). and of the God who has called one (1 Thess 2:12), or simply worthy of the Lord (Col:10). It means walking according to the Spirit (Rom 8:4), in newness of life (6:4), in Christ’s own resurrection life given to the believer in baptism. To walk after Christ is possible only if one walks in Christ (1 Thess 1:6; 1 Cor 11:1; Col 2:6). The new thing in Paul’s ethics is not the Way but the new being that enables one to walk it.43 5. Ephesians 5:1–20 illustrates the will of God along this Way by appealing not only to the teaching of Jesus, but to many other sources. There are creedal formulations (v 2), catalogues of vice and virtue which may take up traditional listings, hymnic and perhaps baptismal fragments (v 14), early Christian wisdom, sayings, and references to canonical, an extra-canonical wisdom literature (vv 15–20). Paul can appeal not only to God’s revealed will in the Old Testament, but also to custom (1 Cor 11:16) or 42. M Barth, Ephesians 4–6, 535, considers that verse 21 may be an introduction to, ‘quasi authentic words of Jesus, or at least . . . an authentic summary of Jesus’ own preaching’. Again, ‘Eph 4:21c–24 may corroborate the evidence given by the New Testament passages that quote words of Jesus as the foundation of ethical instruction’. As tempting as it is to accept this suggestion, it would be safer to assume that verses 22–24 belonging either to the baptismal or catechetical language of the early church. Attempts have been made to reconstruct a primitive Christian catechism from the New Testament by Seeberg, Katechismus, Ph Carrington, The Primitive Christian Catechism (CUP, 1940), E Selwyn, The First Epistle of Peter (London: Macmillan, 2nd edition, 1947), 393–406, and most recently by CH Dodd, Gospel and law (Cambridge: CUP, 1951), but are and judged to be futile; see the comments of W Schrage, Einzelgebote, 134,35. 43. Note the detailed ethical instructions in Ephesians 4:25 begin with a dio (therefore) which refers directly to the gift of the new being in verses 22–24, rather than to a tradition of Jesus' saying referred to in verses 20,21.

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to what is commonly held to be honourable, just, pure, lovely, gracious, and excellent (Phil 4:8). 6. Paul’s use of the terminology of Jewish school tradition does not allow us to speak of his ethical teaching as analogous to Jewish halakah. Recalling the sayings of Jesus is not a matter of clinging to a formal tradition. The tradition was not only taught; it was continually actualised as the living word of the Lord. Tradition could never be restricted to the sayings of the historical Jesus, nor extended in a casuistic manner. Paul can begin with the tradition but never remains tied to a verbatim recital. The will of the Lord is not restricted to a fixed tradition but is learnt, explicated, lived, and proved, under the ‘guidance of the Spirit.44 7. Though it is John who pictures Jesus as the Way to the Father (14:4–6), a picture developed further by Hebrews where Christ is the new and living way into the heavily sanctuary (Heb 10:19,20). Paul would agree that Christ is himself the way by whom we have access to the Father’s grace.45 Whether this is what was meant by calling the primitive church The Way,46 or whether this name recalled the special claims made for the teaching of Jesus, is another question.

44. See the pertinent comments of W Schrage, Einzelgebote, 135–37. 45. Note the use of prosagoge. (‘access’, only in Paul) in Rom 5:2; Eph 2:18; 3:12. 46. Acts 9:2; 19:9,23; 22:4; 24:14,22.

Proclaiming the Name: Cultic Narrative and Eucharistic Proclamation in First Corinthians

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 25.1 (1991): 15–26

The Cultic Setting of First Corinthians In interpreting the Corinthian correspondence of Paul we no longer look behind each verse for a gnostic perversion of the gospel. The theories of Walther Schmithals and others can no longer be maintained. We need to place the history of the Christian community at Corinth, and of Paul’s dealings with it on the much broader canvas of social, cultural, cultic, and rhetorical conventions in the GrecoRoman world of that day. Sociological analysis of the Corinthian situation by such scholars as Gerd Theissen and Wayne Meeks, and studies on benefaction, patronage, and clientism in the Hellenistic world by Frederick Danker and Peter Marshall, have helped to fill out the total picture. Our immediate concern is to relate what Paul writes in First Corinthians to what we know of cultic life in Corinth of the first century. That the apostle could presuppose familiarity with contemporary Hellenistic cults is suggested by the external evidence in the form of literary texts and archaeological data assembled by Murphy-O’Connor. Internal evidence from First Corinthians leads to the same conclusion. Quite apart from his discussion of idol meat in chapters 8 and 10, in First Corinthians1:18 Paul states as the rhetorical propositio of the letter that ‘the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to those are being saved it is the power of God’. In 11:26, he adds his own commentary to the words of institution: ‘For as

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often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.’ In both cases we find reference to a message, to proclamation. But what, precisely, is meant by ‘the message, the one of the cross’ (ho logos gar ho staurou) with its repetition of the article, and what is the force of the verb ‘proclaim’ (katangellein)? It is worth exploring the suggestion that each text refers to a cultic narrative, to what was called a hieros logos in the Hellenistic cults. If this is the case, those who knew the function of cultic narrative, whether they were former Jews or Gentiles, would have seen a specific point in Paul’s words, one that is not immediately apparent to modern readers. The purpose here is not to explore the function of cult narrative in general, to pursue a phenomenological and religio-historical study of how narrative functioned in cultic settings. We will look only at certain texts in one letter of Paul which suggests that cultic narrative lay at the heart of early Christian worship. Our purpose is to collect data from the Old Testament and from the Hellenistic cults to throw further light on the anamnetic function of the eucharist in worship. There is no worship without remembering, and there is no liturgical remembering without proclamatory narrative. Cultic narrative lies at the heart of every system of belief and worship. Ugaritic texts, collected by James Pritchard, document the sacred myth of the marriage of Anath to her lover Baal as cultic story. In the Old Testament, the cultic creeds in Deuteronomy 6, 26 and Joshua 24 narrate the acts of God for his chosen people. The hieroi logoi of ancient cults have their counterpart in the dreamings of Australian Aboriginal people and the stori of Melanesian cults, where stori means as much as liturgy. It would be strange if early Christianity did not have its own cultic story. The Liturgical Inclusio of First Corinthians That First Corinthians was meant to be read in worship is quite clear from the inclusio formed by 1:1-3 and 16:19-24. Paul writes to the saints gathered for worship and concludes with greetings from other saints. As expressions of fellowship in worship they are to greet one another with the holy kiss (hagion philema)—linking 1:2 with 16:23. Further, the Christological titles employed at the beginning and end of the letter are kyrios and Iesous Christos (1:13; 16:22–24).

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Some commentators have seen 1:2b as a catholicising insertion into the text by the editor of the Pauline corpus. Yet Paul’s reminder that his readers have been ‘called together with all those who in every place call on the name of our Lord Jesus, both their Lord and ours’, belongs to the liturgical framework of the letter. It is a gentle reaction to the tendency in Corinth to absolutise possession of the Spirit (see Paul’s rhetorical question in 14:36: ‘What! Did the word of God originate with you or are you the only ones it has reached?’ as well as his rejoinder in 7:40: ‘And I think I have the Spirit of God’). What interests us here is the phrase ‘to call on the name of the Lord’ in a ‘place’. Paul’s use of the word topos, followed by the greeting ‘grace and peace’ suggests a Christian adaptation of a Jewish synagogal formula, ‘Peace be in this place and in all the places of Israel’. Paul echoes Jewish liturgical custom by pronouncing shalom not only on the believers in Corinth, but on all who are gathered in a ‘place’ (Hebrew, maqom) of worship. The shared call of God finds visible expression wherever people call on the name of the Lord in a place of worship. To ‘call on the name of the Lord’ has its parallel at the end of the letter in the Aramaic eucharistic acclamation, maranatha (16:22). Here it is unimportant whether the verb in the Aramaic formula is indicative or imperative: ‘The Lord has come’ or ‘Lord, come!’ Revelation 22:20 with its Greek rendering has the imperative. For our purpose it is important to note that calling on the name of the Lord has its life setting in eucharistic worship, an observation supported by the appearance of maranatha in Didache 10:6. Calling on the Name of the Lord D Preman Niles' study, The Name of God in Israel’s Worship, has shown that the Hebrew phrase has different meanings according to the context, though the latter is always cultic. To call on the Lord’s name in petition is to invoke the Name as saving help or presence (Niles: 80–84). To call on the Name in thanksgiving does not simply mean to pronounce or vocalise the holy Name, but to proclaim it, to make the name of the Lord renowned, to sing his praise as the one who delivers. Here proclamation includes recounting God’s mighty deeds as well as celebrating his holy presence (Niles: 86–92). Another group of texts uses the phrase as a designation for worship in the more general sense. Finally, there are two texts in which Yahweh proclaims his own name (Exod 33:19; 34:5).

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The obvious question is: Does calling on the name of the Lord in both Testaments imply something like a cultic narrative or hymnic recital as God’s people celebrate his saving presence? This is suggested even when qara’ beshem yhwh is something like a formula for worship. The end of primaeval history in Genesis 4:26 is marked by the statement, ‘At that time, people began to call on the name of the Lord.’ Neither here nor in 12:8 or 13:4 where Abraham calls on the name of the Lord after moving into Canaan, is there a suggestion of proclamatory recitation. Yet that can be implied in 21:33 where Abraham calls on the name of the Lord at Beersheba. Here the Lord is further identified as el ‘olam, the everlasting God. It is worth suggesting that Abraham’s covenant with Abimelech on this occasion was made in the presence of a local deity known by that name. An identification of the deity could take place only by a recitation of his past deeds and presence in that place. Is it by chance that the next calling on the name of the Lord comes in 26:25, where Isaac, again at Beersheba, builds an altar and worships the Lord? This time the naming takes place after God has first appeared to the patriarch and proclaimed himself to Isaac, reciting the old covenant promise made to his father. Naming and reciting belong together at the Sinaitic covenant. The episode of the golden calf in Exodus 32 shows how the Lord is not present among his people. By contrast, in 33:19 we have God proclaiming his name as the gracious and merciful Lord (the Masoretic text has, literally, ‘I [sc. God] will call on the name of the Lord before you’). In calling on his own name, God reveals his glory and saving presence in the form of a solemn recitation. That is also the case in 34:5 where God calls on (= proclaims) his own name with the following recitation. The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin, but who will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children and the children’s children, to the third and fourth generation.

At this proclamation, Moses bows his head and worships. When God’s people call on his name in worship, they do more than invoke a divine presence. As the Song of Moses in Deuteronomy 32 shows,

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proclamation of the name (v 3) means remembering (v 7) what he has done in a narrative of praise. Thus, the song of thanksgiving in Isaiah 12:4 calls on God’s people to ‘give thanks to the Lord, calling upon his name; make known his deeds among the nations, proclaim that his name is exalted’. Calling on the name has its companion act in a remembering proclamation (hizkir; the Septuagint uses anangellein). Psalm 105:1-5 combines calling on the name of the Lord, proclaiming his deeds, and remembering his wonderful works. That such proclamation is equivalent to narration is clear from Isaiah 41:25-27 where calling on the name means proclamation by narrative— qara’ beshem has its complement in the verb haggid which the Septuagint again translates with anangellein. Narrative confession in worship is not merely a recital of God’s deeds in the past; it is celebration of a holy presence. Zechariah 13:9 shows that calling on the name of the Lord means confessing, ‘The Lord is my God’. There can be no ‘calling’ where there is no knowledge of God’s past saving deeds or of his presence (see the complaints in Psa 79:6; Isa 64:7; Jer 10:25). On the other hand, those who know the Lord’s bounty ‘lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord’, offering sacrifices and paying vows to the Lord ‘in the presence of all his people, in the courts of the house of the Lord’ (Ps 116:12-19). The contest between Elijah and the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel is not a prayer context. It is a question of who can proclaim the truth. The Baalites call on their God with a simple formula: ‘O Baal, answer us!’ Elijah calls on Yahweh with a naming recital (1 Kgs 18:24–26,37,38). The phrase to call on the name of the Lord (epikalousthai to onoma tou kyriou) occurs only a few times in the New Testament. In two instances it recalls an Old Testament text in the Septuagint version. ‘Whoever calls on the name of the Lord will be saved’ (Acts 2:21 and Romans 10:13, citing LXX Joel 2:32). Meant is a confessing of Jesus as Lord and Saviour (see also Acts 9:14,21; 2 Tim 2:22). Acts 22:16 suggests an act of confession involving a recital of who the Lord is: ‘Rise and be baptised and wash away your sins, calling on his name.’ Romans 10:9–14 certainly shows that Paul thought of calling on the Lord’s name as confessing a truth that has been proclaimed, one that can be encapsulated in a recitation of God’s act of raising his Son from the dead (v 9).

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It is highly probable that First Corinthians 1:2 also refers to a calling on the name of the Lord which involves proclamation and anamnetic presentation. The cultic cry maranatha would then be liturgical shorthand for all that the confession to Christ in worship entails: the confession that the Lord has come, now comes in the Eucharist, and will come again at the end. The Narrative of the Cross Are there hints in First Corinthians of a full cultic narrative? Before looking at the words of institution, we return to 1:18 with its reference to the ‘word of the cross’. Why the repeated article and what is meant by ‘the word’ (ho logos). The recurring article is not uncommon in the New Testament. In each case a precise identification is made: ‘the resurrection from the dead’, not just a spiritual resurrection (Phil 3:11); ‘the redemption which is in Jesus Christ’, not any other so-called redemption’ (Rom 3:24); ‘the faith which comes through him’, Christ and no one else (Acts3:16). Thus, Paul is referring to a specific, definable, and readily identifiable logos in 1:18. But what is it? Conzelmann simply sees it as ‘an exhaustive statement on the content of the gospel’ (41). That it refers to the gospel is obvious since Paul has spoken of it in the previous verse. However, logos in 1:5, 17 and 2:1 has a more specific meaning: the form in which the gospel is communicated. Barrett is also content with the usual solution: ‘Paul means nothing other than the gospel’ (51). Other commentators rightly stress Paul’s desire to focus on the cross to counteract the Corinthian theology of glory (Robertson and Plummer: 17; Fee: 68). Harrisville tries to identify a specific logos, and suggests that the reference is to Deuteronomy 21:22,23: ‘A hanged man is cursed by God’, a text which once belonged to the arsenal of the anti-Christian Paul in his attacks on the Christians. It was ‘the word’ which spoke of a hanged man on a cross to which he once took offence. The ‘word of the cross’ probably has a precise meaning: the narrative of the crucified Christ recited in worship, a proclamation in the form of recital. Every Greco-Roman cult had its myth to symbolise its essence for devotees. There is adequate literary evidence for the existence of such cult narratives in antiquity. A famous edict of Ptolemy IV Philopator from about 210 BC ordered those who performed initiations in the cult of Dionysos to hand in a sealed

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copy of the hieroi logoi after registering with an official in Alexandria. Obviously, these cult narratives must have had some fixed form, since those registering were to declare ‘from whom they received the sacred things, up to three generations’ (Burkert: 33; Reizenstein: 121,200; most recently, Livia Capponi). Such sacred words could contain whole books; at least there is evidence for such extensive sacred stories in the cults of Isis and Mithras, and in Orphism (Burkert: 70,71). Yet the logos could also be handed down orally without being written down. It could be elaborated on, amplified, restated in the form of a personal confession. That we lack examples of precise wording is not surprising since the cults had their own disciplina arcana. While the philosophers had their exoteric stories of the gods it was especially in the mysteries that the myth as esoteric logos flourished (Burkert: 72,73) Each divinity of a cult had its own special myth or sacred story. The Eleusian myth of Demeter-Persephone is best known from the Homeric Hymn to Demeter. The Bacchae of Euripides reflects the holy myth of the Dionysus cult. Outlines, at least, of other cult narratives are known to us, though elements of the story were kept secret to be revealed only to the initiated (Meyer: 10,20,66). Within the Eleusian mysteries of Demeter and Persephone, and presumably also in other cults, there were three forms of cultic observance: the legomena, things recited; the deiknymena, things displayed; the dromena, things enacted (Burkert: 10). The first were probably recitations of the sacred account which provided the mythological foundations for the celebration of the mystery. The things displayed involved dreams and sacred objects, while the last observance involved ritual enactment. In short, cultic worship was a liturgical drama in which the ‘sacred word/narrative’ came to life for the participants. History versus Myth Without suggesting that early Christianity could be viewed simply as another mystery religion, it is not hard to imagine how converts from the Hellenistic world would have drawn parallels between what went on in the cults and in Christian worship. Paul suggests in First Corinthians 14:23 that ‘outsiders’ could feel quite at home where people were speaking in tongues in a church assembly (see Pfitzner: 225). The formulation, ‘word of the cross’, suggests something

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characteristic of the Christian hieros logos. It is a cultic proclamation of history, not of myth. ‘Story of the cross’ is, of course, Paul’s formulation. Traditional formulations relating to Christ’s death, cited by Paul, do not mention the cross, only that ‘Christ died for our sins’ or ‘gave himself up’ (1 Cor 15:3; Rom 4:25; 1 Cor 11:23). The highlighting of the cross is the apostle’s imprint on the tradition. As Lohmeyer suggested long ago, Paul inserted a reference to the cross in the Carmen Christi in Philippians 2:5–11 at verse 8 and (if we grant that the letter is authentic) also in the hymn of Colossians 1:15–20. The two additions, ‘even death on a cross’, and ‘making peace by the blood of the cross’, are something like Pauline signatures added to the traditional formulations. For the early kerygma, the manner of Jesus’ death seemed to have been either unimportant or something not to be highlighted. In Acts the verb ‘crucify’ appears only twice (2:36 and 4:10), both times in the form of an accusation against Jews. Otherwise, Luke speaks only of the tree (xylon) on which Jesus was hanged (5:30; 13:29). The direct citation of Deuteronomy 21:23 in Galatians 3:13 suggests that it was this passage which prompted Christians to speak of a ‘tree’ rather than a cross, a symbol of shame. In only two letters does Paul repeatedly speak of the cross of Christ, in Galatians and in First Corinthians. In both cases the cross stands for the offence of the gospel. It marks the one on the cross as an object of shame and characterised by weakness. In First Corinthians, especially, the cross stands for the scandal of God’s action in history. Greek thinking, whether seen in the discourses of the philosophers (also sometimes called hieroi logoi) or of the hierophants in the mysteries, could tell of truth only in the form of timeless myth. Final reality belonged to the supramundane. Paul insisted that the sacred narrative of the Christians is not a myth but a piece of history, the story of a man hanging on a cross. That history is to be interpreted as an act of God (1 Cor 15:2; Acts 2:11), but it is still told as story. Paradoxically, the wisdom of this world wants to turn the Jesus of history, the Jesus on the cross, into a cult figure who represents timeless truth beyond this world. The theology of the cross accentuates that divine reality must be seen as played out not on an otherworldly plane but precisely in this world. At stake is the particularity of God’s action in history. The gospel must continue to be told as story.

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Eucharistic Narrative We get to the substance of this cultic story in First Corinthians 11:23– 26. The Eucharistic narrative is framed by reference to tradition and by Paul’s own interpretive addition in verse 26: ‘For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.’ This conclusion raises several questions. How does the act of eating and drinking involve proclamation? What is the precise meaning of the verb ‘proclaim’ (katangellein) in this context? Why is the reference only to the Lord’s death when the Lord’s Supper is obviously a communion also with the risen and exalted Lord? How are the words of institution, actual meal, and proclamation connected? The Greek verb katangellein has the basic meaning of declaring solemnly or proclaiming with authority. In this case, proclamation hardly takes place by eating and drinking alone rather than with words. Why should proclamation here be non-verbal when katangellein elsewhere in Paul means verbal communication? In Romans 1:8 the apostle thanks God that the faith of the readers is proclaimed in all the world. That must surely mean that the story of the church in Rome is well known among the Christian communities in the east (‘in all the world’ is legitimate hyperbole). In First Corinthians 2:1,2 Paul reminds his readers how he first preached Christ to them. His proclamation was not according to the axioms of Hellenistic rhetoric but telling the story of Christ as the crucified. Other texts which speak of proclaiming Christ, or the gospel, also clearly imply verbal communication (1 Cor 9:14; Phil 1:17,18; Col 1:28). The ten occurrences of katangellein in Acts lead to the same conclusion. It is difficult to accept the conclusion of older commentators that Paul regards the actions of eating and drinking in themselves as proclamation. Robertson and Plummer (249) remark that ‘the Eucharist is an acted sermon, an acted proclamation of the death which it commemorates’, though adding that there is possibly some reference to an expression of belief in the atoning death of Christ as the usual element in the service. Other commentators think that a specific message lies behind Paul’s reference to proclamation. Conzelmann (201) thinks that the apostle is alluding to explicit proclamation accompanying the sacramental meal. Barrett (270) is even more explicit:

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When Christians held a common meal, they recalled aloud the event on which their existence was based. This recalling (which closely resembles the narrative of the exodus from Egypt in the Jewish Passover) must have had some narrative content, and this fact helps to explain the relative continuity and fixed form of the Passion Narrative in the gospels.

Whether Barrett is right in suggesting that a complete passion narrative formed the proclamation at the Eucharist is doubtful for several reasons which need not be discussed here, but he is surely right in insisting that the celebration of the Eucharist involved proclamation in the form of a narrative. Fee also remarks that, despite arguments to the contrary, the meal by itself was not an act of proclamation. Rather, ‘during the meal there is a verbal proclamation of Christ death. That seems to be exactly how Paul now understands the two sayings over the bread and the cup, and thus why he has repeated the words of institution’ (557). Cultic narrative (legomena) and liturgical action (dromena) belong together to form anamnetic celebration. There is a recitation of the sacred story of God’s action through his Christ, there is present celebration, and there is waiting for the consummation. Past, present and future meet in the one moment. That the celebration is anchored in history by story prevents the church from celebrating the meal as a false anticipation of the eschaton. That may have been one of the problems of the enthusiasts at Corinth. We are unable to reconstruct anything like a fixed form of the narrative that belonged to the celebration of the Eucharist at Corinth or anywhere in early Christianity. But we need not doubt that it existed. In Corinth it probably did not have any fixed or formalised shape, though it must have included some details of the passion narrative (‘you proclaim the Lord’s death’) as well as the confession to Christ as the risen, ascended, and returning Lord— ‘until he comes’ is surely an echo of the cry, maranatha. Eucharistic Haggadah We have drawn comparisons with Hellenistic cults which proclaimed their own lords. But another parallel to what Paul means by ‘proclaiming’ in First Corinthians 11:26 is to be found in the seder of the Jewish Passover meal. Without wanting to open another discussion

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on whether the Lord’s Supper was held within the framework of a Passover meal, it is reasonable to suggest that Paul at least saw an analogy between the two. Chapter 10 develops a Christian midrash on the exodus event to warn the readers against presuming on God’s sacramental grace. In 10:16 he calls the eucharistic cup the ‘cup of blessing’, the Christian parallel to the cos berakah of the Passover meal. At the heart of the Passover meal lies the haggadah, the recital of the sacred exodus story (the Jewish hieros logos!). The whole meal is a memorial (zikaron) in which past deliverance is appropriated in the present. When Paul speaks about proclaiming the Lord’s death in the context of the sacred meal, he is saying that Christians have their own haggadah narrative. As in the Passover meal, the whole drama of recitation and meal means that the past becomes present reality. The crucified Christ himself is the present reality. The Sung Narrative One further tentative suggestion can be made. The earlier brief study of calling on the name of the Lord in the Old Testament suggested that it meant, in the context of thanksgiving, proclaiming God in hymnic praise. Martin Hengel (78–96) has admirably shown that the origins of New Testament Christology lie in worship. The Spirit led the church to confess Christ in song. Striking is the fact that the early Christ hymns are narratives, covering the Lord’s pre-existence, humiliation, and exaltation (Phil 2:5–11; Col 1:15–20; 1 Tim 3:16; Heb 1:3; 5:8–10). The Christ-psalms also are narratives of his death, resurrection, and exaltation (1 Peter 3:18–22; Eph 1:20–22; Rom 8:34). One can imagine how eucharistic proclamation and hymnic confession complemented each other as two forms of cultic narrative in the setting of the eucharistia. Calling on the name of the Lord in his supper points us to the day of the Lord’s return (1 Cor 11:26) when in the name of Jesus (not just at a mention of it) ‘every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father’ (Phil 2:10,11). Conclusions We leave it to the liturgical experts to ascertain to what extent the early liturgies of the church retain or reflect eucharistic narratives handed

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down from earliest Christian worship. Our immediate concern is to draw some conclusions. We have argued that the anamnetic character of the Eucharist includes the whole drama of the sacrament, the unity of ‘what is said’ and ‘what is done’, to use the language of the Greek cults. We can suggest that it also included that which was ‘shown’, remembering Paul’s words in Galatians 3:1: he publicly portrayed Christ crucified to the Galatians. If all this is so, two things are impossible. Remembering the Lord in the sacrament is no mere psychological process that takes place in the actions of eating and drinking, without any narrative or recital. Sacramental celebration of Christ’s presence involves both narrative and action. Then, again, an exclusive concentration on the real presence leads to disruption of narrative and liturgical action. Anamnesis involves both; that is the force of the word ‘for’ (gar) in First Corinthians 11:26. One cannot deny the centrality of eating and drinking or participating in the body and blood of the Lord in the consecrated elements, but narrative and action belong together in the total eucharistic drama. Word and elements constitute the sacrament, but this does not mean that the words of institution are something like a magical formula. They are performative words of promise which belong to the full story of God’s presence in Jesus Christ. The words of institution are the quintessential form of the entire sacramental narrative. This implies a task for the liturgists and the constructors of modern forms of worship. Eucharistic liturgies cannot contain long passion and resurrection narratives, but the eucharistic prayer should contain more than the words of institution alone. There must be some reflection of the fact that they are part of a broader recital— of all that Paul hints at with the words ‘on the night when he was betrayed’ or ‘handed over’. There are repercussions also for Christian faith education. Narrative lies at the heart of worship. Living the divine narrative in worship is the place where faith education begins. There God’s story becomes our story, leading to confession and praise (homologia and eucharistia). This experience of God is not communicated via catechetical propositions and profound doctrinal formulations. We are experientially drawn into this sacred drama, we become part of the divine story itself when we call on the Lord’s name. By calling on the name, we ourselves are named.

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This leads to a final thought. Christian theology has spent much time and effort in locating and defining the divine presence in the sacrament. This is how it should be. There must be one place where believers know experientially that they are one with the Lord, that his saving gifts are theirs. The ‘sacred story’ in the sacrament becomes a transforming word so that transcendence is found in immanence. A sacred story and a meal combine to communicate divine presence, to transform what appears to be a very mundane human activity into an experience of the divine. Perhaps we have tended to reduce the experience of God to a worship event instead of teaching people how that central experience can lead to new eyes to discern the presence and activity of God in the everyday. We spend little effort at teaching people to call on God outside of corporate worship. But the one whose story we recite, proclaim, and confess, is also out there in the world of experiences that need to be read and interpreted. We teach people to call to God in prayer but do little to encourage them to call on the name of the Lord in confessing his presence in joy and sorrow, in wealth and poverty, in all the contradictions of life. The divine story should lead to the construction of our own story in which we discern God’s power and presence, also where hopes are dashed, dreams frustrated, where injustice often seems to triumph. The word of the cross is the starting point for this hermeneutic of Christian experience, indeed, of a Christian hermeneutic of human experience as such. In the theology of the cross, transcendence continues to transform immanence into an experience of the saviour God. References Barrett, CK (1971) The First Epistle to the Corinthians, London: A & C Black. Burkert, Walter (1987) Ancient Mystery Cults, Cambridge Mass.: Harvard University Press. Conzelmann, Hans (1975) 1 Corinthians. Hermeneia, Philadelphia: Fortress. Danker, Frederick W (1982) Benefactor: Epigraphic Study of a Graeco-Roman and New Testament Semantic Field, St Louis: Clayton Publishing House. Fee, Gordon D (1987) The First Epistle to the Corinthians, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Harrisville, Roy A (1987) 1 Corinthians, Minneapolis: Augsburg.

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Hengel Martin (1983) Between Jesus and Paul: Studies in the Earliest History of Christianity, London: SCM. Lohmeyer, Ernst (1961) Kyrios Jesus: Eine Untersuchung zu Phil.2:5-1; reprint, Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft. Marshall, Peter (1987) Enmity in Corinth: Social Conventions in Paul’s Relations with the Corinthians, Tübingen: JCB Mohr (Paul Siebeck). Meeks, Wayne A (1983) The First Urban Christians: The Social World of the Apostle Paul, New Haven: Yale University Press. Meyer, Marvin W, editor (1987) The Ancient Mysteries: A Source Book, San Francisco: Harper and Row. Murphy-O’Connor, Jerome (1983) St Paul’s Corinth: Texts and Archaeology, Wilmington: Michael Glazier. Niles, D Preman (1974) The Name of God in Israel’s Worship: The Theological Importance of the Name Yahweh, unpublished PhD dissertation, Princeton Theological Seminary. Pfitzner, Victor C (1982) First Corinthians. Chi Rho Commentaries, Adelaide: Lutheran Publishing House. Pritchard, James B (1978) Ancient Near Eastern Texts Relating to the Old Testament, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Reitzenstein, Richard (1978) Hellenistic Mystery-Religions: Their Basic Ideas and Significance, Pittsburg: Pickwick Press. Robertson A and A Plummer (1914) A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the First Epistle of St Paul to the Corinthians, Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Schmithals, Walther (1971) Gnosticism in Corinth, Nashville: Abingdon. Theissen, Gerd (1982) The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity: Essays on Corinth, Philadelphia: Fortress. [Addition: Capponi, Livia, Aristobulous and the Hieros Logos of the Egyptian Jews, https://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/p/pod/dod-idx, accessed August 23, 2021]

The Spirit of the Lord: The Christological Focus of Pauline Pneumatology

First published in St Mark’s Review, 179 (1999): 23-11, then in Starting with the Spirit. The Task of Theology Today, Volume 2, edited by Stephen Pickard and Gordon Preece (Adelaide: ATF, 2001), 13–32

An Unfinished Doctrine Despite such movements as Montanism and Gnosticism, the early church never defined the person of the Holy Spirit in the same way it defined the person of Christ in the great Christological disputes leading up to and following the formulation of the NicaenoConstantinopolitan Creed. It can be argued that the third article of the Ecumenical Creed is an unfinished formulation when compared to the second article. While the Spirit’s divinity is clear in the confession that he is ‘together with the Father and the Son . . . worshipped and glorified’, the expression of the Spirit’s eternal procession in terms of the Filioque remains a source of dispute between East and West. The work of the Spirit in the past (prophecy), present (illumination and incorporation into the church), and future (resurrection and eternal life), receives expression in the Nicene Creed. Yet how many problems in the Church’s history are due, at least in part, to the unfinished doctrine of the Holy Spirit in the early church? Controversies from the Reformation to the present have involved questions concerning the work of the Spirit in divine revelation, in scripture and tradition, in ecclesiastical authority and ministry, in sacramental grace, and in charismatic experience. Quite apart from the revival of interest in Trinitarian theology, such modern issues as

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the relationship between gospel and culture,1 the quest for a truly Christian spirituality in the age of new spiritualities,2 for eco- and social justice, and for a theology for our age, all inevitably involved pneumatology. The latter is, arguably, as pressing as any other item on the theological agenda. Biblical Foundations To begin the theological task with the scriptural witness, specifically, that of the apostle Paul, hardly requires justification. Theological thought can claim to represent the catholic faith only when it stands in continuity with and is an extension of apostolic witness. However, some explanatory comments, including caveats, are called for before we briefly revisit Paul’s letters. In the first place, to observe a truism, Paul was not a systematic theologian. While we can speak of a Pauline theology of the Spirit in the sense that his references to the Spirit’s work develop a consistent picture, his letters are ‘occasional’ communications with specific pastoral, apologetic, and polemical goals. Our goal must be to look for the coherent element within the contingent utterances Paul makes while addressing specific historical concerns and problems within early Christian communities.3 Secondly, searching for the heart of Paul’s pneumatology requires that we also note the continuity between his thought and that of both the Hebrew Bible and the early church, lest that which he assumes 1. In the Australian context see the discussion of indigenous Rainbow Spirit Theology (Blacktown: Harper Collins Religious, 1979) by Bill Edwards, Australian Religious Studies Review, 1.2 (1998): 137–46; John Pfitzner in Lutheran Theological Journal, 32.1 (1998): 40–42, and Veronica Brady in Interface, 1.1 (1998): 84–91. For a confusion between the Holy Spirit and other spirits, including ancestral spirits, see the address by Professor Chung Hyun Kyung, ‘Come Holy Spirit—Renew the Whole Creation’, in WCC, Official Report, Seventh Assembly Canberra 1991, edited by Michael Kinnamon (Geneva: WCC, 1991), 37–47. 2. See D Lyle Dabney, ‘Otherwise Engaged in the Spirit. A First Theology for the Twenty–first Century’, in the Future of Theology: Essays in Honour of Jürgen Moltmann, ed. By Miroslav Volf, Carmen Krieg, and Thomas Kuchorz (Grand Rapids: Eermans,1996), 154–63. 3. The distinction between coherence and contingency is made by Christopher Beker, Paul the Apostle: The Triumph of God in Life and Thought (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1980), 11–36.

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us common understanding be given the status of a typically Pauline theologoumenon. For example, he does not have to argue that the reception of all that is contained in the saving work of Christ is gained experientially through the Holy Spirit. That is a fundamental assumption inherited from the first believers: possession of the Spirit is a mark of being Christian (Rom 5:5; 8:9–11; 1 Cor 2:12; 12:13; Gal 3:2–5; 1 Thess 4:8). The rhetorical litotes formula, ‘Do you not know . . .?’ (1 Cor 6:19) serves to highlight this assumption: Paul’s readers know full well that their bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. His own concerns relate rather to the way in which such experience is authenticated and expressed. Thirdly, there is the obvious fact that the issues that Paul had to address did not exhaust the agenda of a theology of the Spirit. Nor can we expect to find in Paul’s letters answers to all the questions which we face. Yet there are parallels between the Corinthian enthusiasts’ claims to the Spirit in the service of their theology of glory, and modern forms of enthusiasm, as well as with the common confusing of Holy Spirit and human spirit—a concomitant result of which is, incidentally, the replacement of the holy things with holy people at the centre of worship. Fourthly, we must avoid reading our own theology back into Paul’s. For example, trinitarian structures observable in such passages as First Corinthians 12:4-6, Second Corinthians 13:14, and Ephesians 4:4-6,4 do not yet contain the trinitarian theology later worked out by the church, as much as they provide the biblical bedrock for it. Fifthly, without rehearsing debates concerning the authenticity of some letters, we will note material in all the canonical letters attributed to Paul. We can do so since, as Gordon Fee observes, ‘the Spirit language of these letters’, viz where Pauline authorship is contested, ‘appears to be quite in keeping with what one finds in Paul elsewhere’.5 Sixthly, one cannot read Paul without presuppositions. A key question is whether we listen to him as a Hellenistic writer whose thought always remained anchored in the traditions of earliest Jewish Christianity, and was consequently expressed in Semitic mode, or 4. See also Rom 1:1–4. 5. Gordon F Fee, God’s Empowering Presence: The Holy Spirit in the Letters of Paul (Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1994), xxii.

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whether we read him as one who transposed Jewish messianism into an essentially Hellenistic key. That the former is the more likely becomes clear when we see the way in which Paul links the Spirit to the resurrection of Jesus (see below). Finally, we should note that surprisingly little attention has been devoted to Paul’s theology of the Spirit in recent New Testament scholarship. Apart from the more popular works addressing such issues as the baptism of the Spirit and charismatic gifts, little has appeared in English6 between the more scholarly early studies, still addressing charismatic issues, of Frederick Dale Bruner7 and James Dunn,8 and the recent comprehensive work of Gordon Fee, God’s Empowering Presence.9 Such neglect is even more surprising in view of the fact that, as James Dunn has rightly pointed out, the reception of the Spirit is a more pervading theme in the letters of Paul than his two other dominant themes: participation in Christ and justification by faith.10 Our purpose here is not to rehearse the whole range of Pauline themes in relation to the Spirit’s working, but to attempt to find the pivotal point about which his thought on the Spirit revolves. That his Christology is the point of referral for all utterances on the Spirit is no new earth-shattering thesis. But a demonstration of the consistency with which he maintains his point should provide a focus from which further theological reflection can proceed, and a preventative against pneumatology degenerating into a vague spiritism that is divorced 6. An important German study is FW Horn, Das Angeld des Geistes: Studien zur paulinischen Pneumatologie (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck and Ruprecht, 1992). 7. A Theology of the Holy Spirit: The New Testament and Pentecostal Experience (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1970). 8. Baptism in the Holy Spirit (London: SCM, 1970, and Jesus and the Spirit: A Study of the Religious and Charismatic Experience of Jesus and the first Christians (London: SCM, 1975). Australian studies include Paul Barnett and Peter Jensen, The Quest for Power: Neo–Pentecostals and the New Testament (ANZEA, 1973), and Victor C Pfitzner, Led by the Spirit: How Charismatic is New Testament Christianity? (Adelaide: Lutheran Publishing House, 1975). 9. See note 61 above. Fee speaks of a lacuna in New Testament studies with reference to Pauline pneumatology (9,10, with notes 5 and 6). For the contemporary flowering of interest in a theology of the Holy Spirit, see also Nancy M Victorin– Vangerud, ‘Turning to the Spirit— Retrieving Dignity in the Household of God’, Colloquium, 30.2 (1998): 167–85. 10. See DG Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 414–41.

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from the gospel and the triune God, who creates, redeems, and sanctifies. The Holy Spirit is not to be identified with any generic spirit. Furthermore, Paul’s emphasis on the communal reception of the Spirit will provide a hedge against absolutisation of individual experience, and against any temptations to divorce individual charism from communal good. Whose Spirit? Even though Paul is concerned more with the Spirit’s functions, there is no doubt that he thought of the Spirit as a person, not merely as a divine, creative, life-giving and empowering principle. That is clear from the way in which God, Christ/Lord, and pneuma appear in the same breath, and the Spirit is the subject of actions such as leading (Rom 8:14; Gal 5:18), witnessing (Rom 8:16), helping and interceding (8:26,27), understanding and teaching (1 Cor 2:11–13), inspiring and apportioning gifts (12:11), and giving life (2 Cor 3:6). Furthermore, despite several passages in which it is not immediately clear whether Paul is speaking of the pneuma in theological or anthropological terms (see 1 Cor 5:3,4; 6:17; 14:14,15; Col 2:5), there is no confusion between or fusion of the human and the divine. The Spirit is the transforming power of God in contrast to the impotence, mortality, and sinfulness of humanity that is characterised by the term ‘flesh’ (sarx; Rom 8:14–16; Gal 5:16–18). Nowhere does pneuma represent a latent or slumbering human potentiality waiting to be awakened to new life. Such a thought is gnostic, not Pauline. It is God who gives the Spirit (1 Thess 4:8). There is no need for Paul to contrast the Spirit with the many spirits in this world—parallel to the contrast between the one kyrios and the many lords demanding recognition or homage (1 Cor 6:5) —to make clear that his pneumatology has a theological starting point. His diction is that of the Hebrew Bible. Even where pneuma stands by itself, he is speaking of the Spirit of God11 or of the Holy Spirit12 revealed in the sacred scriptures. 11. See Rom 8:9; 1 Cor 7:40; compare Gen 1:2; Exod 31:3; Num 24:2; 1 Sam 10:10; Isa 61:1; Ezek 11:24, etc., and the many times texts speak of ‘my spirit’, e.g., Isa 26:9; Ezek 3:14; Joel 2:28; Zech 4:6. 12. Rom 9:1; 5:5; 14:17; Eph 1:13; 4:30; 1 Thess 4:8; compare Ps 51:11 and Isa 63:10,11. The expression ‘Spirit of holiness’ in Romans 1:4 is Semitic.

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Despite his use of such traditional language, Paul, unlike Luke or the writer of Hebrews, shows little interest in the Spirit as the author of Old Testament prophecy.13 That thought is only implied in several places. Second Corinthians 4:13 speaks of the ‘Spirit of faith that is in accordance with scripture— “I believed, and so I spoke”.’ That is, the same Spirit which inspired the faith of the psalmist (116:10) inspires faith in Christ and the confession to him. Secondly, Galatians 3:13,14 contrasts being cursed under the law with the blessing of Abraham, which, in Christ, has now been received also by Gentiles, a blessing which consists in the reception of the ‘promise of the Spirit’. This latter phrase is somewhat ambiguous. In the context of verses 15–18, the promised blessing is the status of being God’s children by faith in the Son, a concept elsewhere expressed by the term adoption as a child (hyiothesia); in Romans 8:15 the phrase ‘Spirit of adoption’ means the Spirit who effects adoption.14 However, even if the promise of the Spirit is not to be understood grammatically as denoting the Spirit as promise, such a theological inference is likely since Paul views the work and presence of the pneuma as the characteristic mark of the new covenant promised in Jeremiah 31:31 (see 2 Cor 3:3,6).15 There are echoes of Old Testament pictures of the ruach (Spirit) as life-giving16 in Paul’s concept of the Spirit as the source of new life in Christ. Yet here his thinking is marked more by discontinuity than continuity. His concern is not the ruach by which creation is animated and sustained but the Spirit of God at work in a new way in a new creation. Genesis 2:7 is cited only to contrast the first Adam who received the breath of God to become a living being with the last Adam, who, by his resurrection, became ‘a life-giving spirit’ (1 Cor 15:45; see also 2 Cor 3:6 and Rom 7:6). Discontinuity and newness also mark the contrast between the dispensation (nomos) of the ‘Spirit of [who gives] life in Christ Jesus’ and the ‘law of [that brings] sin and death’ (Rom 8:2). 13. The prophets in Eph 3:5 (also 2:20 and 4:11) are those who revealed the previously hidden mystery of God’s will to the church. They are not the Old Testament prophets. 14. The pneuma and hyiothesia are linked also in Rom 8:23; Gal 4:5,6. Since the Spirit is linked with promise, Paul even calls Isaac ‘the child who was born according to the Spirit’ (Gal 4:29). 15. Thus, correctly, Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 394, 95. 16. Gen 2:7; 6:3,17; Job 27:3; 3:4; 34:14,15; Ps 33:6; 104:29,30

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The Spirit of Christ Paul thus assumes without argumentation that the Spirit now at work in the new covenant is identical with the Spirit of God in the old. There is a new manifestation of the Spirit, not a new Spirit. This newness is indicated by the way in which the Spirit of God can, in the same breath, be called the Spirit of Christ (Rom 8:9; Phil 1:19), ‘the Spirit of his [God’s] Son’ (Gal 4:6), and ‘the Spirit of the Lord’ (2 Cor 3:17,18). But it is especially the relationship between the pneuma and the kyrios in Paul’s thinking that has given rise to considerable debate in New Testament scholarship. The claim that Paul views the Spirit and the Lord as identical goes back to Hermann Gunkel in 1888.17 Arguing against the view of nineteenth-century liberalism that the Spirit is to be identified in a generic way with religious consciousness, Gunkel insisted that the Spirit in Paul is always to be viewed christologically. This line of thought, which in some way comes to identify or equate the Spirit with the glorified Lord, was first picked up by Adolf Deissmann in 1911 and Wilhelm Bousset in 1913,18 and has been adapted more recently in biblical studies, though in various nuanced forms, by Neill Q Hamilton, Ingo Hermann, Edward Schweizer, and James DG Dunn.19 17. English version in The Influence of the Holy Spirit: The Popular View of the Apostolic Age and the Teaching of the Apostle Paul (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1979), especially 112–15. 18. English versions: A Deissmann, St Paul: A Study in Social and Religious History (London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1912), 123–35; W Bousset, Kyrios Christos (Nashville: Abingdon, 1970), 154,155, 160–64. 19. NQ Hamilton, The Holy Spirit and Eschatology in Paul (Edinburgh: Oliver & Boyd, 1957), 3–16; Ingo Hermann, Kyrios und Pneuma: Studien zur Christologie der paulinischen Hauptbriefe (Munich: Kössel–Verlag, 1961), especially 123; Eduard Schweizer, s.v. pneuma in TDNT VI, 418,419. For Dunn’s views see ‘I Corinthians 15:45—Last Adam, Life–giving Spirit’ in Christ and Spirit in the New Testament, edited by B Lindars and S Smalley (Cambridge: CUP, 1973), 127–42; ‘Jesus—Flesh and Spirit: An Exposition of Romans 1:3–4’, in Journal of Theological Studies, 24 (1973): 40–68; Jesus and the Spirit (Philadelphia: Westminster, 1975), 18–26; Christology in the Making (Philadelphia: Westminster,1980), 141–49. Unlike others, Dunn does not find support for this view in 2 Cor 3:17; see his ‘2 Corinthians iii.17— “The Lord is the Spirit”’, in Journal of Theological Studies, 21 (1970): 309–20; The Theology of Paul the Apostle, 260–64. For a summary of the argument, see Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 831–38.

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That an absolute identification of Spirit and Christ runs counter to later trinitarian doctrine is obvious. The primary question is whether the textual evidence can prove this to have been Paul’s view. Some brief comments on the texts adduced are necessary, particularly on those originally cited by Gunkel: First Corinthians 6:17, 15:45, and Second Corinthians 3:17.20 First Corinthians 6:17: ‘Anyone united to the Lord becomes one spirit with him’. Paul has previously said that anyone united sexually with a prostitute becomes one with her (using soma instead of sarx as in Genesis 2:24 since the problem at Corinth is the negative view and treatment of the physical body, as opposed to the true self of the ‘spiritual person’ (pneumatikos). The Corinthians’ own libertinist slogans in (vv 12,13a) suggest that food and immorality do not affect their eternal, spiritual selves. Paul replies by turning their slogan around: the body belongs to the Lord and the Lord to the body, as evidenced by the resurrection of Christ’s own body (vv 13,14). He then gives an ecclesiological argument: the bodies of believers are members of the body of Christ (v 15). Union with a prostitute involves joining oneself to a person not destined for resurrection. The impossibility of such a union is underscored with an anthropological argument based on Genesis 2:24: sexual union involves one’s soma in the sense of one’s whole personhood.21 Both the ecclesiological and anthropological argument are introduced with the litotes, ‘Do you not know?’ signifying that Paul is not formulating points that might be new to the Corinthians. On the other hand, the adversative ‘but’ at the beginning of verse 17 introduces a new and crowning argument which the Corinthians have totally overlooked. Illicit sexual union involves not only one’s somatic self but also one’s pneumatic self, for union with Christ is in the realm of the pneuma. That the one joined to the Lord ‘is one Spirit’ (the literal meaning of the text) cannot mean an identification of the human spirit with the Lord as Spirit since verse 19—again with introduced with ‘Do you not, know? —speaks of the Holy Spirit as 20. Texts are cited according to the NRSV. 21. For this sense of soma, also found in the LXX, see Victor Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1967), 93,94, and RH Gundry, SOMA in Biblical Theology with Emphasis on Pauline Anthropology (Cambridge: CUP, 1976), 65–9.

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gift from God. Paul’s language may not be as linguistically precise as we would like, but what he surely means is that, since union with Christ is effected by the Spirit, sexual union involves both one somatic and pneumatic self. Consequently, to deduce from the text that Spirit and Lord are identical is to read a Christology into an essentially anthropological argument. First Corinthians 15:45: ‘Thus it is written, “The first man, Adam, became a living being”; the last Adam became a life-giving Spirit.’ After arguing for the general resurrection, Paul begins a new tack in 15:35, answering the question: How are the dead raised? While the Corinthians seem to hold to a spiritual resurrection, Paul insists that post-resurrection life will still be somatic. Resurrection will mean a continuation of the soma, but also its transformation. Again, the context is an anthropological rather than Christological problem. Having illustrated from the created world that bodies can be transformed and have different kinds of glory (verses 35-41),22 Paul then begins to contrast the perishable body with the imperishable. That will come about at the resurrection (verse 42). The physical (psychikon) body that is buried is marked by dishonour and weakness; its raised counterpart, the spiritual (pneumatikon) body is marked by honour and power (verses 43,44). Then follows the contrast between Adam as a living being (Gen 2:7) and Christ as life-giving Spirit. The argument is not simply that the transformed body is ‘spiritual’, but that created Adamic humanity precedes the new humanity in the resurrected Christ, the ‘human being from heaven’ (verses 46–49). Once more Paul’s language is extremely compressed and his thought inferential.23 One thing, however, seems to be clear. Paul is not concerned to depict resurrection in terms of matter or substance, certainly not in a sense in which the Corinthians would denigrate the soma in favour of the pneuma. He speaks rather of two modes of existence, one in which the natural person is subject to normal human conditions, and one in which the person renewed in Christ is under the power of the eternal Spirit of God (see Cor 14:15 with its 22. Glory (doxa) belongs to Paul’s resurrection language; see Phil 3:21 where ‘the body of his glory’ refers to Christ’s risen body; also, the discussion of 2 Cor 3:17 below. 23. In verse 43 honour (doxa) again has resurrection connotations, while power alludes to the Holy Spirit (see Rom 15:13,19; 1 Cor 2:4; Eph 3:16; 1 Thess 1:5).

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definition of the psychikos person and the one who is pneumatikos). In Pauline diction ‘spiritual’ implies no contrast with matter—bodies also belong to spiritual worship in Romans 12:1). It denotes that which is created, invaded, worked, or energised by the Holy Spirit.24 In First Corinthians 15:45 as in 6:17, pneuma is anarthrous (used without the article). In both instances, Paul is referring to what the Spirit effects soteriologically, not to the person of the Spirit.25 In creation Adam became a living person by the breath of God; in his resurrection Christ became a life-giving spirit by the power of the Spirit of God. Verse 45 thus parallels what Paul has said earlier in verses 21,22: death came to all through Adam; all who are in Christ will be made alive. First Corinthians 15:45 may well be unique in Paul’s writings, but one need not conclude that ‘Paul intended to represent the risen Christ as in some sense taking over the role of or even somehow becoming identified with the life- giving Spirit of God’.26 It is legitimate to ask whether Paul thought of the risen Christ’s power to give life as derived from God or from the Spirit of God. Theologically, both propositions would be true. God is the one who gives life,27 yet that is also the role of the Spirit of God.28 The more vital question at this point is whether Paul saw the Spirit as the agent of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead and thus as the reason why Christ became a living Spirit. James Dunn suggests that Paul himself displays a certain reluctance elsewhere in speaking of the relation of the Spirit to the resurrection of Christ.29 But that is what one would expect from Paul. He thinks and writes as a monotheistic Jew for whom ‘God’ is the natural subject when recounting the events of salvation history, as also in the case of circumlocutory passages where 24. Apart from the pneumatika in1 Corinthians 12 and 14, see the description of the manna and water from the rock in the wilderness wandering as ‘Spirit–worked’ in 10:3. 25. See Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 264: Paul’s concern is ‘not christological, at least in any ontological sense; rather it is a purely soteriological concern’. 26. Dunn, Theology of Paul, 262. That ‘there are other ways of speaking of God’s active presence and self–manifestation, like glory and wisdom, which Paul elsewhere identifies with Christ, hardly makes the supposed identification of Christ and the Spirit less ‘far–fetched’. 27. See 2 Kings 5:7; Neh 9:6; Job 36:6; Ps 71:20; John 5:21; Rom 4:17; 1 Cor 15:22. 28. Job 33:4; Ps 104:29, 30; Ezek 37:9,10; Rom 8:11; 2 Cor 3:6; 1 Pet 3:18. 29. Dunn, Theology of Paul, 262, also 263: ‘. . . Paul was reluctant to attribute the resurrection of Jesus to the Spirit’.

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God is the implied subject.30 Thus, Paul’s explicit statements identify God rather than the Spirit as the agent of Jesus’ resurrection—that is also the case in Romans 8:11 which speaks of ‘the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead’, though the future resurrection will be ‘through his Spirit who dwells in you’. The primacy of theological formulations in Paul’s Christology should not lead us to overlook allusions to the work of the Spirit in the resurrection of Christ. In Romans 1:4 it is God who designates Jesus as ‘Son of God in power’, but this takes place ‘according to the Spirit of holiness by his resurrection from the dead’. The linking of power, Spirit, and resurrection, points to the Spirit as the medium of Jesus’ resurrection. That the early church saw the Spirit as the agent of Christ’s resurrection, is suggested by what appear to be hymnic formulations in First Peter 3:18 (made alive en pneumati), and First Timothy 3:16 (vindicated en pneumati). The exegetical questions raised by these passages are such as to advise caution in drawing direct parallels with Romans 1:4,31 but it is entirely reasonable to suggest that all three passages reflect the confession that God raised Jesus by the Holy Spirit. That conclusion is further supported by the use of ‘glory’ and power’ as circumlocutions for the Spirit as the one who gives life to the dead.32 Second Corinthians 3:16-18: ‘But when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed. Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom. And all of us, with unveiled faces, seeing the glory of the Lord as though reflected in a mirror, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another; for this comes from the Lord, the Spirit.’ 30. Rom 4:24,25 (probably a traditional formulation) combines active and passive verbs to express God’s action. 31. For example, it is not clear whether pneuma in both cases refers to the Holy Spirit or to Christ’s spirit in contrast to his sarx—the latter term could mean Christ’s body or, more probably, his earthly existence. It is also uncertain whether the preposition en is to be taken instrumentally (‘in the Spirit’) or locatively (‘in the realm of the Spirit), and whether the reference is to Christ’s resurrection or exaltation. 32. Rom 6:4; 1 Cor 6:14; 2 Cor 13:4; Phil 3:10; see also the phrase ‘Spirit of glory’ in 1 Peter 4:14, very possibly a reference to Christ’s resurrection.

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This passage seems clearer than the previous two for two reasons: the pneuma is twice called kyrios, and in the first case we have the articular to pneuma, not the anarthrous noun of the two passages just discussed. It is not surprising, then, that this passage has been adduced as the prime evidence for Paul’s identification of the Spirit with Christ as the risen and exalted Lord. The context is Paul’s argument for the superiority of the new covenant in Christ over the old Mosaic covenant, a point developed in the service of an ulterior argument: the glory of the apostolic ministry which he exercises by God’s grace, despite his personal weakness (the key background concept is ‘sufficiency’ in 2:16 and 3:5). The first covenant was inaugurated with glory at Sinai but was death-dealing. By contrast, the new covenant is attended with greater glory because it is the dispensation of the Spirit who gives life, not death (see 3:3,6,8). That the new covenant is attended by greater glory than the old is deduced by means of a midrashic treatment of Exodus 34:29–3533 where Moses, on coming down from Sinai, covers his face to hide the residual facial glory emanating from his encounter with Yahweh. The two initial points drawn from this passage are that the fading glory of Moses’ visage represents the temporary glory of the Sinaitic covenant, and that the veil represents the Israelites’ hardness of heart against receiving God’s revelation,34 a hardness that still attends the synagogal reading of the Torah. At first sight, verse 16 seems only to repeat the point made in 14b. Yet Paul is making a decisively new point by quoting, in adapted form, the Septuagint text of Exodus 34:34: when Moses turned to go into the presence of the Lord, to speak to him, he (Moses) lifted the veil from his face. What the text now means for Paul is this: When

33. See LL Beleville, Reflections of Glory: Paul’s Polemical Use of the Moses–Doxa Tradition in 2 Corinthians 3:1–18 (Sheffield: Sheffield Academic, 1991), especially 172,255; James Dunn, ‘2 Corinthians 3:17—”The Lord is the Spirit”’, 309–20; CFD Moule, ‘2 Cor 3:18b, kathaper apo kyriou pneumatos’, in Neues Testament und Geschichte, edited by HN Baltensweiler and B Reicke (Tübingen: JCB Mohr [Paul Siebeck], 1972), 235. For the best exegetical comments on 2 Cor 3:17,18, see Victor P Furnish, II Corinthians (New York: Doubleday, 1984), 212–16 and 234–36. 34. Presupposed is the argument, stated fully elsewhere (Rom 10:4 and Gal 3:24), that the old covenantal function of the law finds its telos in Christ.

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one35 turns to the Lord in the new covenant, full revelation takes place.36 But who is meant by the Lord in the phrase, ‘Now the Lord is the Spirit’? Paul has already stated that the full meaning of the old covenant is revealed in Christ (v 14b), so it is tempting to identify the pneuma with Christ as Lord. However, since Paul is citing a biblical text in verse 16, what follows must be seen as a midrashic amplification of that text by means of analogy, not identification.37 Paul is not merely stressing the truth that the work of Christ and the Spirit are inseparable, so that Christ and Spirit cannot be separated from each other. His meaning is quite precise, going beyond what is stated in verse 14b. Paul is identifying the kyrios of Exodus 34:34 with the pneuma. The TEV thus correctly translates, ‘Now the Lord in this passage is the Spirit.38 The Jerusalem Bible suggests the same connection when it translates ‘this Lord’. Paul’s line of thought in verses 16 and 17 can be paraphrased as follows: Moses removed the veil when talking directly to the Lord. In conversion39 it is the Lord himself who removes the veil of incomprehension. For us, the Lord referred to in Exodus 34:34 must be none other than the Spirit, the great revealer who creates faith in Christ and prompts the confession of his name.40 As the key to the ministry of the new covenant (2 Cor 3:6), the Spirit is then naturally called ‘the Spirit of the Lord’ (v 17b), where the

35. The subject could be kardia (heart) from verse 15, but the important point is that the name of Moses is removed from the quotation to give it general application. 36. The NRSV at verse 16 translates ‘the veil is removed’; a better rendering is, ‘he [the Lord of the first clause] removes the veil’. 37. Eduard Schweizer’s objection to intertextuality at this point rests on the lack of the Greek introductory article to (the) that elsewhere indicates a quotation or allusion (citing Gal 4:25; TDNT VI, 418). The point would be convincing only if it could be demonstrated that Paul always uses this form in citing or alluding to a biblical text. The closest parallel to 2 Cor 3:17 with its introductory particle de is 1 Cor 10:4: ‘And the rock [sc. Exod 17:6 and Num 20:11] was Christ’ (he petra de en ho Chriostos). Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 311, rightly points to close parallels between 2 Cor 3:17 and Gal 4:29 with respect to Paul’s method of dealing with a biblical text. 38. Paul’s meaning would have been much clearer had he possessed the advantages of our modern punctuation! 39. The verb epistrepho has this meaning in 1 Thess 1:9, and commonly in Acts (3:19; 9:35; 11:21; 14:15; 15:19; 26:20; 28:27. 40. See 1 Cor 2:4,9,10; 12:3.

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Lord means Christ.41 It is the Spirit who in the gospel brings freedom from the damning and enslaving power of sin and death (Rom 6:18,22,23). The glorious liberty of God’s children from all bondage to decay still lies in the future (Rom 8:21), the present possession of the Spirit is a guarantee also of future freedom from mortality (2 Cor 5:5). Secondly, the Spirit gives the new vision of glory (verse 18),42 a concept that, like freedom, is eschatologically oriented. Christ’s resurrection glory will be the glory of all who are in him at the resurrection.43 This glory is seen now in the gospel of Christ (4:4–6), but the agency of the Spirit makes it a power that already transforms believers into the image of the Son as they move from mortality to immortality (Rom 8:19; 1 Cor 15: 49; Phil 3:21). As with freedom, full resurrection glory is yet to be revealed (Rom 8:18) and is still the object of faith rather than sight (2 Cor 5:7). Yet that fulfilment also is guaranteed by the Spirit (2 Cor 1:22; 5:5). This transforming process, present and future, comes from ‘the Lord, the Spirit’ (kathaper apo kyriou pneumatos; 2 Cor 3:18c). The Greek text could mean ‘from the Lord’s Spirit’, ‘from the Lord of the Spirit’, or ‘from the Lord as Spirit’.44 In light of verse 17, it is again best to see a reference to Exodus 34:34: the kyrios in whose presence Moses’ face was transformed and uncovered is now to be understood as the revealing and transforming Spirit. In sum, far from identifying the Spirit with the Lord, this entire passage rather pictures the Spirit in the service of Christ. Spirit as Experience of the Gospel The identification of Spirit with Christ, from Gunkel to the present, is at least motivated by a legitimate concern to anchor the work of 41. Keeping the distinction between pneuma and kyrios (as well as theos) as in 1 Cor 12:4–6 and Eph 4:4–6. Rather than identifying Spirit and Lord, Paul seems intent on distinguishing the Spirit from both Yahweh and Christ. This is correctly noted by Fee (312) where he explains the anarthrous kyriou as reflecting Septuagintal usage. The latter point hardly warrants taking the phrase ‘Spirit of the Lord’ in 2 Cor 3:17b as referring to the Spirit of Yahweh. What follows is the work of the Spirit in the service of Christ! 42. Taking the verb katoptrizomenoi as suggesting ‘looking at’ in a mirror rather than ‘reflecting’, a meaning more suited to the theme of faith versus sight in Second Corinthians. 43. See the discussion of 1 Cor 15:45 above, and Col 1:15. 44. Furnish, II Corinthians, 216, lists six possibilities!

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the Spirit in the saving work of Christ. However, it is more in line with Paul’s thinking to speak of the possession of the Spirit as the experiential reception of all that the gospel of Christ offers. Everything that the Spirit offers points to Christ. Pauline pneumatology stands in the service of Christology, just as Christology must finally lead back to theology, in the sense that the initiation with the Christ-event and its perfection in the eschaton belong to God (see 1 Cor 15:24–28). It is in this sense appropriate, also in Pauline theology, to speak of the Spirit as the shy member of the Trinity.45 The Spirit is never a freelance agent! Though Paul’s agenda in First Corinthians 12:4–6 is the gifts of the Spirit, an experiential ordering also lies behind the progression of Spirit/Lord/God. The same progression in Ephesians 4:4–6 illustrates the point just as well, even though the wider context is not the gifts of the Spirit. The call to live ‘in the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace’ (v 3) is based on the common experience of the one Spirit who calls into one Body and into one hope. It is through this Spirit that believers know of the one Lord and one faith, in their one baptism46 in which the Spirit has been at work,47 all leading to the doxological praise of the ‘God and Father of us all, who is above all and through all and in all’. Paul speaks of the Spirit essentially as power by which the Christevent is made effective (Rom 15:13,19; 1 Cor 2:4; Eph 3:16,17; 1 Thess 1:5)—the idea that he views the Spirit as a kind of heavenly substance48 illustrates the danger of reading ontology into biblical metaphors of the Spirit ‘flowing’, being ‘outpoured’, and ‘filling’ people. The power once decisively at work in Christ’s resurrection is now exercised in the service of Christ. There is thus a clear distinction between the locative phrase en Christo and the instrumental phrase en pneumati.49 A modalistic interpretation of the Spirit as Christus praesens has no basis in Paul’s thinking. 45. See Frederick Dale Bruner and William E Hordern, The Holy Spirit, Shy Member of the Trinity (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1984). 46. 1 Corinthians 12:13. 47. See Eduard Schweizer, s.v. pneuma in TDNT VI, 416. Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 833, note 19. 48. 104 Fee, God’s Empowering Presence, 833, note 19. 49. See 1 Cor 6:11: ‘You were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and in the Spirit of our God!

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Whether Paul is speaking of soteriology, eschatology, ministry, or ethics, the dynamic of the Spirit always begins with, actualises, and brings to completion the work of God in Christ. Soteriologically, it is by the power of the Spirit that the Christ event becomes a saving event. This is the case whether Paul is using forensic (justification), cultic (sanctification), or other imagery.50 Just as the reception of the Spirit leads to the confession of Christ (1 Cor 12:3), so the benefits of the Spirit are those which come from Christ: divine love (Rom 5:5; 15:30), knowledge of God and the gospel (1 Cor 2:10–16; Eph 1:17), life and peace (Rom 7:6; 8:2,6; 2 Cor 3:6), righteousness, peace and joy (Rom 14:17), access to God (Eph 2:18), adoption (Gal 4:5,6; Eph 1:5). Paul is guilty of no contradiction but is quite consistent when, almost in the same breath, he speaks of both the Spirit and Christ as interceding with God (Rom 8:26–34). The eschatological setting of the Spirit has a double basis in Paul’s thinking. The present activity of the Spirit is a sign, together with Christ’s resurrection, that the end times have come. But for Paul, the present reception of salvation never loses its proleptic and promissory character—compare Romans 5:1 with 5:9. Imperfection awaits perfection, faith awaits sight (1 Cor 13:10–12). So, the Spirit is the down payment or pledge (arrabon) not of himself in the sense that partial possession of the Spirit will be replaced by full possession, but of final, perfect union with Christ, and thus with God (2 Cor 1:22; 5:5; Eph 1:14). Whether the Spirit is the seal of redemption (Eph 4:30), the hope of righteousness (Gal 5:5; Rom 15:13), the first fruits of final adoption as children (Rom 8:23), or assurance of Christ’s resurrection glory (2 Cor 3:18), the reference is always eschatological perfection in Christ. The ministry which the Spirit empowers in the church is the continuation of Christ’s own ministry. It is the ascended Lord who has provided the ministries in which the Spirit is now at work in the church as the body of Christ (Eph 4:8–12; 1 Cor 12:27–30; Rom 12:4– 8). The Spirit-worked charismata of First Corinthians 12 and 14, are intended for the building up of the Body so that the gifts of Christ are actualised. It is in this sense that being aglow with the Spirit means serving the Lord (Rom 12:11). 50. Including Luther’s polemics against the Enthusiasts whom he accused of swallowing the Holy Spirit, feathers and all!

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Finally, Pauline ethics is also the gospel of Christ at work by the power of the Spirit. Those who have received the Spirit have the mind of Christ (1 Cor 1:2,16). But ethical behaviour is not a matter merely of knowledge or attitude; it begins with being in Christ. Believers are sanctified in Christ by the power of the Holy Spirit (1 Cor 1:2; 2 Thess 2:13,14; Eph 5:26,27) to live the sanctified life in service to others and in praise of God. For Paul, spirituality is nothing else than living the new life in Christ that has come about through the Spirit’s agency. The Modality and Evidence of the Spirit Paul is not as precise as we might like him to be on the way in which the Spirit is received—hence the long debates51 on the relationship between the reception of the Spirit and baptism, or more generally, on whether the Spirit is mediated or immediately received. While Paul thinks of the Spirit as active through the spoken and sacramentally enacted gospel,52 it remains true that the apostle is not concerned with this question since the presence and activity of the Spirit in Christians is a presupposition of his theology, not its goal. His purposes in various contexts are related more to showing how and where the Spirit works than how the Spirit has come. Here several observations are important. In the first instance, and in contrast to the pneumatics at Corinth who have fallen prey to secular Hellenistic notions of spirituality, the apostle lays no great stress on supernatural or spectacular manifestations of the Spirit. Only few of the charismata could not be understood as sanctified natural talents.53 While Paul does not deny that the Spirit works miracles,54 they are for him not the evidence of the Spirit. His focus is on the Word and the Spirit-worked confession to Christ that comes about through proclamation. Thus, the clear communication of prophecy in ‘five words with my mind, in order instruct others’ is preferable to ten-thousand words in a tongue (1 Cor 14:19). Secondly, Paul’s concept of Spirit possession is markedly nonecstatic and non-mantic. It does not allow for the obliteration of 51. See Gal 3:2–5 and 1 Cor 12:13. 52. See the list in 1 Cor 12:27–31. None of the gifts in Rom 1:11; 12:3–8; 15:27; Eph 4:9–11 is manifestly supernatural, apart from its divine origin. 53. See, e.g., Gal 3:5. 54. Taking the verb mainomai in this special meaning, one that is not uncommon.

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personality, consciousness, or the self-control of those who come under the Spirit’s power. This is obliquely hinted at in Paul’s passing reference to the way in which the Corinthian readers were once ‘led’ or ‘moved’ in their worship of idols (12:2), and in his insistence that ‘the spirits of the prophets are subject to the prophets’ (14:32). Even more instructive at this point is the apostle’s assertion that ‘tongues are a sign not for believers, but for unbelievers’ (14:22). This thesis is firstly argued from scripture. The strange tongues spoken by foreigners did not work repentance and faith in Israel in the past (v 21, citing Isa 28:11, 12). The inference is that they cannot be expected to do so in the present. The crowning argument in verse 23 focuses on Hellenistic concepts of spirit possession. Any private individuals (Greek, idiotai) who happen to come off the street into the Christian assembly where all are speaking in tongues will feel entirely at home. The NRSV, like other translations, obscures the point in rendering, ‘Will they not say that you are out of your mind?’ At issue is not the sanity of those speaking in tongues, but their activity as obvious—at least to the Hellenistic mind—evidence of spirit possession, possibly in the form of mantic ecstasy.55 The desired manifestation of the Spirit is clear: proclamation (prophecy) by which outsiders are convinced of sin, called to faith, and inspired to worship (vv 24,25). Thirdly, Paul’s pneumatology does not create an anthropological dualism in which the created human spirit is deified or subsumed under the divine pneuma, let alone elevated above the body. This in turn means that the Spirit’s power is never the possession of the individual. Rather one is possessed and is being filled by the Spirit's power, with the Spirit-endowed self as the object rather than the active subject.56 The association of Spirit possession with personal power is one of the sources of conflict between Paul and the Corinthians as is evidenced by his second letter. True to typical Hellenistic thinking, which sees physical presence and rhetorical power as marks of the truly spiritual person (pneumatikos), they charge the apostle with personal weakness: ‘His letters are weighty and strong, but his bodily presence is weak, and his speech contemptible’ (2 Cor 10:10). Despite the obvious rhetorical irony in Paul’s ‘foolish speech’ in Second Corinthians 11:1–12:10, there is a fundamental theological truth 55. 1 Cor 7:40 is also probably a hit at claims to ‘possess’ the Spirit. 56. See, especially, 1 Cor 12:4–13.

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underlying his claim to divine strength in his all too human weakness (12:9). He can list his sufferings and privations in the cause of the gospel as evidence that he, too, ‘has’ the Spirit (see 4:7–12; 6:4–10; 11:23–29; 12:7,8). The true pneumatic lives under the cross and carries the wounds of Christ! Fourthly, a central test of Spirit possession is ethical, the question being whether one walks by the Spirit or by the flesh (Rom 8:14; Gal 5:16–24). Freedom in the Spirit is never an abstract theological principle but is expressed in concrete action. It does not mean the end of obligations to service and of somatic responsibility, but a new beginning. Just as the Spirit points to the incarnate and risen Son of God, those who live in him by the power of the Spirit incarnate the gospel of love, mercy, and self-sacrifice. The mark of the Spirit is not an obsession with the temperature of one’s own spiritual life, but with the well-being of others. Finally, because the apostle sees the Spirit at work in the clear proclamation of the gospel and in a life of service to others, Paul shifts the locus of the Spirit from the individual to the community. Put simply, he stresses the corporate communal expression of the Spirit rather than possession on the part of the individual. That this emphasis appears strongly in the Corinthian correspondence is not surprising, given the strong individualism, selfpraise, and competitive spirit of the Corinthians. Spirit-worked gifts are not for self-aggrandisement, but for the good of the community, for its edification or upbuilding (oikodome). That is the bottom line in the argument of First Corinthians 12 to 14, with its repeated emphasis on the one Spirit as the source of the multiplicity of gifts to be used for the one body.57 Those who are implanted in the body of Christ by the Spirit are equipped for service to others, not for boastful selfservice. The common sharing in the Spirit58 will gain praise for the giver rather than use any gift as evidence of superior spirituality. In the final analysis, it is the faith community and not the individual that attests the authenticity of the Spirit’s working, as the apostle reminds those who are hostile to him (2 Cor 3-13)!

57. This is surely the meaning of the phrase koinonia tou pneumatos in 2 Cor 13:14 and Phil 2:1. 58. This, together with the prophet’s way of life in service of others, remains the true test of prophecy in the sub–apostolic age; see Shepherd of Hermas 11:7–17.

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Conclusion These brief outlines of some emphases, if accurately drawn, provide theologians with foundations, directions, but also questions. To take up that challenge is the task of the systematician, but I comment briefly on a few areas which need special attention in the light of these observations. There is a continuing need to explore the person and work of the Spirit within the framework of a Trinitarian theology. Paul’s theology is a warning against any monism of the Spirit which divorces the Spirit’s activity from God and from God’s action in Christ. The way in which Paul anchors the Spirit’s activity in the eschatological action of God in Christ is clear. To know Christ is to know the Spirit and vice versa. But this raises questions. Granted that kyrios and pneuma cannot be separated, can we speak of the Spirit’s activity in the world only in christological or soteriological terms? Is there not a priority of the Spirit of God before the incarnation which allows us to search for an attempt to enunciate the activity of the Spirit also in the created order and in the community of humankind outside the church? In the second place, the eschatological setting of Pauline pneumatology reminds us that all experience of the Spirit, whether as certainty of final vindication, present experience of grace, or empowerment for serving, is penultimate and never final. But what does this mean for an age that demands present answers to present questions of global significance? And how do we determine whether any movement in pursuit of human dignity and freedom is of the Spirit of God and not merely the product of the human spirit? At the very least it must be asserted that Christian pneumatology does not leave room for a pessimistic world-renunciation that sees true spirituality as a flight from matter into the realm of the spirit. The assured presence of the Spirit in the community of the faithful remains the guarantee that the consummation of all things lies in God’s hands. Hopelessness and despair are not on the Christian agenda. Further, Paul’s sober pneumatology with its non-ecstatic, communal, ethical tests, raises more than a few questions against much that passes for Christian experience of the Spirit. It questions an experience-driven approach to evangelism that bypasses intellectual difficulties. It negates the ego trippers and emotional thrill seekers who insist one must ‘feel’ the Spirit, gain personal power, and produce

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supernatural signs to evidence and authenticate the Spirit’s presence and power.59 A pneumatology for our century must include an ecclesiology that understands the church as the servant-people under the cross, identifying with the world of suffering humanity, and not an ecclesiology that sees the people of God as a saved community hovering temporally, so to speak, between heaven and earth, immune from suffering and the call to incarnate the justice of God in an unjust world. A sound pneumatology is required for a robust spirituality that is not introspective and preoccupied with self but turned outwards to the world. Finally, and perhaps most importantly, since theology begins and ends in worship, there is a pressing need to help people understand how the Spirit of God is at work in the holy things for the holy people.60 Without liturgical celebration around these down-to-earth yet holy means, the presence of the Spirit will continue to be identified with nothing more than subjective emotionalism. One may argue which is worse: the quenching of the Spirit, the domestication of the Spirit in the search for personal power, or the institutionalisation of the Spirit within ecclesiastical structures. Trinitarian worship is the means by which the Spirit of God and of Christ smashes the false idols of our religiosity. The wind still blows where it will, not necessarily where we want it to blow!

59. See the cutting critique of such spiritism by Richard Fisher in ‘The Alpha Course: Final Answer or Fatal Attraction?’ www.pfo.org/alpha–cr.htm, accessed January 1999. Fisher rightly observes that one has to look hard to find a scripture verse that says one can ‘feel’ the Spirit! 60. The reference is to the liturgical cry Hagia hagiois, or Sancta sanctis.

Was St. Paul a Sports Enthusiast? Realism and Rhetoric in Pauline Athletic Metaphors

First published in: Sports and Christianity. Historical and Contemporary Perspectives, edited by Nick J Watson and Andrew Parker (New York and London: Routledge, 2012), 89–111

Surveying the Field Sports-loving moderns readily tune in to St Paul’s images of the athlete who trains with rigorous self-discipline, runs to the finishing line with total concentration, boxes with well-aimed blows, endures pain to win the contest and finally receives the victor’s crown. Such imagery is hardly enough to construct a Christian view of sports,1 let alone provide biblical foundations for a muscular faith or validation of all athletic competition, but it allows us to draw lines of connection between athletic ideals in the ancient world and those echoed in the

1. Popular and devotional considerations of biblical sporting metaphors understandably tend to be simplistic, sometimes crass. RJ Higgs and MC Braswell, An Unholy Alliance: The Sacred and Modern Sports (Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 2004), 95 cite W Neal, The Handbook of Athletic Perfection (Prescott, AZ: Institute of Athletic Perfection, 1975), for a crass example: Paul gives directions on inculcating team spirit in gridiron football when he writes, ‘Therefore encourage one another and build up one another, just as you are doing’ (1 Thess 5:11). Practically, this means showing an underperforming team member how to employ stiff–arm tactics when being tackled!

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modern Olympic oath and competition.2 Athletic metaphors held such imaginative power for the apostle Paul that he could be confident that his message would be enhanced by their use. Ancient metaphors derived from the games (Greek, agones) reflect their popularity. This is also the case with St. Paul’s agonistic imagery and terminology that, with the exception of Second Corinthians and Philemon, is spread throughout the undisputed Pauline epistles. In three cases the metaphor is explicit: Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it. Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one. So, I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air; but I punish my body and enslave it, so that after proclaiming to others I myself should not be disqualified. (1 Corinthians 9:24–27; NRSV)3 Only, live your life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ, so that . . . I will know that you are standing firm in one spirit, striving side by side with one mind for the faith of the gospel, and are in no way intimidated by your opponents . . . For he [ie God] has graciously granted you the privilege not only of believing in Christ, but of suffering for him as well—since you are having the same struggle [agon] that you saw I had and now hear that I still have. (Philippians 1:27–30) Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own . . .; forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3:12–14)

2. Though ritual remains at the Olympic Games, modern athletics differ in that the religious context is removed, competition is open to all, events require specialisation and professionalism and there is an emphasis on rules and records. Attempts to sacralise modern sports in the name of Christianity tend to lead to a God–is–on–our–side triumphalism, to a theology of glory. 3. Unless otherwise stated, all scriptural quotations are taken from the NRSV. Only the obvious athletic terms are here highlighted.

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The image of the runner also appears in Galatians 2:2, 5:7, Romans 9:16 and Philippians 2:16. Though English translations do not always make the connection clear, athletic terminology appears in First Thessalonians 2:2,19 (‘opposition’ and ‘crown’); Philippians 4:1, 3 (‘crown’ and ‘struggle’); and Romans 15:30 (‘join in earnest’). There are allusions to athletic running in Romans 9:30–10:4 with the words ‘pursue,’ ‘attain,’ ‘stumble’ and ‘goal/end.’4 The so-called DeuteroPauline letters continue the use of athletic terminology and images (Colossians 1:29–2:1, 4:12),5 especially the Pastoral Epistles where young Timothy is encouraged to train himself in godliness and to ‘contest the good contest’ (agon) of faith in emulation of Paul himself (1 Timothy 4:7–10; 6:11,12; 2 Timothy 2:5; 4:7,8). The general sense of most metaphors in oral and written communication is grasped with relative ease, yet some metaphors can be ‘slippery,’ their precise meaning allusive or even elusive. Language can lose its ‘color’; individual terms can lose their original connotation. We ‘wrestle’ with problems without for a second thinking of two grappling, grunting and sweating contestants. Separated linguistically and culturally by two millennia from St Paul, we cannot always be certain of the exact referent or the extent of an image. In First Corinthians 9:24–27 it is not immediately clear whether ‘proclaiming’ in verse 27 refers to Paul’s role as herald or announcer (keryx) in the games or to his role as apostolic preacher— or perhaps to both. Further, has the term ‘disqualified’ in the same verse a technical sense?

4. Stanley K Stowers, A Rereading of Roman: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1994), suggests that Israel’s fall or failure in Romans 11:11,12 pictures Israel as being tripped up while running, with the Gentiles racing ahead; yet recovery is possible, so that Jew and Gentile Christians will together eventually reach the goal of redemption (11:26). The problem of an exact identification of the image in 1 Corinthians 4:9 is well known. VT Nguyen, ‘The Identification of Paul’s Spectacle of Death Metaphor in 1 Cor. 4:9’, New Testament Studies, 53.4 (2007): 489–501, argues that Paul’s picture of the apostles as people sentenced to death refers neither to gladiatorial combats nor to the Roman triumph, but to the public execution of condemned criminals (noxii) in the arena. 5. Imagery is less clear in Col 2:18: ‘Do not let anyone disqualify you’ obscures the reference to loss of a prize. In 3:15, ‘Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts’ alludes to the role of a referee.

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Problems of interpretation are compounded when language used in one context is appropriated for another, leading to mixed metaphors. Michael Gudorf6 suggests that the ancient reader would have immediately understood Paul’s image of ‘wrestling’ (Greek, pale) in the large military unit of Ephesians 6:10-17 as depicting the Christian as a fully armed warrior (hoplitopales), ready for handto-hand combat with Satan. The interchangeability of military and athletic images and vocabulary creates questions in other instances such as Philippians 1:27–30, Second Timothy 2:4,5 and 4:7,8. Is the struggle the agon of the soldier or of the athlete? Edgar Krentz reads the letter to the Philippians as couched in the form of a general’s harangue to the troops, so that the letter’s athletic terminology is to be given a military sense.7 Robert Seesengood proposes that Paul and Timothy, in their role as agonists in the Pastoral Epistles, are viewed as gladiators fighting to maintain the faith.8 Similarly, the image of wrestling in Ephesians 6:12 is to be seen as a gladiatorial reference. Despite such occasional uncertainties, Paul’s metaphors can tell us much about the cultural identity and location of speaker and listeners. Authorial intention may not always have encountered intended audience perception, yet we may assume that Paul was canny enough to use imagery that fitted the situation and could expect, as a result of consistent linguistic usage, that his audience would immediately tune in to his meaning.9 If we today fail to make the right connections, the problem lies with the ‘culture gap.’ Was St Paul Really Interested in Sports? Could St Paul the ex-Pharisee, educated under the strict Jerusalem rabbi Gamaliel (Acts 22:3), have had any real interest in what went on 6. ME Gudorf, ‘The Use of PALH in Ephesians 6:12’, Journal of Biblical Literature, 117.2 (1998): 331–35. 7. E Krentz, ‘Paul, Games and the Military’, in Paul in the Greco–World: a Handbook, edited by JP Sampley (Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 2003), 344–83. 8. RP Seesengood, ‘Contending for the Faith in Paul’s Absence: Combat Sports and Gladiators in the Disputed Pauline Epistles’, Lexington Theological Quarterly, 41.2 (2006): 99,100. 9. In the New Testament canon, only the author of Hebrews frequently uses athletic terminology though not with the same consistency of meaning as St Paul (see Heb 5:14; 10:32; 11:33; 12:1–4). Athletic connotations of vocabulary in Luke 13:24, John 18:36, 2 Peter 2:14 and Jude 3 mostly disappear in translation.

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in gymnasia and sports arenas? Granted that Paul was a Hellenistic Jew,10 he would surely have been fully aware that the process of Hellenisation in Jewish territories under the Seleucid Antiochus IV Epiphanes in the second century BC and over a century later under Herod the Great, including the introduction of public games and buildings that were foreign, if not offensive, to Paul’s compatriots and that presented a major threat to the continuance of their identity and fidelity to the Torah.11 Given also that Hellenistic athletics still had religious connotations and represented the continuance of Greek competitiveness and the quest for fame and glory,12 Paul’s adoption of agonistic metaphors is not as self-explanatory as it might at first appear. Add the obvious fact that Paul was completely focused on carrying out his apostolic commission with total concentration and constant readiness to face opposition (1 Corinthians 9:16, 17; 2 Corinthians 6:1–10; 11:24-28), and it becomes questionable whether

10. W van Unnik’s argument in Tarsus or Jerusalem (London: Epworth, 1962), that Luke in Acts 22:3 used a conventional biographical progression from birth/ origin (Greek, genesis) to early childhood nurture (trophe) and education (paideia) to indicate that Paul came to Jerusalem at an early age has not led to scholarly consensus. For our present discussion it is not important whether Paul’s familiarity with Hellenistic culture began with childhood spent in Tarsus or came from his post–conversion stay in that city (Gal 1:21; Acts 9:30; 11:25); the former is more likely. 11. For the introduction of the games on Palestinian soil as a part of the process of Hellenisation under Antiochus IV Epiphanes and Herod the Great, see HH Harris, Greek Athletics and the Jews (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 1976), M Poliakoff, ‘Jacob, Job, and Other Wrestlers: Reception of Greek Athletics by Jews and Christians in Antiquity’, Journal of Sport History, 2.2 (1984): 60, and M Brändl, Der Agon bei Paulus: Herkunft und Profil paulinischer Agonmetaphorik (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 140–77). 12. On the religious nature of the games, also in the first century AD, see VC Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif. Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature, NovTSup (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1967), 18–20, P Fredriksen, ‘Paul at the Races’, Bible Review, 18.3 (2002): 12, 42, and Allan Guttmann, ‘From Ritual to Record’, in Sport and Religion, edited by Shirl J Hoffman (Champagne, IL: Human Kinetics Books, 1992), 143–51, and Allan Guttmann, ‘From Ritual to Record’, in Sport and Religion, edited by Shirl J. Hoffman (Champagne, IL: Human Kinetics Books, 1992), 143–51. The inseparable connection between the Greek games and the gods is perhaps best paralleled by the deep nexus between Japanese sumo wrestling and Shinto rituals.

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Paul had any interest in witnessing local games. Speculation that he did so lacks any literary basis.13 Yet there is sufficient evidence for Diaspora Jews attending athletic spectacles, and not only in Alexandria.14 Some Jewish youths probably participated in athletics as part of their education. Certainly, no other writer in the ancient world makes greater use of detailed athletic imagery than does the Jewish philosopher, Philo of Alexandria.15 Nor should we discount some enthusiasm for Greek games in Palestinian territories. Harold Harris can even assert, ‘The old statement “The Jews would have nothing to do with Greek athletics” is exploded by the stadia of Tiberias and Caesarea, the hippodromes of Jericho and Tarichaea, the sports buildings of Jerusalem and the discus throwing priests of Maccabees.’16 St. Paul writes as a bilingual, acculturated Hellenistic Jew (Saul and Paul!), reflecting the language and social reality of his day. Yet he never uses athletic similes such as ‘I am like a runner, like a boxer.’ His pictorial language is absolute: ‘I run, I box, I contest.’ He never explicitly engages in an evaluation of contemporary athletics, either negative or positive; he simply appropriates metaphors for his own purposes, sometimes with surprising results. The simplest way to explain this ready adoption of agonistic imagery and terminology is to see it anchored in both social reality, meaning knowledge of contemporary athletics, and in a tradition of appropriating athletic metaphors. Our brief survey of research shows that the two elements have often been played off against each other. It also summarises the adoption of new methodologies being employed to indicate a variety of factors at play in the apostle’s rhetorical application of these metaphors.

13. Harris, Greek Athletics, 16, speculates whether Paul might have learned about the games ‘as a little Jewish boy running about the streets of Tarsus.’ Others have followed this view. 14. See Harris, Greek Athletics, 30–51; Poliakoff, ‘Jacob, Job, and Other Wrestlers’, Fredriksen, ‘Paul at the Races’; Krentz, ‘Paul, Games and the Military’, 334; Brändl, Der Agon, 140–78. 15. Philo certainly watched a wrestling match (Quod omnis probus 26) and may have himself participated in sports as a youth. 16. Harris, Greek athletics, 50

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Tracing the State of Play17 ‘Know ye not that those who run in a race, run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run, that ye may obtain.’ St. Paul appeals to the experience of the Corinthians. There was nothing with which they were better acquainted than these famous footraces. Their own games near their own city were among the most celebrated in the world. They ‘knew’ well that each race was eagerly contested, and that ‘one’ obtained the prize.18

In this assessment of First Corinthians 9:24-27, the Dean of Chester long ago voiced the assumption that the apostle to the Gentiles used athletic imagery because he was personally familiar with athletics and could appeal directly to the Corinthians’ firsthand experience of contests at the Isthmian games held near Corinth. Even earlier, JA Bengel in his famous commentary Gnomon Novi Testamenti asserted that Paul was using a similitude taken from ‘something well known to the Corinthians.’19 The connection with the Isthmian games in 1 Corinthians 9:24–27 was drawn already by CF Hofmann (De ludis Isthmicis, 1760).20 My own study of Paul and the Agon Motif in 1967 did not rule out direct reference to the public games familiar to St. Paul’s readers but sought to show that the apostle’s usage reflected a long tradition of athletic metaphors in Greek and Hellenistic (especially Jewish) literature. This tradition,21 which can be reconstructed from the writings of late Cynic and Stoic moralists such as Dio Chrysostom,

17. Fuller summaries of research into Paul’s athletic metaphors can be found in Pfitzner, Agon Motif; U Poplutz, Athlet des Evangeliums: eine motivgeschichtliche Studie zur Wettkampfmetaphorik bei Paulus, Herders Biblische Studien 43 (Freiburg, Germany: Herder, 2004); Brändl, Der Agon. 18. JS Howson, The Metaphors of St. Paul (London: Strahan and Co., 1968), 149,150. 19. Bengel, Gnomon, 1860 (1773) commenting on 1 Cor 9:24: ‘similitudo a re Corinthiis valde nota.’ 20. Cited by Brändl, Der Agon, 15. 21. See also the conclusion by E Eidem, Pauli Bildvärld I, Athletae et Milites Christi, Lund, 1913. German summary in Beiträge zur Religionswissenschaft der religionsw. Gesellschaft zu Stockholm, 1 (1913/14), 4: ‘The relative lack of vivid detail [sc. in Paul’s agon metaphors] speaks most of all for their origin in the tradition’ (my translation).

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Epictetus, Seneca, and Marcus Aurelius,22 moved attention from the physical athlete who toiled for corruptible trophies to the moral athlete who trained in true virtue for indestructible prizes. Athletic metaphors were picked up also by Jewish Diaspora writers such as the author of Wisdom of Solomon, Ben Sira, Philo, and, to a lesser extent, Josephus. In Hellenistic Judaism this tradition embraced the heroic Maccabean martyrs as God’s athletes, suffering in fidelity to the Torah. Christian use of this imagery, I argued, could be traced from its adaptation by Paul and the writer to the Hebrews to the writings of the Apostolic and later Fathers of the church, until the Christian martyrs came to be viewed as athletes of Christ par excellence.23 Tracing a tradition was not meant to imply literary dependency. St. Paul’s dependence on the Cynic and Stoic diatribe for his athletic metaphors was assumed by Rudolf Bultmann and other German scholars at the beginning of the last century.24 Positing direct dependency tended to lead to a generalised and moralistic reading of Paul’s metaphors instead of noting what is characteristic of Pauline usage: their prime application to his apostolic task and goals, with an eschatological focus.25 Paul’s indebtedness is mainly to oral traditions,

22. See VC Pfitzner, Agon Motif, 24–72; ‘We are the champions! Origins and Developments of the Image of God’s Athletes’, Sport and Spirituality: An Exercise in Everyday Theology, Interface, 11.1 (2008): 52–56; see also S Freyne, ‘Early Christianity and the Greek Athletic Ideal’, Sport, Concilium, 205.5 (1989): 98. 23. See Pfitzner, ‘Martyr and hero: the origin and development of a tradition in the early martyr–acts’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 15.1, 2 (1981), and ‘We are the champions!’ (2008). 24. See R Bultmann, R. Der Stil der paulinischen Predigt und die kynisch–stoische Diatribe. FRLANT 13 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1910). H Funke, ‘Antisthenes bei Paulus’, Hermes, 98 (1970): 459–71, returns to the thesis of literary dependency on the part of Paul in 1 Cor 9:24–27 by citing the speech of Antisthenes preserved in the eighth discourse of Dio Chrysostom. However, both context and terminology are markedly different with the Cynic and Paul. 25. Jerry M Hullinger, ‘The Historical Background of Paul’s Athletic Allusions’, Bibliotheca Sacra, 161 (2004): 359, still reads Paul’s agon metaphors in terms of general Christian ethics; they teach that ‘the Christian life requires an earnest, consistent striving, fueled by the grace of God, and that ‘the child of God must be careful to strive according to the rules (2 Tim 2:5) in order to receive rewards from the Lord.’

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especially those passed down in the Hellenistic Jewish synagogue.26 His readers could understand references to physical athletes, but nuances in his use of agonistic terms and images are best understood on the background of language that was ‘in the air.’ Significant is not so much Paul’s adoption of traditional imagery, but its adaptation by which he strips it of all individualistic heroics. Self-sacrifice and suffering in the cause of advancing the gospel rather than glory is the keynote. Commentators, while picking up major conclusions in my study,27 rightly rejected some of its exegetical findings. Hans Conzelmann (1975), Gordon D Fee (1987) and others have correctly shown that the paraenetic context and logical progression of 1 Corinthians 9:24– 27 require that verse 24b be read with the verb in the imperative: ‘So run,’ not ‘You are running’ as I had suggested—even though the indicative is grammatically possible. Another corrective was soon under way. From the 1970s on, scholars increasingly argued that St. Paul’s metaphors are drawn from firsthand knowledge of sporting contests.28 Citing the archaeological work of Oscar Broneer (1962, 1971) at Isthmia near Corinth, the home of one of the four ancient Pan-Hellenic games, Carl E De Vries (1975) asserts that Paul understood the hazards of foot racing when he wrote in Galatians 5:7: ‘You were running well; who cut in on you that you do not continue to obey the truth?’ The context suggests a play on words: those who cut in on the Galatian legalists by arguing for the cutting off involved in circumcision should themselves be cut (Galatians 5:1-12)! Like Broneer, Rainer Metzner (2000: 574) believes that Paul would have 26. This is the view also of older scholars L Schmid, Der Agon bei Paulus. Unpublished dissertation, Tübingen, Germany,1921, and E Stauffer, Agon; athletes; brabeuo, in Kittel’s Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, translated by G Bromiley, Volume I (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 134–40, 167–68, 637–39. 27. Freyne (1989: 98) also deems it likely that Paul reflects a philosophical tradition since his allusions are sparse and lacking in detail when compared with the metaphors of Philo. N Clayton Croy’s study of athletic imagery in the Epistle to the Hebrews, especially 12:1–13, includes a section on ‘athletes and exemplars’ in Hellenistic moral exhortation (1998: 37–76). His conclusion is that the unknown author of Hebrews uses traditional imagery to picture Jesus as the paradigm of endurance in suffering. 28. The work of Harris (1964 and 1976) was not available to me when completing my dissertation in 1964. With attention to source material and studies on the actual Greek games (e.g., by Finley and Pleket, 1976; Gardiner, 1978) my conclusions would have been more nuanced.

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felt free to visit athletic events since in his day they had lost some of their religious character; Paul’s travels would have brought him into contact with agonistic events and buildings like gymnasia in the cities he visited.29 It is certainly reasonable to assume that the apostle would have been in Corinth at a time when the biennial Isthmian games were in full swing in April/May AD 49 or 51 (Murphy-O’Connor, 1983: 16: 2002: 15). O Schwankl (1997: 184,190) sees the extended metaphor in 1 Corinthians 9 as an example of Paul’s mission policy of being all things to all people (9:22): Paul assumes in his audience a love of sports and a familiarity with traditional imagery. Amphilochios Papathomas (1997) comes to similar conclusions, as does Michael Poliakoff (1984: 48): athletic images used by Jews and Christians ‘reflect far more than fashions of speech and literary traditions. They are documents of social history.’ While Paul’s metaphors could indicate ‘little more than acquaintance with the language of Greek rhetoric and popular philosophy,’ imagery such as that in First Corinthians 9:24-27 ‘is too precise and vivid to be derived mechanically from a literary tradition.’ Studies on ‘public shows and sporting events’ in Paul’s day are included in David Williams’s study of Pauline metaphors (1999: chapter XII). He is mainly interested in locating allusions to Roman spectacles: the triumph in Second Corinthians 2:14 and Colossians 2:15, the death of prisoners in the arena or theatre in First Corinthians 4:9, gladiatorial combats in 1 Corinthians 15:32 and 2 Timothy 4:17 and even in Philippians 1:27, and—strangely—chariot races in Philippians 3:12-14. Williams also interprets Paul’s trials in Second Corinthians 4:8-11 in terms of the Roman arena, though the verbs used by Paul to describe his sufferings have no clear gladiatorial connotations. The conclusion that Christian ‘gladiators,’ the apostles and potentially all Christians are continually exposed to the risk of death is very general (266). Less attention is given to the obviously athletic imagery in First Corinthians 9 and elsewhere (266-73). As noted earlier, Williams suggests that Philippians 2:15, 16 pictures the apostle and his addressees as involved in a torch relay race: the latter are to shine as lights in the world so that Paul can eventually say that he has not run in vain. Such a connection is improbable. 29. Finley and Pleket (1976) suggest that, by the end of the New Testament era, over three hundred athletic festivals were celebrated in the Greco–Roman world. On the plurality of games, apart from the classical periodos or ‘round’ of the Pan–Hellenic games (Olympic, Isthmian, Nemean and Pythian), see Gardiner (1978: 37–42).

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Resetting the Starting Line Since the turn of the century, several studies and two monographs— the first for over three and a half decades—have to some extent reset the agenda for further study of the agon in St. Paul’s letters. Of special interest is the introduction of visual data, socio-scientific perspectives, the concept of cultural hybridity, new insights into the nature of metaphors and greater interest in Old Testament traditions present in Paul’s metaphors via the Septuagint. Sifting through recent research is necessary before we attempt to summarize a modicum of consensus in reading Paul’s metaphors and to indicate where paths of investigation might lead in the future. Visual evidence such as statues, inscriptions and coins fill out the picture of the cultural significance of athletics in Greco-Roman times and help to determine how St. Paul reflects or reacts to those ideals. Philip Esler (2005: 363–70) rightly objects to interpreting New Testament data merely in terms of ideas without reference to social reality. Using socio-scientific methodology, he proposes that Paul’s imagery be located within the grid of Mediterranean anthropological models of ‘challenge and response’ and ‘honour and shame.’ Given the agonistic nature of Greek culture and the concept of ‘limited good,’ sporting contests were competitions in which the winner gained honor for himself, his family, and his polis; the loser earned nothing but shame. The visual evidence Esler offers is rather meager and does not directly relate chronologically or geographically to Paul’s world. Yet, given the conservative nature of Mediterranean culture, it gives us an insight also into the apostle’s social world. Esler concludes, ‘Paul has adopted the language of sporting contests from the social world in which he lived in a very positive manner,’ one that is ‘redolent of Mediterranean culture, with its prioritising of honour as the primary good’ (378). But a question remains. Paul’s use of the image may well reflect contemporary ideals and values but is he not in some way critiquing them—perhaps even subverting them?30 Esler concedes that the apostle can be countercultural, rejecting competitiveness (377), and that there is ‘an awkward quality’ to the image in First Corinthians 9 because of its ‘highly individual character.’ 30. The contrast between ‘they’ and ‘we’ and between perishable and imperishable prizes suggests that the apostle is not simply endorsing the accepted social status and significance of sports. His readers are called to activity that is superior, holding promise of superior prizes.

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James Harrison (2008) offers a larger collection of visual and epigraphic materials trawled from a long time span. Aware of the dangers of anachronism and problems of provenance in citing visual evidence for the athletic ideal in antiquity, he believes that the material is representative of artifacts St. Paul might have observed (91). The apostle may have visited the Isthmian games when in Corinth or watched other local games but would have been familiar with athletic ideals from boyhood days in Tarsus (90). ‘Paul may have sourced his athletic imagery from the sermons of the popular philosophers delivered in the agora of Corinth or at the Isthmian games themselves,’ but visual artifacts illustrate the athletic ideals to which Paul reacted. Whereas Esler cites visual data to illustrate Paul’s text with its positive attitude to sport, Harrison begins with the question how ‘Paul’s sophisticated response to the Greek athletic ideal would have critiqued the visual icons of excellence as much as its literary representations’ (91). Visual images help us to hear what Paul’s audience possibly heard: a critique of individualism, a ‘dismissive attitude to coronal honours’ and the postponement of rewards (107–8). Robert Dutch (2005: 95–167) also believes that St. Paul’s metaphor in 1 Corinthians offers a critique. Examining the role of gymnasia as centers of education in the Greek world, he proposes that the elite youths in Corinth would have received physical training and philosophical instruction as essential ingredients of a good education. Agreeing with current scholarship that sees social stratification within the church at Corinth as a major factor in the community conflict (302), he identifies the ‘strong’ of Corinth with the educated elite. Paul rejects the reward culture that is exemplified in ancient athletics and tailors his use of the agon metaphor to the educated elite at Corinth who are glorying in their ephebic education. Dutch concludes: ‘It is ironic that the weak Paul has to contend with the socially strong, the intellectual and physical athletes, and get them to adopt another perspective from the values they had learnt and cherished in their gymnasium education’ (302). Problematic here is the suggestion that St. Paul’s agon image is directed to a section of the church at Corinth: the educated elite. Despite the undoubted existence of factions, of rich and poor, educated, and uneducated, libertines and legalists, the apostle’s pastoral policy throughout the letter is to address all in the community. Even the

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lowliest and uneducated are not excused from the duty of self-denial in the service of others, which is the point of Paul’s metaphor in 9:24–27.31 Robert Seesengood (2005) brings to the discussion the recently developed concept of cultural hybridity. Hybrids are the product of colonization and fashion their identity through mimicry. ‘By definition, the language of hybridity is agonistic and competitive.’ Viewing St. Paul as the hybrid synthesis of multiple cultural identities may help us to understand his use of athletic metaphors (3). Traditional rhetorical use of agonistic imagery assumed that physical perfection and prowess established one’s identity, marking out status. Thus, one can ask: ‘Might there be a way . . . to see a hybrid Paul at work on construction of a new identity or, perhaps, identities . . . which are unique and communal simultaneously? Further, could this hybrid identity be one that both “transforms” as well as acquiesces to conventional use of a particular motif?’ (4).32 In the foregoing quotation, the word ‘communal’ is important. T. Engberg-Pederson (2000: 33) has noted that St. Paul adopts a rhetorical model in Stoic literature that moves the audience from ‘I’ to ‘we,’ from the individual who masters his passions to gain apatheia (imperturbability) to a group of successfully enlightened people who pursue the same goal. Similarly, Philo, by using the language of athletics helps to establish a hybridised community, that of Alexandrian Judaism (Seesengood, 2005: 7, 8). Engberg-Pedersen, who sees Paul as a man ‘who actively participated in the moral philosophical discourse of his day’ (2000: 301), finds the same goal of community building in Paul’s images, though the Messianic community is quite different to that which the philosophers seek to create. Ancient writers, who use athletic topoi, notes Seesengood, occupy ‘ambiguous social and ethnic locations.’ That is true of Philo, the writer of IV Maccabees, and of philosophers like the exiled Seneca and the ex-slave Epictetus. Seesengood (2005: 8) asks: 31. For the same reason Ben Witherington’s suggestion (1995: 214) that Paul, like Philo (Quod Deterius 1.42, 42), is making a point against Sophists in saying he does not ‘beat the air’ is dubious. In any case, the apostle is talking about effective boxing rather than shadowboxing. 32. Robert Seesengood is here reacting to my stress on Paul’s transformation of the traditional agon imagery (Pfitzner, 1967: 188,189,194,202–4). His suggestion that I see Paul’s theological assertions as transcending culture is not correct. All theological language, including the use of imagery, is cultural.

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Can it be coincidental that those with threatened or ambiguous cultural identities are those who choose metaphors rooted in competition in to demonstrate or articulate a desire for an integrated community . . .? The struggle of the hybrid is the agonistic struggle to fashion an identity in the face of colonization and root that identity in a community.

The conclusion is that Paul in First Corinthians 9:24–27 utilises and mimics ‘a conventional trope to create a new communal, hybrid identity’ (9). Stress on the community in place of the individual embodying the heroic athletic ideal is on the mark, as is Seesengood’s highlighting of mimicry as an essential element of hybridisation. That the apostle’s own social location was ambiguous and threatened also needs no discussion. Yet not all who used athletic imagery were necessarily culturally dislocated or in socially ambiguous territory. Marcus Aurelius wrote his meditations, replete with athletic topoi, on the military front lines, but his social location was certainly not ambiguous. Perhaps St. Paul was far more comfortable using agonistic imagery than Seesengood suggests, even if the apostle gives his own twist to it. Hybridity is also, for Seesengood (2006b), a cultural model useful for understanding the agonistic imagery of the Deutero-Paulines.33 The conflation of athletic and military language in the Pastorals and Ephesians 6:12 is intended to call to mind the image of the gladiator. Similar conflation occurs in Stoic writers and in early Christian martyr acts (96–98). Roman citizens of rank could opt out of public life by voluntarily choosing to become gladiators. Because they swore a vow (sacramentum) to endure extreme pain, loss of property and even loss of life, their role and fate could be viewed as honorable—in contrast to the dishonorable death of those condemned to fight in the arena as criminals, prisoners of war or rebellious slaves (94, 95). Passages calling Timothy to exercise himself in godliness and to fight the good fight of faith, following the example of St. Paul himself (1 Timothy 4:7–10, 6:11, 12, and 2 Timothy 4:6–8), are ‘bracketed by confessional and sacrificial language recalling a prior, public oath of allegiance and the subsequent public (and grueling) execution of that oath’ (92). Other texts that use military language (1Timothy 1:18–19) 33. The discussion here follows Seesengood’s article (2006b) ‘Contending for the Faith’ adopted from the larger monograph Competing Identities (2006a).

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or a combination of military and athletic language (2 Timothy, 2:3–9) appear in association with similar motifs (93, 94). The voluntary gladiator who swears the sacramentum can be seen as a model of endurance, apathy, and contempt for the opinions of society, and yet as a metaphor of empowerment.34 He thus becomes a hybrid mimic. Much as Paul is Jewgreek/Greekjew . . . the gladiator conflates the athlete and warrior, slave and noble, condemned and conqueror . . . Much like Paul, the threads of the gladiator are not subject to quick disentanglement. More, the gladiator escapes stable cultural categories in ways both productive and demeaning. A gladiator may be a means for the captive to express a sense or aspect of victory, and, inversely, the means to diminish the conqueror even in victory. (Seesengood, 2006b: 96)

This interpretation allows us to see how Paul and Timothy can, paradoxically, count loss as victory, death as life and dishonor as the prelude to honor. ‘Far from being signs of defeat, Paul’s struggles become instead verification of his dedication to his oath’ (Seesengood, 2006b: 101). Assuming that the Pastorals are a Deutero-Pauline rhetorical performance of the apostle’s life and ministry, they invite the audience to become spectators of Paul the gladiator who is ‘transformed from beaten prisoner to noble invictus to, finally, coercive presence exemplifying stunning paideia for all to imitate’ (104). Whether this final, valid assessment of St. Paul in the Pastorals requires the voluntary gladiator as the point of reference is open to question. It may be that some ancients perceived such to be the point of the mixture of athletic and military language, yet the images can be read as quite discrete: the soldier in 1 Timothy 1:18; the athlete in 1 Timothy 4:7–10, 6:11, 12; 2 Timothy 4:6–8—in the last text Paul’s finished ‘race’ (dromos) hardly contributes to a gladiatorial image. In the case of 2 Timothy 2:3–6, three distinct images stand side by side: that of the soldier, the athlete, and the farmer. Nevertheless, two aspects of Seesengood’s argument remain important for the ongoing discussion: the power of an image to transform values and expectations and the concept of Paul as an exemplar requiring imitation. We will return to these points. 34. Seesengood is here dependent on the work of Barton (1993).

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Altered Course? Poplutz and Brändl Uta Poplutz’s motif-historical study, Athlet des Evangeliums (2004), makes a valuable contribution to understanding how metaphors function. While all language has a metaphorical quality,35 metaphors themselves, in relating two horizons of meaning to each other, create tension between their origin and their new context. New meaning arises from the ‘semantic irritation’ that results from the dialectical relationship between the familiar and the strange (21). Thus, the clue to understanding 1 Corinthians 9:24–27 is the ‘semantic irritation’ between only one athlete winning the prize in the games and St. Paul’s call to all at Corinth to run to attain it (269,270). It is precisely this dissonance that draws the audience to new understanding. Poplutz locates the origin of St. Paul’s agonistic imagery in both rhetorical tradition and cultural reality. Writings of popular moral philosophers and the adaptation of athletic imagery in Hellenistic Judaism, as well as the apostle’s contact with local contests (Poplutz, 2004: 409) provide points of reference.36 Thus, for example, Paul’s expression of regret that the Galatians have ceased to run well (Galatians 5:7) must refer to the distance race (dolichos), which required stamina and in which runners could be tripped by other runners (342). Tracing the agon motif in Greek and Hellenistic literature, Poplutz finds commonalities between Paul and late Stoic writers such as Seneca and Epictetus, but the illustrative parallel material in Hellenistic Jewish sources such as Philo, Josephus and IV Maccabees brings us closer to Paul’s context (174). Her conclusion is that the agon metaphor ‘became the absolute symbol of the sage striving for wisdom and truth’ (215). In analyzing St. Paul’s use of the agon motif, Poplutz looks for hints at local contests, illustrative literary material, and elements of literary creativity on the part of Paul. She is also interested in ‘tracing in Paul a conceivable personal development which manifests itself in each different application of the agon motif corresponding to the concrete situation in the life of the apostle’ (2004: 221). Consequently, 35. Poplutz is reliant on the work of such people as Gadamer, Ricoeur and Jüngel. 36. Her conclusion that Paul gained a knowledge of sporting contests in Jerusalem rather than in his home city of Tarsus can be contested; Jerusalem had a gymnasium in Hellenistic times but no games (Poplutz, 2004: 411). Quotes from Poplutz’s work are in my own translation.

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it is important for her to list the Pauline letters in chronological order, from 1 Thessalonians to Romans. However, she finally concedes that her attempt to see a development in Paul can locate only a minor shift in meaning from the agon for the gospel to the agon for the Pauline gospel (401). Poplutz rightly contrasts St. Paul’s concept of the agon for the gospel with the moral agon of the Cynic and Stoic moral philosophers (2004: 407–9). The inner wrestling of the philosopher has nothing in common with Paul’s physical sufferings as an apostle, just as the philosopher’s goal of noble strength of character (kalok’agathia) that can be realized in the present stands in stark contrast to Paul’s eschatological hope of reward. So, it is surprising that Poplutz sees Paul picturing himself in 1 Corinthians 9:24–27 as a wandering philosopher who conforms to the Cynic model in renouncing his rights and thus becomes a truly wise man according to Cynic-Stoic lights (286, 287). Brändl’s Der Agon bei Paulus (2006) arrives at significantly different conclusions. While offering an excellent account of the agon imagery in Greek and Hellenistic tradition, he is insistent that form and content are so entirely different in the case of metaphors in this tradition, on the one hand, and in St. Paul’ letters, on the other, that there can be no dependence on a traditional agon motif on Paul’s part. Intent on showing that Pauline usage reflects firsthand knowledge of athletics by the apostle and his readers, Brändl repeatedly asserts that Paul’s imagery is lively and vivid (lebendig and anschaulich).37 Whether such a claim for ‘local coloring’ can be maintained, even in the case of 1 Corinthians 9:24–27 (186–228), is open to debate. That only one contestant gained the prize was the case not only at the Isthmian games, but true of all four Pan-Hellenic crown games (Esler, 2005: 376). That the reference to a ‘perishable crown’ in 1 Corinthians 9:25 recalls the withered celery of the Isthmian games in contrast to the fresh celery of the Nemean games has been claimed also by others (Broneer, 1971: 186; Murphy-O’Connor, 2002: 15). However, Paul’s point is that all earthly crowns are perishable in contrast to those that are eternal. Furthermore, to suggest that Paul had contacts 37. A look at the vivid and detailed imagery of Philo in Agric. 113–19 confirms the lack of detail in Pauline usage. For an excellent translation of the passage see Harris (1976: 56). For the extensive range of agonistic vocabulary in Philo, some quite technical, see Harris’s index of over three hundred words, and Mayer’s Index (1974).

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with the Isthmian games as a tentmaker and provider of awnings for spectators is drawing a long bow. None of this detracts from Brändl’s major insight, one that must be considered in all future research. Determinative for St. Paul’s theological application of agon imagery are motifs taken from the Old Testament, via the Septuagint, and early Judaism.38 Whether descriptive of the Christian life of faith or of Paul’s apostolic ministry, ‘running’ (Greek, trechein) involves intense effort, focus on the goal and gospel proclamation. All three aspects, essential for Paul’s selfunderstanding, are located in the figure of the Suffering Servant in Deutero-Isaiah (Isaiah 49:1–6 LXX). The servant’s cry, ‘I have labored in vain,’ is echoed by Paul’s hope not to have run or labored in vain (Galatians 2:2; Philippians 2:16 where ‘labor’ and ‘running’ become synonymous). Prophetic vocation means ‘running’ as God’s emissaries, eager to deliver his message (Jeremiah 12:5, 23:21, 51:31; Habakkuk 2:2). Paul is a herald of the good news, a runner with beautiful feet (Romans 10:15, citing Isaiah 52:7). Another important element in St. Paul’s linking of Old Testament motifs is that of the suffering incurred by the righteous who run in the paths of God’s commandments (Psalm 119:32, with 22,23, 41,42, 51,52) or strive after wisdom. Paul knew this tradition expressed in agonistic language in Wisdom 4:2, 10:10–12; Ben Sira 4:28; and in IV Maccabees 17:11–16.39 That is the conceptual background of the agon of suffering and of Paul and his coworkers (1 Thessalonians 2:2, 19; Philippians 4:1–3). Similarly, the eschatological prize or crown of which Paul speaks (1 Corinthians 9:24, 25; 1 Thessalonians 2:19; Philippians 3:14, 4:1) continues the Old Testament and early Jewish motif of the reward that awaits the righteous who suffer for pursuing God’s will and wisdom. Are We Now Running Together? There now is something approaching a consensus on the origin of St. Paul’s agon metaphors and on their rhetorical application in Paul’s 38. What follows picks up the chief points made by Brändl (2006: 414–8) in his own summary of the argument. 39. Brändl is here dependent on the work of Kleinknecht, Der leidende Gerechtfertigte (1988).

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letters, but it is too soon to speak of agreement. For example, Alois Koch recently still judges that Paul shows no immediate familiarity with the games, since his metaphors offer no more than general and vague details; the apostle knew and borrowed from the diatribes of the popular moralists (Koch, 2008: 72).40 On both counts Brändl and others would strongly disagree. In my view it is time to call a truce on this question in terms of a simple alternative: either cultural realism or rhetorical tradition.41 The introduction of Septuagintal motifs by Brändl makes such a simple option impossible. In any case, agonistic exercises and philosophical traditions existed side by side in the gymnasium, the fundamental institution of Greek culture. Physical, mental, and moral askesis went hand in hand. ‘Greek philosophy was, in many ways, born in the locker rooms of the Athenian gymnasia’ (Seesengood, 2006b: 88). It was the very valorisation of physical athletics that fostered the development and continuation of the ideal of the philosopher-athlete and its attendant imagery down to St. Paul’s time. Agonistic imagery assumes, at the very least, a basic understanding of what went on at the public games.42 One can hardly imagine the hybrid Jewgreek Paul not knowing something of the public games, whether from oral reports, coins, statuary, or other visual objects. It is equally difficult to imagine a Hellenistic Jew like St. Paul not hearing in his travels the language and imagery of the popular moral philosophers who were as omnipresent in the Roman East as athletic festivals themselves. The argument that form, content, and purpose differ so markedly in philosophical and Pauline use of athletic metaphors as to allow no relationship between the two overlooks the fact that the agon tradition is no smooth and unified development, even within the philosophical tradition from Xenophanes down to the late Stoics (Pfitzner, 1967: 24-35; Brändl, 2006: 32–68). Hellenistic Jews like Philo and the writers of Wisdom and IV Maccabees saw no problem in adapting popular Stoic diction and imagery for their own purposes. 40. The reference is to the English translation offered at www.con–spiration.de/ koch/english/paul–e. 41. Recent scholarly commentaries on the relevant texts in 1 Corinthians and Philippians reflect this trend. See also, most recently, Bradley Arnold (2012). 42. Epictetus (3.15.2–4 and 3.20.9–10) reflects a good knowledge of gymnastic training and athletics. On the richness of Philonic imagery see note 31.

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There is greater consensus on St. Paul’s theological application of athletic imagery. His understanding of himself as an athlete of Christ, advancing the gospel, suffering opposition, and drawing others into the same agon, was apparently so characteristic of him that he could use agonistic terminology without explanation or elaboration. Indeed, such language was so typical of the apostle that it was recalled by later writers (Acts 20:24), possibly also by some writing pseudonymously (Col 1:29–2:1, 4:12; 1 Tim 4:7–10, 6:11,12; 2 Tim 2:5, 4:7–8). Paul’s own ministry as an agon involving both running forward and standing firm became the basis of his appeal to converts to pursue an eschatological goal and to remain steadfast in the faith (1 Cor 16:13), in the Lord (Phil 4:1; 1 Thess 3:8), in one spirit (Phil 1:27), in the freedom of the gospel (Gal 5:1) and to be ‘steadfast and immoveable’ in hope (1 Cor 16:58; see also Eph 6:11–14; 2 Thess 2:15). Progress and passion in resisting opposition belong together. The Athlete as Ideal Type A fruitful approach in future inquiry might be to focus on what the ideal athlete in antiquity represented in cultural terms, as that ideal is reflected in the conduct of the actual contests, in visual objects, or in popular imagery. This may help us better to understand the rhetorical impact of Paul’s metaphors. Clearly, we cannot read back into the past modern ideals such as the honor of participation rather than winning, seeking the glory of the game itself rather than that of the contestants or teamwork ahead of individual achievement (there were no team games in Greek and Hellenistic times). And clearly, we cannot assume that every winning athlete incarnated an accepted ideal. We are not to conclude from the polemics of philosophers, especially Cynics,43 against ‘merely physical’ and therefore inferior athletes that participants in the games were no longer held in honor but seen as mindless, muscle-bound jocks! Any claim to be a true athlete makes little sense unless it rides on the back of popular 43. For texts, particularly from the Orations of Dio Chrysostom, see Pfitzner (1967: 28, 29). Dio (Or. 8.9–12) depicts the Cynic Diogenes at the Isthmian games in c. 359 BC, claiming the superiority of the moral athlete: ‘The man who is noble is the one who considers hardship as his greatest competitor and struggles with it day and night, and not, like some goat [sc. the physical athlete!], for a bit of celery, olive, or pine, but for the sake of happiness and virtue throughout his life.’

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perception of the athlete as embodying popular virtues apart from strength, courage, and endurance. Centuries of philosophical claims to be involved in a superior agon obviously meant no diminution of honor for athletes, especially for victors who were the equivalent of modern sporting idols. In the second century AD, well after Paul, the many victories of the pankratiast M. Aurelius Asclepiades, won from Asia Minor to Italy, were on record.44 Such heroes were memorialised. Lucian states what was true for Greek culture down to Hellenistic times. The athlete represented and exemplified what the polis had the right to expect from every citizen: the perfection of physical beauty, prime condition, daring, indomitable resolve and the ardent desire for victory (Anacharsis 12). Athletic exercise and competition were thus the perfect preparation for warfare in the service of the state. Naturally, it was the winning athlete who became an ideal to be emulated, especially if the hero combined brawn, beauty, and brains as in the case of the deceased boxer Melancomas, lauded by Dio Chrysostom as: the most courageous and the biggest of all mankind and the most beautiful. Had he remained a private citizen and not practiced boxing at all, I believe that he would still have become widely known simply for his beauty . . . And yet he dressed in such a way as to escape rather than to attract attention . . . And although beauty customarily leads to softness, even for one who is only moderately beautiful, Melancomas was the most moderate of men despite his beauty. And though he despised his beauty, he preserved it nonetheless and despite his rough sport.45

It is only on the presupposition that the idealized athlete represents a heroic figure that we can understand the endurance of the agon motif in its varied literary history. In the case of the philosophers, the hero can be idealised to assume superhuman proportions. His labors interpreted as moral struggles, Hercules becomes the patron and model for the Stoic in his agon against fate and the dominance 44. See Nichoff (2003: 282, 283) with the map showing victory locations. 45. Cited by Poliakoff (1984: 57) and Harrison (2008: 103), both of whom provide other examples of outstanding athletes honored for combining training of mind and character with exercise of the body. For athletes as exemplars, see also Croy (1998: chapter 2).

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of passions (Pfitzner, 1967: 29). The Jewish tradition of the agon for virtue and wisdom also develops the heroic theme. With Philo it is the patriarchs and such figures as Enoch, Noah and Moses who are the ‘proto-agonists’ to be emulated (41, 42). In Wisdom 10:10-12 (see the metaphor also in 4:1) it is Jacob the wrestler who becomes the heroic paradigm for the pursuit of wisdom.46 Yet the best encomium for heroic athletes of virtue in fidelity to the law of God is that recorded in IV Maccabees17:11-16: For truly it was a holy contest [agon] in which they contended. For on that day virtue, proving them through endurance set before them the prize of victory, incorruption in everlasting life. The first to contest was Eleazar; the mother of the seven sons also joined in the contest, and the sons contended. The tyrant was their opponent [i.e., antagonist], and the world and humanity were the spectators. Godliness won the victory, crowning her athletes. Who but wondered at the athletes of the divine law? Who were not amazed at them?

Paul’s Subversion of a Metaphor and Heroic Ideal A traditional image can be used to gain attention but then be modified to give an unexpected meaning. It may well be that 1 Corinthians 9:24–27 is not the only example of this. In 2 Corinthians 2:14–16 St Paul probably tunes into his opponents’ picture of himself as a victim in a Roman triumph, being led to execution, only to turn the image in his favor; the procession in which he participates is an epiphany procession in which Christ is revealed (Duff, 1991). This process of subversion is described by KA Plank (1987: 77) as follows: Through the use of symbolic speech, a writer taps the potential of language to estrange ordinary images and notions from their expected contexts, thereby jolting readers out of familiar continuities. Arrested by the novelty of symbolic speech, its readers are diverted from their well-defended patterns of thinking and find their perception of new insights blocks any retreat into the familiar system of values.

46. The figure of Job as wrestler (agonistes) for the truth is postbiblical (Poliakoff, 1984).

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A ‘subversion of the agon motif ’ has been located in Romans 9:3010:15 by Douglas Campbell (2009: 789-91). Here St. Paul ‘is twisting the normally heroic discourse into a farce,’ a ‘comic manipulation of the agon motif ’ (791) and doing so in three ways. He asserts in 9:30 that those not competing/running have won the prize. Gentiles not even pursuing righteousness have received it by God’s gracious action. Secondly, in 9:31,32a Paul says that Israel continues to run in a race for righteousness, but it is a race that is already over. Thirdly, 10:4 asserts that Christ is the end and goal of the race. Thus, for Paul the Jewish agon in pursuit of righteousness, after the Christ event, is misdirected if not ludicrous or farcical. Finally, 9:32b,33 pictures Christ as the stumbling block of Isaiah 8:14, which trips up Israel as it runs after righteousness according to the law. Clearly, Paul was not worried by the mixed metaphor: Israel is running in the wrong direction and is also tripped up by Christ as the stumbling block! Is there a similar process of subversion in First Corinthians 9:24–27? The usual question is ‘What did St. Paul mean with the extended metaphor?’ It may be equally helpful to ask, ‘What did his audience possibly hear?’ The opening challenge ‘Do you not know?’ is an arresting litotes formula meaning, ‘You surely know.’ Included in the assumed knowledge would be some familiarity with athletics, but the phrase echoes Paul’s repeated challenges earlier in the letter for his hearers to drawn obvious conclusions about what they know for responsible Christian behavior (3:16; 6:2, 3, 9, 15, 16, 19; 9:13). ‘Do you not know’ was a standard phrase in diatribal diction and argumentative rhetoric,47 but there is a special edge to such challenges in this letter since they appear in the context of Corinthian claims to possess knowledge (8:1–7) and freedom (6:12, 10:23). Paul’s audience may soon begin to sense that they know less about freedom than they have thought! Progression from ‘all run’ to ‘only one receives the prize’ to ‘so [all] run’ may produce some slight ‘semantic irritation’ (Poplutz) for St. Paul’s audience, but the logic is clear enough on reflection. At issue is the application of energy and concentration on the goal to achieve victory, not winning at the expense of others. Even the sequence of competition (‘running’ in verse 24) and preparation for competition (‘self-control’ in verse 25) provides no problem. Listeners are aware of 47. See Bultmann (1910: 13, 65).

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the rigorous training and self-discipline required of physical athletes; some may also be aware that self-control is a common theme in the moral discourses of the philosophers, as is the contrast between fading and lasting crowns. In both cases, physical askesis is a sine qua non of participation in the agon to receive the prize.48 As the metaphor becomes more elaborate ‘conceptual irritation’ arises for the hearer, to the extent that one may speak with Robert Seesengood (2005) of a mocking mimicry. That a competitor should run in a haphazard manner without having the mind fixed on the goal, or that a boxer or pankratiast should flail the air with his fists without making each blow count, is risible (1 Cor 9:26). However, the picture of St. Paul the athlete thrashing his own body rather than that of the opponent turns the primary image of competing for victory and honor upside down. His own body, that is, his own person with its physical desires and appetites, is treated as a boxer or pankratiast would treat an enemy! Rather than the heroic body beautiful of the victor, the listener is invited to see the apostle with self-inflicted bruised face and black eyes (hypopiazo in verse 27a literally means to beat under the eyes). His body is subjected as a slave (‘I subdue it,’ 27b), pressed into a higher service than that of his personal desires. How listeners heard the end of verse 27 is impossible to ascertain. Coming at the end of an extended metaphor, ‘preaching’ (Greek, keryxas) might have recalled for some the office of the herald of the games even if St. Paul’s primary reference was to his apostolic proclamation of the gospel. It is surprising not only that Paul, the athlete of Christ par excellence, should call his converts to imitate him in limiting his personal freedom in the service of others, but that he even contemplates the possibility of being disqualified from receiving the prize from the eschatological judge. It is this shocking thought that concludes the apostle’s discussion on Christian freedom, while at the same time leading back to the concrete issue that initiated the discussion: the question of eating meat offered to idols. The possibility of losing the prize is picked up in the next chapter as Paul addresses the danger of presuming on God’s grace (8:1–12).

48. Mention of the prize (Greek, brabeion) before the ‘wreath’ in verses 24 and 25 allows the listener to think of any local athletic contest, not only of the Isthmian or the other coronal games.

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St Paul has used the example of the renunciation of his own apostolic rights to a higher good to illustrate that true freedom is the ability to surrender it to the claims of one’s Christian brother or sister (1 Corinthians 8:13).49 Self-control is for the apostle not an element of an ascetic lifestyle but an essential part of responsibility for one’s fellow believer.50 To extend the agon imagery to its logical conclusion, Paul the runner will only win the prize if he helps his fellow runners across the line. Ben Witherington (1995: 214) is right: ‘Paul cuts a peculiar figure. His life has a cruciform shape; its rejection of status is what he wishes his converts to exemplify.’ Service of others, not one’s own honor, is what Paul’s agon image is meant to illustrate. St Paul’s approach to the athletic ideal in antiquity is quite radical. He rejects its individualism, its elitism, and the lure of immediate rewards (Harrison, 2008: 108). He can boast of his converts and speak of them as his ‘crown’ and source of honor (1 Thessalonians 2:19; Philippians 4:1), but there is no reward for his ‘running’ in the same sense that an athlete is rewarded immediately after a race or bout. If final judgment is the prerogative of the eschatological judge (1 Corinthians 4:3–5), so is the allocation of rewards. Only the ‘day of Christ’ will confirm that Paul’s running has not been in vain (Philippians 2:16; Galatians 2:2). Thus, Paul’s life is a constant striving forward towards the prize, not a retrospective assessment of successes and failures along the way. Philippians 3:12–14 may not subvert the athletic ideal, but it certainly does not conform to it with its deferral of rewards. While the apostle is a type (Greek, typos) to be imitated, it is not as a heroic ideal (Philippians 3:17). Those who follow his example reject earthly glory as incurring shame; they look to heavenly glory while running the course marked out by the shameful cross (3:18–21). Yet Paul the apostle is more than a model or paradigm, as is suggested by his use of verbs with athletic connotations beginning with the prefix ‘with’ (synathlein and synagonizesthai in Philippians 1:27, 4:3; Romans 15:30). Agonistic language no longer expresses competition and rivalry in the human quest for honor and status. It 49. The Greek word exousia in 9:5,6 is related to the verb exestin that appears in the Corinthian catch cry of freedom in 6:12 and 10:23 (‘We are free to do everything’) and is probably for that reason preferred by Paul over the normal Greek word for freedom, eleutheria, which would be expected after the adjective eleutheros in 9:1. 50. For a discussion of early Christian asceticism and 1 Cor. 9:27a, see Yinger (2008).

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instead illustrates the vocation Paul shares with his audience; they are in a common contest (agon or athlesis) for the gospel, and that in a double sense: it is a struggle to promote the gospel (Phil 1:27, 4:3) and to withstand opposition in the process (Phil 1:30; 1 Thess 2:2). Solidarity in prayer is part of this ‘striving’ together (Rom 15:30). Individual achievement here gives way to total teamwork as fellow believers strive together ‘in one spirit, with one mind’ (Phil 1:27). The ultimate reason for this is not some general sense of Christian egalitarianism or comradeship, but the common experience of grace. Where the Hellenistic world pictures the idealized runner as the achiever, Paul says that the common experience of divine compassion ‘depends not on human will or exertion [Greek, ‘running’] but on God who shows mercy’ (Rom 9:16) A Postscript: The Pastoral Letters The Pastorals continue a strong Pauline emphasis: in the case of both the apostle and Timothy the pupil, the personal agon of faith cannot be separated from the agon for the faith.51 Their calling in each case includes both aspects. Yet the call to Timothy to ‘fight the good fight of faith,’ following the example of Paul (1 Timothy 6:11–16; 2 Timothy 4:7, 8) introduces a slightly different tone. The designation of the agon as ‘good’ (kalos) recalls the language of the philosophical agon tradition (Pfitzner, 1967: 166), as does the contrast between training (askesis) in godliness and bodily training. Such diction is in keeping with the introduction of secular Hellenistic terminology in the Pastorals, for example, the references to emperor worship in the case of the first passage (Mounce, 2000: 352). In the second passage Paul becomes the ideal agonist who stands at the end of his race (dromos). The ‘crown of righteousness’ is still a future reward for faithfulness, but there is no hint of the possibility of Paul having ‘run in vain.’ Timothy, also, can take hold of the prize of eternal life now. One can tentatively suggest that the heroisation of the athlete of Christ that we see in 1 Clement 5 and 6 (where Paul and Peter are noble paradigms) and in the early martyr acts actually begins in the Pastoral Letters rather than in the undisputed letters of Paul. 51. The example of the athlete is cited in 2 Tim. 2:5 as part of a threefold illustration, not as a metaphor.

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References Arnold, Bradley (2012) ‘Re-envisioning the Olympic Games: Paul’s Use of Athletic Imagery in Philippians’, Theology, 15 (4): 243-52. Arnold, CE (1989) Ephesians: Power and Magic, CUP. Barton, Carlin (1993) The Sorrows of the Ancient Romans: The Gladiators and the Monster, Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Bengel, JA (1860) Gnomon Novi Testamenti . . . secundum editionem tertiam (1773), Berlin: Gustav Schlawitz. Brändl, M (2006) DerAgon bei Paulus: Herkunft und Profil paulinischer Agonmetaphorik, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Broneer, Oscar (1962) ‘The Apostle Paul and the Isthmian Games’, Biblical Archaeologist, 25: 2-31 Broneer, Oscar (1971) ‘Paul and the Pagan Cults of Isthmia’, Harvard Theological Review, 64: 169–87. Bultmann R (1910) Der Stil der paulinischen Predigt und die kynisch-stoische Diatribe. FRLANT, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. Campbell, DA (2009) The Deliverance of God: An Apocalyptic Reading of Justification in Paul, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Conzelmann, H (1975) 1 Corinthians. Hermeneia, Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Croy, NC (1998) Endurance in Suffering: Hebrews 12:1–13 in Its Rhetorical, Religious and Philosophical Context, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. De Vries, CE (1975) ‘Paul’s “Cutting” Remarks about a Race: Galatians 5:112’, in Current Issues in Biblical and Patristic Interpretation, edited by Gerald F. Hawthorne, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 115–20. Duff, PB (1991) ‘Metaphor, Motif and Meaning: The Rhetorical Structure behind the Image “Led in Triumph” in 2 Corinthians 2:14’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly, 53: 79–92. Dutch, RS (2005) The Educated Elite in 1 Corinthians: Education and Community Conflict in Graeco-Roman Context, London: T & T Clark. Eidem, E (1913, 1914) Pauli Bildvärld I. Athletai et Milites Christi, Lund. Engberg-Pedersen, T (2000) Paul and the Stoics, Louisville, KY: Westminster/ John Knox Press. Esler, PF (2005) ‘Paul and the Agon: Understanding a Pauline Motif in Its Cultural and Visual Context’, in A. Weissenrieder, F. Wendt and Petra von Gemünden (editors), Picturing the New Testament: Studies in Ancient Visual Images, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 357–84. Fee, GD (1987) The First Epistle to the Corinthians. The New International Commentary on the New Testament, Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans. Finley, MI and Pleket, HW (1976) The Olympic Games. The First Thousand Years, New York: Viking Press.

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Freyn, S (1989) Early Christianity and the Greek Athletic Ideal Concilium, 205.5: 93-100. Funke, H (1970) Antisthenes bei Paulus, Hermes, 98: 459-71. Gardiner, EN (1978) Athletics of the Ancient World, Chicago: Ares. Garrison, R (1997) ‘Paul’s Use of the Athletic Metaphor in I Corinthians 9’, in R. Garrison (Ed.), The Greco-Roman Context of Early Christian Literature, Sheffield, UK: Sheffield Academic Press, 95–104. Gudorf, ME (1998) The Use of ΠAΛH in Ephesians 6:2, Journal of Biblical Literature, 117.2: 331-35. Harris, HH (1964) Greek Athletes and Athletics, London, UK: Thames and Hudson. Harris, HH (1976) Greek Athletics and the Jews, Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Harrison, JR (2008) ‘Paul and the Athletic Ideal in Antiquity: A Case Study in Wrestling with Word and Image’, in Stanley E. Porter, editor, Paul’s World, Leiden: E. J. Brill: 81–10. Hullinger Jerry M (2004) ‘The Historical Background of Paul’s Athletic Allusions’, Bibliotheca Sacra, 161: 343-59. Kleinknecht, K Th (1988) Der leidende Gerechtfertigte, WUNT II.13, Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Koch, A (2008) ‘Paulus und die Wettkampfmetaphorik’, Trierer Theologische Zeitschrift, 1: 39–55. Available online with English version at www.con. spiration.de/koch/english/paul.e (accessed 3 August 2011). Krentz, E (2003) ‘Paul, Games, and the Military’, in JP Sampley, editor, Paul in the Greco- Roman World: A Handbook, Harrisburg, PA: Trinity Press International, 344–83. Mayer, Günter (1974) Index Philoneus, Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Metzner, R (2000) ‘Paulus und der Wettkampf: Die Rolle des Sportes im Leben und Verkündigung des Apostels (1 Kor 9.24–27; Phil 3.12–16)’, New Testament Studies, 46.4: 565–83. Mounce, WD (2000) Pastoral Epistles. Word Biblical Commentary, Nashville: Nelson. Murphy-O’Connor, J (1983) St. Paul’s Corinth. Texts and Archaeology, Collegeville, PA: Liturgical Press; 3rd edition, 2002. Nichoff, J (2003) ‘Athlete’, in H. Cancik and H. Schneider, editors, Brills New Pauly, English edition, Volume 2, Leiden: Brill, 282–83. Papathomas, A (1997) ‘Das agonistische Motiv 1 Kor. 9:24ff im Spiegel zeigenössischer dokumentarischer Quellen’, New Testament Studies, 43: 223–41. Pfitzner, VC (1967) Paul and the Agon Motif. Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline literature, Novum Testamentum Supplements 17, Leiden: EJ Brill.

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Pfitzner, VC (1981) ‘Martyr and Hero. The Origin and Development of a Tradition in the Early Martyr-Acts’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 15.1,2: 9-17. Pfitzner, VC (2008) ‘We are the Champions! Origins and Development of the Image of God’s Athletes’, Sport and Spirituality. An Exercise in Everyday Theology, Interface, 11.1: 49-64. Plank, KA (1987) Paul and the Irony of Affliction, SBL Semeia Studies, Atlanta: Scholars Press. Poliakoff, M (1984) ‘Jacob, Job, and Other Wrestlers: Reception of Greek Athletics by Jews and Christians in Antiquity’, Journal of Sport History, 2.2: 48-65. Schmid, L (1921) Der Agon bei Paulus. Unpublished dissertation, Tübingen. Schwankl, O (1997) ‘” Lauft so, dass ihr gewinnt”: Zur Wettkampfmetaphorik in 1 Kor 9’, Biblische Zeitschrift, 41: 174–91. Seesengood, RP (2005) ‘Hybridity and the Rhetoric of Endurance: Reading Paul’s Athletic Metaphors in a Context of Postcolonial Self-Construction’, Bible and Critical Theory, 1 (3): 1–14. Seesengood, RP (2006a) Competing Identities: The Athlete and the Gladiator in Early Christian Literature. Journal for the Study of the New Testament, Supplement Series, New York: Continuum. Seesengood, RP (2006b) ‘Contending for the Faith in Paul’s Absence: Combat Sports and Gladiators in the Disputed Pauline Letters’, Lexington Theological Quarterly, 41.2: 87–118. Stauffer, E (1964) agon; athletes; brabeuo, in TDNT, Volume I, Grand Rapids: Eerdmanns. Straub, W (1937) Die Bildersprache des Apostels Paulus, Tübingen: JCB Mohr [Paul Siebeck]. Williams, DJ (1999) Paul’s Metaphors: Their Context and Character, Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Witherington III, B (1995) Conflict and Community in Conflict: A SocioRhetorical Commentary on 1 and 2 Corinthians, Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Yinger, Kent L (2008) ‘Paul and Asceticism in 1 Corinthians 9:27a’, Journal of Religion and Society, 10: 1-17.

F. Ministry

General Priesthood and Ministry

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 5.3 (1971): 97–110

To avoid confusion this article uses Ministry with reference to the public office, and ministry with reference to the ministry of the faithful, the total people of God. The task here is not to give a full picture of either but to concentrate on the way in which the whole church, by its very nature, represents a priestly ministry and to ask how this ministry relates to what we called the public office of the Ministry. Before we plunge in medias res it may be profitable to list several theological and ecclesial factors which provide the setting for the following examination. The Ministry Crisis The assertion that the theological foundations, functions, and structures of the Ministry are amongst the most hotly debated issues in theology hardly needs documentation. Periodical literature as well as special studies reflect a growing dilemma as the Ministry becomes a key intra- and inter-confessional topic. Within the debate, there are a variety of individual issues, ranging from the problems of the training required for the public office to the shape which Ministry should take in an ever changing society, from the question of the significance of ordination as such to the debate on the legitimacy of the ordination of

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women or of some form of clerus minor.1 It is understandable and quite proper that the locus of the ministry should be high on the agenda in ecumenical debates,2 but the fact that it often takes precedence over other key issues is in itself indicative of what we might call a crisis in the theology of the Ministry. The reasons behind the new look at the Ministry are various. They certainly include a concern to get away from the traditional picture of the ‘shepherd over the flock’ role of the clergy in which the laity played the role of passive receivers. Again, the present debate may reflect a failure of theological nerve on the part of the church as it sees traditional structures attacked in an age which considers as obsolete anything that is not patterned according to immediate needs and present conditions. Finally, it is worth speculating on the possibility that the crisis in the understanding of the Ministry has arisen out of sheer disappointment at what has been accomplished by the church through its present structures. Whatever the reason may be, as the Ministry is called in question there is an increasing tendency to call on the concept of the priesthood of all believers to provide the cureall for the present ecclesiastical malaise. A study of the relationship between the total ministry of the church and the public office is necessary lest the church slip into a false anticlericalism. The Rediscovery of the Laity One of the positive factors behind the quest for renewed understanding of the Ministry is the new stress, echoed in all the churches, especially since World War 2, on the church in its totality as the serving, ministering people of God. In this connexion it is interesting to see how what was once considered a characteristic of the Lutheran Reformation has now become the common property of Christendom. The ‘royal priesthood’ has become an important foundation stone in establishing the new theology of the laity in Protestantism and the apostolate of the laity in Roman Catholicism. 1. The following collections of essays from Lutheran World can be noted: ‘The Ministry Today’, XI.4 (1964); ‘Theological Education and Functional Ministry’, XVII.3 (1970). See the forum on ‘Amt und Gemeinde—Unüberholbare Strukturen?’ in Kerygma und Dogma, 17.1 (1971). 2. See the report in Lutheran World, XVIII.2 (1971), 102–72 on early LutheranRoman Catholic discussions on the Ministry.

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Though it might readily be granted that the re-emphasis on the role of the laity has sometimes led to a Christian democratism, and may often reflect certain anticlerical biases, the theological discussions on the laity have attempted to reconcile what are claimed to be to different biblical emphases: the given nature of the divinely instituted office of the Ministry, and the nature of the whole church as celebrating and witnessing community. The study by the French Dominican, Yves M-J Congar on Lay People in the Church (1957) received an echo in the degrees of Vatican 2. The Council states its understanding of the Apostolate of the Laity in terms of the priesthood of all believers, using, just those texts of scripture which were central for Luther (Heb 5:1–5; Rev 1:6; 5:9,10; Rom 12:1) but carefully distinguishes the two priesthoods operative in the church. Though they differ from one another in essence and not only in degree, the common priesthood of the faithful, and a ministerial or hierarchical priesthood are nonetheless, interrelated. Each of them in its own special way, is a participating in the one priesthood of Christ.3

The difference ‘in essence’ is explained in what follows where it becomes clear that the special sacerdotal Ministry consists in bringing about the eucharistic sacrifice. ‘For their part, the faithful join in the offering of the Eucharist by virtue of their royal priesthood.’ This implies that the priestly function of the people of God is exercised through the officiating priest. It is interesting to note that what the New Testament understands by common priesthood is only alluded to with one brief statement: ‘They likewise exercise that priesthood by prayer and thanksgiving, by the witness of a holy life, and by selfdenial and active charity.’ The Dutch Reformed missiologist Hendrik Kraemer also wrote a Theology of Laity (1958).4 It was not his intention to deny the special Ministry of the public office. For him, it is for the sake of order alone that certain people are set apart by the congregation as servants—not 3. ‘Dogmatic Constitution of the Church’, Chapter II, par. 10. See also the ‘Decree on the Apostolate of the Laity’, Chapter 1, par. 3, printed in Documents of Vatican II, edited by WM Abbott, SJ (Geoffrey Chapman, 1967). 4. London: Epworth.

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as mediators. The Reformation principle of the general priesthood supplies Kraemer with certain basic insights. But because he correctly sees that the New Testament, with its characterisation of the people of God as a priesthood, is not concerned either with the rights of a class in the church (laity over against clergy), let alone with rights and privileges of the individual, Kraemer does not take the Reformation doctrine of general priesthood as the basis of his lay theology.5 He is aware of the pitfalls which threaten the use of what has become, to a large extent, a meaningless slogan. However, one remark of Kraemer points to the questions we have set ourselves: In principle all that was contained in the newly conceived ministry (sc. in the early church), to teach and preach, to baptize, to administer Holy Communion, to bind and loose sins, to make intercession, to judge about doctrine and discern the spirits, belonged to the rights of every baptized Christian.6

While it is true that the church is not to be identified with any priestly class or hierarchy but with the worshipping and witnessing people of God wherever they are to be found, the impression is created that the public office represents merely a delegated ministry for the sake of good order. It remains more than doubtful whether the public Ministry can be based on the Pauline principle of order in First Corinthians 14:33 and 40! A Problem Already with Luther? Is there already in Luther’s pronouncements on the general priesthood an emphasis which has allowed this doctrine to acquire an anti-clerical tone, which has perhaps even allowed the idea that the public office is a delegated authority issuing from the priesthood of all believers? It is certainly the case that Luther’s doctrine became part of a polemic against the Roman concept of priesthood as representing a special religious car class, a spiritual order (geistlicher Stand) with a character 5. According to Kraemer, the doctrine of universal priesthood rather fulfills the role of a flag than an energizing, vital principal—’it has been more a theme of theological declamation in order to recommend the Protestant variety to the modern mind than a spiritual, Church-transforming power’ (63). 6. Kraemer, Laity, 52.

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indelebilis, in contrast to the secular order (weltlicher Stand) of the laity. As early as 1519, Luther wrote: In the Sacrament of Penance and forgiveness of guilt a pope or bishop does nothing more than the lowliest priest. Indeed, where there is no priest, each individual Christian—even a woman or child—does as much. For any Christian can say to you, ‘God forgives you your sins’.7

There seems to be more than an attack on the hierarchy of the church in this and similar statements. In the great tracts of 1520, in his bitter correspondence with the ‘goat Emser’ of Leipzig in 1521, Luther continued to emphasise that every baptised Christian has the right and duty to be a priest to the brother or sister. And in later years, in his sermon on First Peter, (1522) and his exposition of Psalm 110:3 (1535) he goes so far as to suggest there is only a functional difference between the public office of the Ministry and the priestly ministry of every believer. Christ is the Priest, and we are all priests. Just as he sacrificed his body, so we too must sacrifice ourselves . . . There is only an external difference because of the office to which one is called by the congregation.8

The very fact that the teaching of the office as transferred from the congregation (the so-called Übertragungslehre) could arise in Lutheranism and cite Luther to prove its case, is indicative of a certain tension in Luther himself, and of changes of statements by the young to those of the old Luther. If, as Luther also makes plain, ministry is the possession of the whole church, we must again clarify the relationship of the public office to the total ministry of the church. Luther’s concept of general priesthood and the question of 7. Luther’s Works, American Edition, Volume 35, 12. 8. Volume 30, 54. Note also the words of Zwingli: ‘The Lord Jesus Christ called all Christians to kingly honour and to priesthood, so that they do not need a sacrificing priest to offer on their behalf, for they are all priests, offering spiritual gifts, that is, dedicating themselves wholly to God’; Library of Christian Classics, Volume XXIV (London: SCM, 1953), 88, With both Luther and Zwingli, the formulation is largely conditioned by their attack on the Roman concept of the character indelebilis as a character sacramentalis.

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the special spiritual office have received frequent attention, and he has been rescued from the charge of viewing the public office merely as an authority transmitted from the general priesthood exercised by the congregation.9 More urgent than the re-assessment of Luther’s thought is a re-examination of the New Testament evidence for our question, especially since exegetical study has seriously challenged the way in which Luther appeals to First Peter 2:5, 10 and Revelation 5:10 in developing the doctrine of the priesthood of all believers. In addition, we should ask whether there is other relevant New Testament evidence for the central concern of Luther, if the above cited texts proved to be doubtful exegetical foundations. A Meaningless Slogan? In his detailed exegetical analysis of First Peter 2:4–10, John Elliott has documented the way in which the phrase ‘priesthood of all believers’ or ‘royal priesthood’ has become sloganised. It is now not only a piece of Protestant pulpit polemics against Roman Catholicism, not only the magna carta of the rights of the individual Christian, but also the treasured possession of Roman Catholics, Anglicans— and Jews. Obviously, something has gone wrong when the same catchword can be used with differing connotations. Consequently, Elliott has gone so far as to call for the ‘death of a slogan’ as we leave behind this picture of Christians as royal priests and recapture the picture of the priestly ministry of the total church as ‘celebrating community’.10 TF Torrance in his discussion of Royal Priesthood has also spoken of the phrase ‘priesthood of all believers’ as carrying with it what he calls a ‘ruinous individualism’.11 In this connexion it is interesting to see how not First Peter but Hebrews 10:19,20, has provided the 9. See, especially, R Prenter, ‘Die göttliche Einzsetzung des Predigtamtes und das allgemeine Priestertum bei Luther’, Theologische Literaturzeitung, 86.5 (1961): 321,332. 10. John H Elliott, The Elect and the Holy. An Exegetical Examination of 1 Peter 2:4-10 and the Phrase basileion hierateuma (Leiden: EJ Brill, 1966), and the same author’s article, ‘Death of a Slogan: From Royal Priests to Celebrating Community’, Una Sancta, 25.3 (1968): 18–20. 11. TF Torrance, Royal Priesthood. Scottish Journal of Theology Occasional Papers, 3 (Edinburgh, 1955), 35, note 1.

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basis for the idea that Christian priesthood consists in, or is based on, the fact that each Christian now has his or her own access to God’s presence by virtue of the priestly sacrifice of Christ. The fact that Hebrews 10 does not speak of this new access in terms of priesthood does not determine writers from making this the turning point for a development of the doctrine of general priesthood.12 The dangers of this approach can be seen in a section of William Hulme’s book on counselling and theology: The ritual of the Old Testament and its fulfilment in the role of the Messiah in the New Testament is a dramatized description of the change from the spiritual child in the we-group of the Old Testament Israel to the spiritual adulthood in the development of the individual consciousness within the of the New Testament. The substance of the letter to the Hebrews is that the priest-role becomes internalized in personality ‘through faith in Christ’ who brought the function of the priesthood to its completion.13

This double error, the false conception of Christian priesthood as access to God and the individualisation of what in the New Testament is always a corporate concept, is again seen when Hulme later speaks of ‘the transition from the collective to the individual consciousness’ which gives people ‘the courage to affirm [oneself] not as a part but as a self in priestly relationship to God’. The author rightly sees the task of the pastor as a ministry to priests, but then argues that the pastor should not violate the priestly prerogatives of his people and the individual’s ‘right to responsibility’, but ‘help them to do their own mediating’. At this point, one can only ask whether Hume regards it as the real task of the public ministry to make itself obsolete for the individual believer!

12. See Lohse and R Prenter on ‘Priestertum’, in Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, V (3rd edition, 1961), 577,81; Leon Morris, Ministers of God (London: IVF, 1964), 31; Cyril Eastwood, The Royal Priesthood of the Faithful. An Investigation of the Doctrine from Biblical Times to the Reformation (London: Epworth, 1963), 26. 13. WE Hulme, Counselling and Theology (Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press, 1956), 118,20.

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New Exegetical Perspectives Renewed interest in the theological foundations of the church’s ministry was to a large extent activated by exegetical studies. The work of Ernst Käsemann14 and Eduard Schweitzer15 stressed that the ministry of proclamation and service is the task of the whole church. There is a plurality of ministries precisely because the grace (charis) of God in Jesus Christ receives concrete expression in the individuation of that grace in terms of special grace gifts (charismata), these always understood in terms of service. Thus, the total ministry of the early church was charismatic. According to Käsemann, the later development which saw the charisma of ministry concentrated in one person in a public office, as in the Pastoral Epistles, represents a development towards Early Catholicism.16 In contrast to the traditional view of the one ministerial office, an office with special rights reserved for the few, the New Testament speaks of the one ministry in terms of its many functions, and no original neat distinction was made between the total ministry of the church in all its members and the special office held by an individual. Käsemann does not deny the right of the early church to restructure its ministry in this way. Indeed, it was necessary in view of the threat of heresy posed by Gnosticism. Now it is hard to follow Käsemann all the way with this argument. To make his point, he has to insist on the apostle as one charismatic office among many and has to regard Luke’s report of the founding of special ministries by the apostles as a later reconstruction or a reading back into history of the later structure of the church in Luke’s day. But apart from all criticisms we may raise, Käsemann’s study once more presented the task of examining the relationship between the ministry as the task of the whole church in all its members and the Ministry as exercised by special ‘officers’. Clearly, the New Testament has both concepts of ministry, even if they are in some way complementary.

14. Ernst Käsemann, ‘Office and Church in the New Testament’, in Essays on New Testament Themes (London: SCM, 1960). 15. Eduard Schweizer, Church Order in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1961). 16. For an evaluation of Early Catholicism (Frühkatholizismus), see John H Elliott, ‘A Catholic Gospel: Reflections on “Early Catholicism” in the New Testament’, Catholic Biblical Quarterly, 31 (1969): 213–23.

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Of more immediate significance is the study of those New Testament texts which speak of the church as a ‘priesthood’ (hierateuma; 1 Pet 2:5,9), of Christians as ‘priests’ (hiereis; Rev 1:6; 5:10; 20:6) who offer up ‘sacrifice’ (thysia; Rom 12:1; Phil 2:17; 4:18. Heb 13:15,16). If we are still to use a revitalised slogan and not celebrate its death, we must do so based on a precise understanding of those texts which speak of Christian ministry as priesthood. The Worship and Witness of the Priestly Community It is impossible with the scope of this study to enter a detailed examination of Elliott’s conclusions about First Peter 2:4–10, the traditional locus classicus for the doctrine of general or universal priesthood. Since he himself neatly summarised his major conclusions, we can briefly refer to them as the basis of our discussion on this passage.17 1. The context of First Peter 2:4–10 is the election and holiness of the people of God. Verse five represents a midrashic expansion of the key epithets from Exodus 19:6 and Isaiah 43:20,21 which are then used expressly in verse 9. ‘All the predicates for the newly elect society cited in First Peter 2:9–10 are collective and corporate (“Elect race, . . . holy nation, God’s own people”) and applicable only to a people, a community, and not to private individuals.’ A detailed analysis of the key terms basileion and hierateuma shows that they must denote two nouns, a ‘royal residence’ and a ‘body of priests’. The first term thus provides a parallel to ‘spiritual house’ in verse 5 (‘to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God’) and verse 9b (‘that you may declare the wonderful deeds of him who called you out of darkness into his marvellous light’). The term priesthood thus denotes not the status of the individual but the Ministry of the elect and holy, the church in its entirety. 2. The text has nothing to do with the notion of individual kings and priests, nor with the idea that baptism is coronation to kingship and ordination to priesthood. The wider context of the passage is indeed baptism (1:3 and 22,23), but the specific scope of the church’s priestly service is given with its election and holiness. 17. The following points are based on those made in ‘Death of a Slogan’, 24,25.

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3. The term ‘priestly community’ is in no way related to or based on the priesthood of Christ. While such a connection, as that with baptism, is not theologically wrong, it has no foundation in First Peter, and at best can only be inferred from the letter to the Hebrews. 4. Since the passage speaks of priestly ministry in terms of the church’s total witness to the world, it has nothing to say on the office of the public ministry. The passage neither excludes nor provides the basis for such an office, and it certainly cannot be used ‘to derive an office of ministry from a notion of a general priesthood’. First Peter 4:7-5:5 speaks of service within the church on the part of individual members, but the outward and inward directed ministries of the church are not dependent on each other but complementary. 5. Neither of the section’s two major themes of election and holiness are associated with the accepted picture of the general priesthood in terms of priestly rights and function on the part of individuals. We will have to agree with Elliott that such a doctrine must find scriptural basis elsewhere in the New Testament. Even though there appears something like an exegetical consensus that basileion hierateuma must stand for two substantives. Elliott’s analysis has not gone unchallenged. Here it is not possible to fully engage with all the questions which Ernest Best has raised against this understanding of First Peter 2:4–10.18 Suffice to say that his contention that the passage has Neo-Levitical connotations is not convincing, though we can still ask whether the text, like those in Revelation, understands basileion as a body of kings. Secondly, we could ask whether the priestly sacrifices of verse 5 (meaning Spirit-worked sacrifices) can only mean a worldorientated witness in terms of verse 9, or whether it can include the sacrifice of praise that issues from the worshipping community in which the Spirit is present. Such questions would require detailed examination. For our present argument, it will suffice to note that none of Best’s arguments has destroyed the central contention of Elliott’s thesis: all epithets for the church remain corporate. In First Peter the community of Christians is not a priesthood because of the priestly sacrifice of 18. Ernest Best, ‘I Peter II 4–10–A Reconsideration’, in Novum Testamentum, XI.4 (1969): 270-93.

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Christ who has then delegated a priestly function to Christians, nor merely because it stands in the line of historical continuity with the elect of the Old Testament, but because it is elect in Jesus Christ, the elect and precious ‘stone’ (vv 4–8). In the Revelation passages, which also reflect the promise of the covenant formula of Exodus 19:6 (Rev 1:6; 5:10; 20:6) the emphasis is different. The corporate stress of First Peter is missing. Again, there is an explicit connection between the celebration of Christ as King and Priest with the announcement of his saints as ‘kings and priests unto our God’. But here the cultic sacrifice which is offered is that of hymnic praise in the heavenly cultus—thus, the great celestial songs of praise in Revelation. But this perfected priestly doxology can hardly be predicated of the earthly people of God, even though terrestrial worship reflects the heavenly.19 At one point, at least, in Hebrews 13:15, we do have reference to the priestly sacrifice of the saints within the context of worship. Within a eucharistic context we read of the offering up of a ‘sacrifice of praise to God, that is, the fruit of lips that acknowledge his name’. The eucharistia of the saints in response to the Eucharist is the sacrifice of praise. But the following verse, like Romans 12:1 and First Peter 2:9, can use cultic language to describe a priestly service which is anything but cultic in the usual sense. Hebrews 13:16 continues: ‘Do not neglect to do good and share what you have, for such sacrifices are pleasing to God.’ There is no difference in grade or acceptability before God in Hebrews and First Peter between the sacrifice of worship and the service of love. Indeed, we can go the next step and see how Romans 12:1 still uses priestly terminology to speak of a sacrifice of one’s total being, a sacrifice which like that of First Peter 2:9 takes place very much in the world. With these few texts, we have exhausted the number of New Testament references to Christians in anyway functioning as priests. The reason why the early church avoided such terminology is not difficult to guess. The only real priesthood of which it could henceforth speak was the priesthood of Christ. The closest we get to an individual functioning as priest is in Romans 15:16. But here, Paul’s ‘priestly service of the gospel’ (leitourgein) is not his actual office 19. For a discussion of this non-Petrine priestly terminology, especially in Revelation, see Elliott, The Elect and the Holy, 169–74.

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of proclamation as an apostle. The definition of his priestly service is given with the statement on the goal of his work, and the nature of his ‘offering’: the ‘offering of the Gentiles’.20 Not his activity but the faith of the Gentiles is his priestly sacrifice. Again, in Second Timothy 4:6 it is the life of the apostle, not his ministry, that constitutes his sacrifice. Other passages speak directly of the sacrifice of faith (Phil 2:17) or of the gifts of the Philippians to Paul and of the churches of Asia Minor to the poor in Jerusalem as ‘offerings’ or as a leitourgein. But these can hardly provide a basis for a picture of general priesthood in the New Testament. To conclude this section, we may summarise. 1. None of the texts examined refer to any kind of neo-Levitical function in the new people of God. Christ is the only priest. Nor is there reference to any priestly office in the church. The people of God as a corporate whole, in worship and witness, is a priestly body. There is no new priestly class with sacerdotal rights. 2. Nor do these passages depict the status or rights of individual Christians. If Christians serve God in the sacrifice of faith and praise, in witness or service to their fellow human beings and the world, they do so as members of a corporate people called to live out their election and holiness in a ministry of service. 3. Nowhere do we find a picture of priesthood in terms of rights given in baptism, priestly function delegated from Christ as priest, the right of access to God without human mediation, or in terms of the right and duty of each believer to speak the Word to one’s fellow Christian. The Ministry of the Total Church So far, our conclusions are mostly negative, expressing only one side of what Luther understood by universal priesthood, the negation of a priestly class with inherent sacerdotal rights. But if, as we should maintain, Luther’s doctrine is essentially a positive statement about the lively function of the gospel within the communion of saints, we must reach out to a wider circle of New Testament evidence for support. It is now a commonplace in theological literature to stress that ministry is the essential task of the whole church and not the 20. See Schweizer, Church Order, 172–74.

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prerogative of a public office alone. But we should ask: In what sense is the church ministry, and on what basis? Only then can we ask our final question: What is its relationship to a specific public office? Studies have stressed the need to look at ministry not in terms of titles but in terms of service (diakonia) on the one hand, and of charismatic gift on the other.

1. The New Testament has no term for ministerial office, but it does speak of diakonia as the essential task of the church in so far as it participates in the life and mission of its Lord, The Servant. Here we see a clear connection between ecclesiology and Christology.21 The fact that in the New Testament we normally read of diakonia in the singular is a reminder of the unity of ministry in the one church of Jesus Christ. What calls the church into being and is at the same time the expression of the church’s role in the world is the ‘ministry of reconciliation’ (1 Cor 5:18). The same word is used for the ‘ministry of the word’ (Acts 6:4) and for the ministry of loving service in the caritative sense (Acts 6:12; Rom 15:31; 1 Cor 8:4; 9:12,13). As the church is one under the same Lord, so its service expressed in various ways corresponding to the various gifts of the Spirit, is a unity, the possession of the whole church and not of a class within it. This observation remains valid even though Paul speaks predominantly of his own apostolic ministry as a diakonia, a service in the Word (Acts 20:24; 2 Cor 3:9; 2 Tim 4:5). Nowhere do the New Testament writings use other Hellenistic terms denoting an official authority limited to one person. As Schweizer pointed out, ‘The very choice of the word (sc. diakonia), which still clearly involves the idea of humble activity, proves that the church wished to denote the activity of one who is at the service of God and his fellow men, not in a position carrying with it rights and powers.’22 2. In the New Testament, the call to serve in ministry is understood as an unmerited gift of grace. Paul’s conversion is at same time a call to service so that his ministry is also a gift of divine charis (1 Cor 15:10; 3:10; Gal 2:9; Rom 1:5; 1 Cor 15:15). Only at one point does Paul use diakonia in the plural as he speaks of ‘varieties 21. For the servanthood of Christ see Mark 10:45, Luke 22:27 and John 13:12–16, where the servanthood of the disciple is based on that of Christ. 22. Schweizer, Church Order, 177.

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of ministry/service’. Each ministry is the outcome of a specific charisma of the Spirit. While each believer has the basic grace of God in Christ (Rom 6:25), this grace finds concrete expression in varying gifts of grace for ministry and service. This last emphasis lies behind the great apostle’s choice of charismata over pneumatika in First Corinthians. The Spirit’s gifts have been seen as personal possessions, claimed by people to pride themselves, to edify themselves, instead of using them for the benefit of others. Paul’s concept of charismatic service takes in his theology of calling or vocation (Rom 11:29; 1 Cor 7:7,17–24). A person’s klesis and position in life is also to be seen as a call of the Spirit to service. To speak of charismatic ministry in Paul is not to speak of an ecstatic ministry or to subordinate the ministry of the Word under special supernatural manifestations of the Spirit. The comment of Käsemann sums up the situation: This is what distinguishes charismata from heathen pneumatika: they are validated not by the fascinosum of the praeternatural but by the edification of the community. For him [sc. Paul], the test of a genuine charisma lies not in the fact that something supernatural occurs but in the use which is made of it. No spiritual endowment has value, rights, or privileges on its own account. It is validated only by the service it renders.23

The charismatic ministry in its diversity within the one body of Christ is the gift of the glorified Lord (Eph 4:7-16). Ministry remains service within the unity of the corporate body of the church as a christocracy. The lists of ministries in First Corinthians 12:4–11 or Romans 12:4–8 are misunderstood if seen as representing something like a hierarchical ordering. All gifts are on an equal footing; the only reason why some supernatural gifts are somewhat subordinated is to be found in their false evaluation in Corinth, and perhaps elsewhere. The lists in First Corinthians 12, Romans 12, and Ephesians 4 present a certain priority in the Spirit’s gifts, since the ministry of the Word provided by apostles, prophets, and teachers, receives a dominant 23. Käsemann, ‘Ministry and Community in the New Testament’, Essays on New Testament Themes, 66,67.

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position. But as yet we have no concentration of these functions in one office which might correspond to what we call the public office today. The administration of the sacraments is nowhere limited to one ministry, as far as we can see. Even the charism for governing or administrating (1 Thess 5:12) is not identical with the gift of preaching and teaching. There is something approaching the concentration of ministerial gifts in the one office in the Pastorals where the laying on of hands is seen as giving a special charism (1 Tim 4:14; 2 Tim 1:6). But even here it is not ordination which imparts a special gift or indelible mark of office, but the prayer for the Holy Spirit to give a special measure of grace to make God’s servant fit for ministry. Ministry is still not seen in terms of authority and power as attached to a person, but in terms of the working of the Spirit in the church. This brief analysis of diakonia and charismata in the New Testament reveals the same emphasis detected in the study above of the priestly character of the people of God. Ministry is the task of the corporate people of God. It is certainly not a seen in terms of rights of individuals but of service within the body. However, a wider study of ministry can show that two of Luther’s emphases in his doctrine of universal priesthood do have scriptural support, without looking to First Peter 2:5,9. There is a fundamental connection between Christ’s ministry and that of the church, and we do find an explicit connection between ministry and baptism in First Corinthians 12:13. It remains to be seen how Luther’s positive understanding of the priesthood of all Christians as exercised in the mutual consolation and admonition of brothers and sisters in the faith fits into the evidence outlined so far. In the church there is only one final authority, that of the Lord of the church. This is an authority which the whole church with all its members shares. Various passages show that the church is the community of people ‘taught by God’ (1Thess 4:9; John 6:46; 7:38,39; 14:15–17,25-26; 15:26,27; 1 John 2:27). The whole church possesses both the Word of its Lord and the Spirit of the Lord. Thus, the gifts of the Lord through the Spirit are gifts to the whole church, and every believer who possesses the Spirit knows and can dispense the will of God in Christ to the fellow believer. The great mission commands apply to the whole church, not just to a class of individuals. It is not only to the outside world that the church has a mission or ministry. There is also within the fellowship

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of faith a ministry which consists in the exercise of spiritual gifts. Here every Christian is involved since every Christian ‘possesses’ the word of grace and shares in the ministry of reconciliation. This is most forcefully pointed out in Colossians 3:12–17. Those who are ‘called in one body’ share the ministry of the Word to each other, as they ‘teach and admonish one another’ (verses 15,16). Verse 13 shows that this is not a public, representative ministry but one exercised within the community of the reconciled who are to speak the reconciling word, to forgive each other in the name of the Lord. This is Luther’s ministry of fraternal admonition and consolation. This ministry finds further expression in Galatians 6:1,2 where the injunction to bear one another’s burdens must mean more than showing material care. The opening verse of the chapter speaks of the sinner and his or her restoration, thus intimating that the bearing of another person’s burden must be seen as a bearing of responsibility towards that person as sinner. Every word spoken in the community of saints must have as its aim the building up of the church, ‘that it may impart grace to those who hear’. In the same moment that Paul speaks of his own priestly service in the gospel, in the offering up of the faith of the Gentiles, he can also remind his readers that they are filled with all knowledge and able to instruct one another (Rom 15:14). Indeed, the apostle expresses the hope that, on coming to Rome, he will also impart some spiritual gift to his brothers and sisters in the faith (Rom 1:11). In saying this, he surely speaks as a Christian brother to Christian brothers and sisters, not only as the apostle of the Lord. Since the word that binds and frees is given to the whole church, the Office of the Keys is the office of the entire church. Matthew 15:15–22, 16:15–19, and John 20:21-23 in various ways imply that the message of admonition and forgiveness is to be spoken by the whole community of saints. Believers are responsible for fellow believers, for reproving and correcting, above all, for restoring into the fellowship of the body of Christ. The whole congregation exercises this restorative ‘church discipline’ (2 Cor 2:7 and 2 John 10). For the same reason that the whole church possesses the Word of the Lord and his Spirit, all believers are called to test the spirits, to be responsible for the truth of the Word that is proclaimed in their midst (1 John 4:1 on the background of 2:20,27).

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This service with the Word is related to service of fellow believers with reference to physical needs. The scope of service is extended in terms of one’s calling so that the so-called Tables of Duty also constitute a call to service and ministry. Pauline and Petrine paraenesis also presupposes a ministry of suffering, or in suffering. No matter what the emphasis is in a particular context, the basic stress remains constant: Christ the Servant calls people to himself, and in so doing equips them with his Word and Spirit for a life of service, to the saints and to the world. The church is ministry; it cannot choose ministers to serve vicariously for the whole people of God. It is, as Eastwood sums up: All the various ministries of the New Testament are the expression of the one mission, just as all forms of service are the outcome of one priesthood. This has nothing whatever to do with legalistic systems or official duties. It is the Christian’s inevitable task.24

If our conclusions to this point are valid, two questions require consideration. If, as Morris also points out,25 the New Testament knows nothing of individual priests within the priestly body, if there is no privileged class, ‘no possessors of an indelible sanctity and with special rights of access to God’, if Christ’s is the only necessary and effective ministry, what is the status of the public office as a special Ministry within the total ministry of the Church? Before this question is answered, there is the one posed at the beginning of our study. Can we still speak of the royal priesthood of believers at all, or is this phrase so loaded with misunderstandings that we should plead with Elliott for the death of a slogan? Should we perhaps still use the phrase with the plea for correct biblical interpretation and emphasis? If we continue to speak of ‘royal’ priesthood, we can do so only by interpreting ‘royal’ with reference to the Kingdom of grace (regnum gratiae) of Christ the King,26 and if we continue to speak of ‘priesthood’, we should emphasise the total ministry of the church, 24. Eastwood, Royal Priesthood, 52. 25. Morris, Ministers of God, 32, 33. 26. For the royal character of ministry in term of Christ’s rule of grace, see V Vajta, ‘Der Christenstand als “Königliches Priestertum”’, in World Lutheranism of Today (Stockholm, 1950), 355–57.

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or the special life of service of believers within the context of the corporate church. Such a reemphasis may not be impossible. Ministry and Public Office Within the limited scope of this study, we cannot examine in detail the theological and historical origins of the pastoral office as we know it. For our immediate purposes the following observations must suffice. 1. The apostolate is a unique office created by the risen Lord as he authorised eye-witnesses of his resurrection to become his spokespersons to the whole world. This office is the Lord’s gift to the whole church. 2. While there is no evidence for an apostolic succession in terms of direct ordination by the apostles, since they left disciples and not a new generation of apostles, they did appoint bishops and elders and charged them with the care of the church and with the keeping the apostolic witness (Acts 14:23; 20:24; see also the Pastorals). 3. There is in Paul’s listings of the charismatic ministries a stress on the Ministry of the Word, and this ministry is concentrated in individuals in the Pastoral Letters. The bishop and presbyter represent a centralising of charismata which was necessary in an age when the apostolic witness, the ‘deposit of faith’, was under threat from various directions, especially from incipient Gnosticism. 4. The tendency in the New Testament is to give the Christian community a visible order, to structure the vital functions of the church according to the nature of the gospel itself. 5. Nowhere in the New Testament is the general ministry of the church made dependant on a public office, nor does the public officer rise out of the so-called priesthood of all believers. The ministry in the narrow sense remains as much a gift to the church as the very message of its Lord. 6. Because of the latter point the general ministry of the church does not immediately empower any believer to claim privileges and authority over the whole church, nor to exercise a public ministry.

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These statements, especially the last two, require further elaboration. The Ministry of the Word is one divinely ordained (de iure divino). The extent to which other ministries supplement it by divine will depend on the way in which and the measure to which they are supplementary to this Ministry of the Word. But whatever the specific ministry may be, it is always to be seen as a gift of the Lord to his church, for it is based on the call of his Word, the gift of the Spirit and the gift of grace itself. Paul’s office, like that of Timothy, is as much a gift as the individual ministries which believers exercise through the Spirit’s special gifts. Because they administer God’s grace in Christ through the Word, both spoken and enacted sacramentally, ministers owe allegiance to Christ. They are first and foremost answerable to God as stewards of the mysteries of God (1 Cor 4:13) and not merely as functionaries of the church institution. In no way can the public office and its authority be derived from the general priesthood. It is not an extension of the life of the church, but a gift to the church (Eph 4:11,12; 2 Cor 5:18). At the same time clerical authority does not issue from one’s own person. The authority pastors come to the congregation with is the potestas evangelii inherent in the Word under which both clergy and congregation stand. It is because they come with the external Word that does not owe its origin to the church (see 1 Cor 14:36: ‘What! Did the word originate with you?) that they are to be honoured ‘as from God’. As noted earlier, Luther saw in the pastor only ‘an external difference because of the office to which one is called by the congregation’.27 But the words that follow are important: ‘Before God there is no distinction’. The equality that Luther speaks about is the quality of the redeemed before God (coram Deo; Gal 3:27,28). But this does not immediately imply equal in the sense of identical functions in the church. Every member of the church has the right and the duty to participate in the calling of a servant of the Word, as well as the duty to test and maintain the authenticity of the Word proclaimed on Christ’s behalf. Here there can be no confusion of offices and functions. One could further ask what does Luther mean by ‘only an external difference’? We might gain the impression from his writings that 27. See note 8 above.

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the only basis for the special Ministry is the principle of good order enunciated in First Corinthians 14:33,40. He wrote: We are all equally priests, that is to say, we have the same power with respect to the word in the sacraments. However, no one may make use of this power except by the consent of the community or by the call of a superior.28

In later years, largely because of his struggle against the Enthusiasts, Luther stressed the divine institution of the public office so that it is not to be derived from the general priesthood.29 While the old transference theory (Übertragungslehre) will hardly be repeated in the same terms today, we can expect a repetition of the claim that the public office is merely a delegated authority. To this we must again stress that the Ministry cannot be simply understood as a vicarious official exercise of functions which belong naturally to all believers, just as we must contend that the Ministry does not merely belong to the contingent order of the church or its sociological structure. The only two cases where Luther allowed the individual to assume the functions of an office was in the case of emergency and in private life (for example, in the case of a father as head of his household). But the fact that the Lutheran Confessional writings hardly mentioned these exceptional cases shows that the concept of the general priesthood in no way defined the Lutheran understanding of the public office. Ordination to the public office is not a delegation of authority, but the public ratification of the divine call. It is an act of authorisation, but not the basis for the ministry’s authority. The call itself (being rite vocatus: rightly and ritually called) is likewise not a matter of mere good order. In calling a pastor the church does not hand over its ministry but in the name of God calls into an office which already exists as God’s gift to the church to be exercised not only within the congregation but also to it. The final connection between office and church is the fact that the Lord created both. They are called into being by the same Lord of the church. To act in the name of Christ and of his church is one 28. ‘The Babylonian Captivity of the Church’, in Luther’s Works, Volume 36 112,13. 29. B Lohse, ‘Priestertum’, in Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart, V, 3rd edition, column 580.

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and the same thing. But the public office cannot have two bases, one divine and one human. As noted already, the congregation which calls does not create an office, but calls into already existing ministry in its midst. There can be Ministry in a local area before there is any church. The New Testament sees the ministry of the church and the office of the Word as entirely complementary. The Spirit has given diverse gifts to the church. The only reason why the public office is the exercise of a special gift is because it deals with the essential marks of the church. Before any believer can speak the Word to a brother or sister, that person must hear and stand under the objective message of grace which arises not out of the congregation but comes from Lord. The whole church is indeed the ministra verbi, but it can only be that if first brought into being as a creatura verbi. The special ministry is the Lord’s gift to preserve the rule of the gospel in his church, to preserve the objectivity of the Word. In so far as the Ministry brings the gospel to expression (remembering that the sacraments belong to the gospel), it is part of the church’s indispensable structures. The nature of the special Ministry is to be determined solely by reference to the redemptive action, realised in Word and sacrament, through which Christ maintains the church.30 Ministry in the widest sense as universal priesthood and as public office belongs to the very nature and life of the church. While the special office is to be distinguished from the multiplicity of services rendered by the communion of saints, both as a corporate body and as brothers and sisters speaking to fellow believers, all aspects of ministry belong together for the building up of the body of Christ and for its witness to the world. With the correct stress on the divine authority of the public ministry, we must also emphasise that this power is not a potestas iurisdictionis but a potestas evangelii. A ministry which sees its task both as witness and as an ‘equipping of saints for the work of the ministry’ (Eph 4:12) will be preserved from becoming a clericalised minority of professionals over against a passive and merely receptive laity. 30. That the general priesthood does not compete with the public office is shown by Prenter (note 9 above), and by E Kinder, ‘Allgemeines Priestertum im Neuen Testament’, Schriften des theologischen Konvents Augsburgischen Bekenntisses, Heft 5 (Berlin,1953), and Ernst Sommerlath, Amt und allgemeines Priestertum (Berlin, 1954).

Office and Charism in Paul and Luke

First published in Colloquium, 13.2 (1981): 28–2138

The topic of ministry remains high on the agenda of interdenominational dialogue throughout the world. Broadly speaking, two streams of tradition and theology are represented in these trans-confessional talks. The one stresses historical foundations and continuity of ministry with reference to an ecclesiastical office, while the other represents rather a functional approach to ministry, in which both the foundations and nature of ministry are seen in terms of what ministry does rather than is. Such a distinction must necessarily be based on broad generalisations, but it may be helpful to characterise them further as stressing a formal principle on the one hand, and a material principle on the other. This twofold distinction must, in more recent times, be supplemented with a third. More radical elements in the charismatic movement have polemicised against structured ministries of the historic churches as rigid, formal, clericalism. But quite apart from such attacks, the charismatic movement has reasserted another legitimate criterion for ministry: a special gift of the Spirit. We may, therefore, speak not only of a formal and material criterion, but also a charismatic. Well before the influences of the charismatic movement were being felt in academic circles, such scholars as Ernst Käsemann and Eduard Schweizer1 were maintaining that the ministry of the primitive church was essentially charismatic. While not rejecting the legitimacy 1. Käsemann, ‘Office and Church in the New Testament’, in Essays on New Testament Themes (London: SCM, 1960); Schweizer, Church Order in the New Testament (London: SCM, 1961).

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of a development towards a structured ministry, best represented in the Pastoral Epistles, Käsemann could not hide a sense of regret that this should have been necessary, namely, the development from early fluid, unstructured, charismatic ministry to the formalised structured orders which became part of Early Catholicism. It is implied that the formal principle won the day against the material and charismatic principles. Without working our way through these and more recent New Testament discussions on ministry, this much can at least be said. Together with a growing emphasis on the pluriform thought in New Testament, on diversity of theology in the early church, there is a growing acceptance of what should have been obvious all along, that the New Testament does not give us a blueprint for ministry in terms of form and structure. There was a plurality of form. We need only recall the way in which the ‘presbyter’ represents the background of mainly Palestinian Judaism, while the ‘bishop’ represents the influences of Hellenism, without denying possible connections with Judaism as well.2 The very diversity in the New Testament explains the diversity of forms of ministry in the history of the church. The pressing problem today is not to re-argue or even restate the arguments relating to the so called original, primitive forms and structures of ministry, but to see how the formal, material, and charismatic principles are, or should be, related and combined in the ministry today. Our purpose here is to attempt an assessment of the relationship of these three principles in the writing of two New Testament witnesses, Paul and Luke, and to take the apostolate as a basic starting point for the examination. The choice of Paul and Luke is suggested not only by the obvious fact that it is these two writers who highlight the office of the apostle, but also by the fact that they are sometimes cited as the key witnesses for the two conceptions of ministry outlined above, an unstructured, charismatic ministry, and one that has become structured. The data in Paul is better known, and examination of it has produced a fair degree of unanimity among scholars. With Luke the situation is somewhat different. For some he is still a good historian but a poor theologian; with others he is a fair theologian, but a totally unreliable historian; for others the less time we waste on Luke the 2. For example, the Dead Sea community had the ‘office’ of the mebaqer, the overseer.

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better! If what is offered here also serves as a modest contribution toward the rehabilitation of Luke, so much the better, even if that is not our real purpose. I.  Looking at Paul Neither Paul nor any other New Testament writer employs a Greek term which might be translated with ‘office’. But one cannot read Paul’s passionate defence of his apostolate in Second Corinthians, his arguments for its non-human origins in Galatians, without realising be has a very keen sense of being called by God into a special position with a special function: ‘Paul, called by the will of God to be an apostle of Jesus Christ’ (1 Cor 1:1); ‘Paul, a servant of Jesus Christ, called to be an apostle, set apart for the gospel of God’ (Rom 1:1). The historical origins of this office are referred to explicitly on three occasions (Gal 1:1; 1 Cor 9:1; 15:8). That he does not refer more often to the Damascus experience as a certification of his office should not be interpreted as a sign of any uncertainty, on his part at least, that this was the origin of his apostolate. Paucity of references to it rather indicates the difficulty Paul had in convincing those who challenged his authority that his vision of the risen Lord was indeed an objective call, one that placed him at the side of the original Palestinian apostles. Beside the historical appeal for the foundations of his office, Paul also uses the charismatic. Here he is never found making a claim to the Spirit that is higher, greater, or superior to that which any member of the church could claim. It is characteristic of his thought that he stresses the one Spirit at work in the whole church, in the entire body of Christ with all its members as they function in a plurality of ministries, all of which have an essential function to perform (1 Cor 12). The pneumatic and charismatic nature of the apostolate is clear from its listing in ministerial gifts of the Spirit in First Corinthians 12:28 and Ephesians 4:11. Prominence is given to the charismata which belong to the apostle and prophet. This does not mean that the apostle and prophet can claim a greater measure of the Spirit or a greater gift. The prominence given these two offices, if we may call them that, can be explained without reference to a quantitative understanding of charisma. In the first place, the apostle and prophet are prime examples of ministry of the Word which is unmediated, that is, which comes directly from the kyrios. In the second place,

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these ministries are listed first because they are not locally confined but are operative in the entire church and not directly related to local ministries, whether they be of presbyters, bishops or whatever. The surprising point—especially surprising when one considers the way in which the Spirit’s gifts have been equated with personal power in some sectors of the charismatic movement— is that Paul rarely hints at the idea that the Spirit or a special charism is the power of his apostolate. He prefers to speak in his office as a charis, a concrete manifestation of grace at work (Rom 1:5; 1 Cor 3:10). ‘The transcendent power belongs to God, not to us’, he writes to the Corinthians (2 Cor 4:7). It is important to note in this connection that it is against the pneumatics of Corinth with their proud claims to the Spirit and his gifts that Paul is forced to employ the pneumatic argument in defence of his apostolate. Some have apparently relegated him to the position of ‘apostle second class’, if that, because he does not certify his authority with clear signs of the Spirit. In answer to the demand for external signs of an ecstatic, spectacular nature, Paul plays the fool and sings his song of folly. Almost in passing he records that ‘the signs of a true apostle were worked among you in all patience with signs and wonders and mighty works’ (2 Cor 12:12). He does not say that he performed the signs and wonders. When he does recall one visionary experience, he refuses to speak of himself directly (‘I know a man. . .’; 12:2). Instead of glorying in charismatic power the apostle boasts of imprisonments, beatings, being stoned, shipwrecks, and all the other plagues he has suffered (11:23-29), including his thorn in the flesh (12:1-10). It is in the context of this argument that Paul appeals to his readers themselves as the certification of his ministry, if any is still needed. His readers are themselves his workmanship in the Lord (1 Cor 9:1), a letter ‘written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God (2 Cor 3:3). Quite clearly, Paul never denigrates any claim to a charism. As an apostle, he claims possession of the Spirit. To the Corinthian pneumatics, he says, ‘I think I have the Spirit of God (1 Cor 7:40)— a concluding comment in a long argument which certainly does not betray any doubts in Paul’s mind but rather a certainty that is even more impressive because of the intended touch of irony. It is equally clear that there is no tension between office and charism in Paul, between the claim to the Spirit and the origins of his office in

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the encounter with the risen Lord. While the commission and the authority come from the Lord, the power and ongoing certification of his work come from the Spirit who is nothing less than the Spirit of the Lord (2 Cor 3:17). Paul’s claim to speak the Spirit’s message is at the same time the claim to be speaking the words of the kyrios. But there is another reason why there is no competition or a tension between the two essential elements of his ministry: office, meaning dominical authorisation, and charism, meaning certification by the power of the Spirit. The third factor is what we have called the material principle: what Paul administers, the gospel. We need not recall the whole weight of evidence, again mostly from the Corinthian correspondence, to observe how Paul sees the power of his ministry in the power of the gospel itself. Far from claiming special personal charisms, dynamic personality, eloquence of speech, personal presence, and the like, Paul insists that the word of the cross is the power (dynamis) of God. It is this because the Spirit is at work in its proclamation ‘interpreting spiritual truths to those who possess the Spirit’ (1 Cor 1:18; 2:1–5, 13). One other chapter of the same correspondence can be cited to show how, for Paul, the apostolate is a charism, what constitutes the ministry of the new covenant as a covenant of glory as the activity of the spirit through the gospel. ‘Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to claim anything as coming from us; our sufficiency is from God who has qualified us to be ministers of a new covenant, not in a written code, but in the Spirit; for the written code kills, but the Spirit gives life' (2 Cor 3:5, 6). For Paul there is one ultimate criterion for the validity of a ministry: the truth of that ministry’s message. It might be argued that Paul downplays charism in the Corinthian letters because of the situation in which he found himself, his struggle against the pneumatics. It might equally well be pointed out that the argument that divine strength is perfected in human weakness can be pushed to the absurd. After all, not all suffering or human weakness is proof of the Spirit. Martyrdom can produce its own neuroses, the condition that says, ‘I’m right because everyone else is against me’. The important point to note is Paul’s obsession not with personal dignity (office) or personal gifts (charism) but with the gospel of freedom. In a real sense, the material principle is the controlling factor in his understanding of ministry.

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II. Looking at Luke It is tempting to dive straight from Paul to modern questions, but it may be helpful first to turn to Luke, noting both agreement and contrast with Paul. It is a common assumption in the voluminous literature on the role of the apostles in the early church that the conditions for apostleship as stated in Paul and Acts 1:21,22 cannot be brought into harmony with each other, but that they rather represent two opposing views. Differences are undeniably there, and one should avoid any facile harmonisation of Luke and Paul. On the other hand, contrasts are made unnecessarily sharp when we fail to note the different theological goals and aims of Luke. Is he really at all interested in developing a theology of ministry? The following brief analysis of some key themes and sections in Acts will attempt to let Luke speak for himself without superimposing any other scheme on him, whether it be that of Paul or any of our own making. That Acts underlines a close connection between the role of the apostles and the work of the Holy Spirit after Pentecost needs no demonstration. On a lexicographic or statistical count, we should speak of the ‘acts of the Spirit’.3 More importantly, Luke does not connect apostle and Spirit in exactly the same way as does Paul. In Acts the twelve apostles in Jerusalem have a significance and meaning that is not paralleled in Paul’s writings. Nowhere in Acts does an apostle, whether Peter or Paul, appear with the stated claim to the Spirit as a mark of apostolic authority. Nowhere is apostleship described in terms of a special charism. The immediate impression left by Acts is that the apostles are filled with the Spirit and under his direction in much the same way as the rest of the church is Spiritfilled and Spirit-led. Without attempting to answer the many historical and theological questions that arise from the narrative, we will focus on the way in which the linking of apostles and Spirit serves the development of some prominent motifs in Acts.4

3. Apostoloi (always in the plural) appears twenty-eight times, while the pneuma is expressly referred to fifty-seven times. 4. For a more detailed study of the Lucan material see my study ‘“Pneumatic” Apostleshjp? Apostle and Spirit in the Acts of the Apostles’, in section C of this volume.

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1.  The Promise of the Spirit: Acts 1:1–8 It is to the Eleven that Jesus gives his command to wait in Jerusalem for the ‘promise of the Father, the Spirit who will give them power from ministry (Luke 24:33,47-49; Acts 1: 2,4,8). It is a command ‘given through the Holy Spirit’ (verse 2).5 Like Paul, Luke does not see the Spirit as choosing the apostles; it was the risen Lord who confirmed their appointment and authorisation as his special emissaries and pointed them forward to a ministry of universal dimensions. He who was himself anointed with the Spirit and with power now promises the Eleven that they will share this power in the exercise of a ministry into which they have already been called. Put bluntly, charism is not the basis of office. The opening verses of Acts not only set the stage for Pentecost; with reference to the Spirit they also serve to underline Luke’s point that the apostles continue the ministry of Jesus himself. 2.  The Election of Matthias: Acts 1:15–26. This strange narrative relates an event to which no further reference is made in Acts. Matthias disappears from the story, and the full body of the Twelve appears on only one further occasion (6:2). There is no supplementary election to fill the vacancy left by James’ death (12:2), nor does Luke seem to betray the slightest interest in aligning James, the brother of the Lord, to the Twelve though, clearly, he speaks as an apostle and for the other apostles in chapter 15. Clearly, the significance of the story must be gained from its setting, the interim before Pentecost. Further, the Spirit plays no role in the ‘election’ of Matthias. It is not even stated that Peter was led by the Spirit to find a replacement for Judas, nor can we find here a first instance of a future feature that recurs after Pentecost, the opening of the scriptures through the Spirit. In verse 16, the Spirit is still the predictive Spirit of the Old Testament scriptures. It may not be overstating the case to say that the Spirit is here only the witness to a predetermined divine plan of history. In view of the role played by the Spirit at the commissioning of Paul and Barnabas at Antioch (Acts 13:1–4) it might be reasonably assumed that the Spirit would direct the choice of a replacement for 5. For theological and grammatical reasons, it is best to take the phrase ‘through the Holy Spirit’ with ‘gave command’ rather than with ‘he had chosen’.

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Judas. This is not the case. Peter takes the initiative not at a special direction from the Spirit but in obedience to scripture and to the Lord who first chose the Twelve (Luke 6:12–16). Once more, the Spirit is not the foundation of apostleship, nor of the content of the apostle’s witness. Luke begins with the formal and material principle. Outside of its present context, this narrative could be interpreted in a variety of ways. In its present setting, as CH Dodd rightly observed, it must have a definite sense and meaning, however much Luke may have reworked and reformulated earlier traditions. Thus, the election must relate not to the founding of the central body of the Twelve as a structural and organisational entity, but to the mission of the church which begins at Pentecost. Reflected in the story is the self-understanding of the church and its mission rather than a concern with structures of authority and organisation. Stated briefly, the narrative says that there can be no witness to the ends of the earth (1:8) until God’s claim on the whole house of Israel has been reiterated. The twelve apostles are 'the representatives of the theocratic eschatological people’.6 The election of Matthias means the establishment of the claim of the early church to be nothing less than the Israel of the last times through which the Spirit is at work establishing the Kingdom. The Twelve first represent the restored people of God (Luke 22:2,30; Matt 19:28) before the universal claims of the gospel can be understood or implemented. 3.  The Apostles and Pentecost: Acts 2 The old view that Pentecost was ‘the initiation into, a consecration to specific service for God’, or initiation into an official ministry, is quite incorrect.7 Luke insists that the apostles were called by the Lord not by the Spirit. Pentecost means the beginning of an exercise of ministry, the beginning of mission. Just as Jesus began his public ministry only after his baptism, so the apostles can begin their ministry only after the reception of the Spirit.

6. J Panagopoulos, ‘Zur Theologie der Apostelgeschichte’, in Novum Testamentum, 14 (1972): 41. 7. See WH Griffith Thomas, The Holy Spirit (1913; reprint Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1964), 42.

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Commentaries and special studies usually overlook the obvious question posed by the narrative of Acts 2. Who were those who first received the Spirit? Luke seems to want to suggest that it was the restored Twelve. The word ‘all’ in 2:1 is usually related to the 120 of 1:15. Such an identification is improbable for the following reasons. The story of Pentecost is preceded by an explicit reference to the Eleven/Twelve in 1:26. Peter’s Pentecost speech is prefaced with the comment that he stood up amongst the Eleven (2:14). He speaks on behalf of the other apostles who have been the first to receive the Spirit as representatives of the restored Israel. The first impression becomes more a certainty when we note that the onlookers refer to the people speaking in tongues as Galileans (v7), while Peter speaks in terms of these men (verse 15). There is no mention of a large company, including women. There naturally follows the appeal to Israel to believe (verses 5,14,22,36). This appeal can only be made by those who represent Israel in the full sense. The appeal to receive the Spirit must be made by those who have been confirmed by the Spirit as the eschatological people of God spoken of in the Joel prophecy. The Twelve are Israel in embryo, in its projected entirety. 4.  The Jerusalem Church Acts nowhere and in no way intimates an exclusive apostolic claim to the Spirit. Peter’s Pentecost speech climaxes in a general outpouring of the Spirit. While the apostles speak with ‘boldness’ as they witness to the risen Christ, the same power of the Spirit is present throughout the church (4:13,29–31; 9:27–29). Any special connection between apostle and Spirit is because they remain the original witnesses, not organisational heads. Luke is not interested in the structure of the church but in its mission. The apostles stand at the centre not because they constitute something like a praesidium or organisational hierarchy. It was the elders who were the heads or the rulers of the church in Jerusalem, who received gifts from Antioch (11:30), and had to be involved in the question of circumcision as those responsible for the supervision of the local church (15:4, 6, 23; 16:4). Luke deliberately links the apostles with Jerusalem, but they are not local authorities. They represent the link with, and the authority of the Lord in the entire church. That is why the Spirit is at work through

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them in a special way with the signs and wonders promised by Joel (2:19,42,43). The Spirit confirms their role as original witnesses. It is as witnesses and first recipients of the Spirit that they confirm the ministry of the deacons (6:2,6). The summary accounts of Acts specifically link the testimony of the apostles with the work of the Spirit (4:33; 5:3 9,12). Luke’s point is that the Spirit is the guarantor of continuity between the ministry of Jesus and that of his apostles. The picture is anything but that of an anonymous, faceless ‘primitive community’ (Urgemeinde) whose only contact with the Lord is through charismatic voices, visions, and prophetic utterances of the Spirit. But this does not mean that the Spirit has been tamed or institutionalised. The essence of apostolic ministry is the message—thus the prominence of speeches in Acts as paradigms of preaching. Luke is not interested in portraying the apostles as guarantors of ecclesiastical tradition and transmitters of office. He is interested in establishing the presence of the Lord in the church through the activity of the Spirit. 5.  Samaria and Caesarea What has just been stated may seem to be contradicted by the Samaritan Pentecost and the story of Cornelius’s conversion. It is important to note Luke’s aim in telling these stories. They are not models of how to become a Christian, or how to get the Spirit! Both stories represent pivotal points in the history of mission as it follows the Lord’s own Plan (1:8). It is the Spirit who takes the initiative in leading the church, including the apostles, to an understanding of the universal claims of the gospel. The breakthrough of missionary universalism, apparent after chapter 13, is a product of the Spirit’s working in Samaria and Caesarea. The man who brings the gospel to Samaria is not an apostle, though Philip’s ministry has been confirmed by that the Twelve (6:26). Despite the persecution which follows Stephen’s death, the apostles stay in Jerusalem (8:1). However, it is only after Peter and John come down from Jerusalem, pray and lay their hands on the Samaritans that they receive the Spirit (8:4–17). Why must the apostles be involved in all these happenings? Are they, after all, first in ministry because only they can impart the Spirit? Obviously, the act of praying and laying on of hands is not the decisive thing, nor is it an apostolic prerogative

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(see 9:17,18). Nor does Luke want to suggest that the lack of the Spirit was due to some deficiency in the ministry of Philip. The Spirit is operative in the next episode as Philip meets the Ethiopian Eunuch (8:23–39). A conversion takes place without any help or confirmation from the apostles. It appears that Peter and John entered the scene not simply as delegates, as church officials, from the mother church, but as apostles who represent the Twelve. Similar questions arise in connection with the Cornelius story, though here it is an apostle, Peter, who acts at the direction of God through a vision (10:9–16) and the Spirit (10:19) as he witnesses to a Roman centurion. The subsequent reception of the Spirit and baptism certify that these ‘outsiders’ in Caesarea have, indeed, received forgiveness of sins through Christ’s name (10:43–48). Once more, the apostles are involved. There is no mention of the ruling elders in Jerusalem being implicated. No more apostles are required to appear (Peter is already there); it is enough to note that others from the Jerusalem Church are there with Peter (10:45; 11:1). But again, we must ask: Why, as in 8:14, must the apostles of Jerusalem be involved in these proceedings? Acts 8:14 speaks of the apostles at Jerusalem. That is surely more than a geographical note. Why, according to 8:1 did the apostles stay in Jerusalem while other Christians fled from the persecution? Obviously, Jerusalem has a special meaning for Luke, a fact that has often been noted. This is the city of judgment and salvation. The Gospel begins and ends in Jerusalem. The various stages of the Lucan travel narrative are marked by the repeated refrain that Jesus set his face to go to Jerusalem. The Lucan passion narrative is framed by two Jerusalem scenes. In 19:41–44 Jesus weeps over the city; in 23:27–31 the people of Jerusalem weep for Jesus. The promise of the Spirit and its fulfilment in the first two chapters of Acts assert that Jerusalem is the centre of salvation-history. In the Lucan view, Jerusalem, apostles, and Spirit belong together in the picture of the early church as Israel on whom God has again laid his claim. It is only to be expected, then, that the apostles should be involved in any extension of the church beyond Jerusalem. It is not as charismatically gifted emissaries of Jerusalem that some of the apostles are present at these points in the narrative. These events are not designed to show that there is some special power inherent in the apostolic laying on of hands. Peter and John appear not as special

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possessors of the Spirit, but as witnesses. This can be seen from the almost prosaic and anticlimactic conclusion to the narrative in 8:25. Peter and John witness to the Lord in Samaria before going home to Jerusalem without further mention of laying on of hands or gifts of the Spirit. It is truer to say that the Spirit leads the apostles rather than that the apostles bring the Spirit—see the rather amusing picture of a bemused and puzzled Peter in the Cornelius story. Peter and others must learn the significance of the fact that ‘God gave the same gift to them’ (the Samaritans and Cornelius with his household) ‘as he gave to us when we believed’ (11:17). The last words of Peter in Acts show that it was the apostles as the first recipients of the Spirit who had to learn from the activity of the Spirit the universalism of the Gospel (15:11). It is perhaps truer to say that the apostles are witnesses of the Spirit’s work in these episodes than dispensers and guarantors of the Spirit. 6.  Paul and the Spirit After chapter 15 the Jerusalem apostles all but disappear. While the Spirit continues to figure prominently in the mission of Paul, at least up to 21:11, he is only twice called an apostle, and each time with his companion Barnabas (14:4,14). Luke is at least being consistent for, according to the criteria of 1:21, 22, Paul cannot be an apostle in the same sense as the Jerusalem apostles. Luke probably reflects some knowledge of the difficulties Paul had in being accepted as an apostle by some circles. On the other hand, he is also being consistent with the picture he has outlined earlier. His reticence to speak of the apostles after the scene shifts from Jerusalem illustrates what we have argued; the reconstructed Twelve, not just any number of apostles in Jerusalem, stand at the beginning of the church’s history in a way which cannot be altered by any later deaths (James) or additions (Paul). Having noted all this, it is still true to say that Paul is an apostle— and Luke insists on this, even if Paul himself must admit that he is not one of the original witnesses (13:31).8 While acknowledging 8. Paul never calls himself a witness to the Lord but only a ‘witness to what people have seen and heard’ (Acts 2:15; 26:16).

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the discontinuity between the Jerusalem apostles and Paul, Luke nevertheless ties Paul as closely as possible to them. He does this not merely by means of a threefold narrative of his call; it must be specifically stated that Paul received the Spirit, even if later and in a different way than the original witnesses (9:17). Luke cannot push the formal foundation of Paul’s ministry (for historical reasons); that is why the charismatic principle receives prominence in this section of Acts. The formal argument is there—as soon as possible Paul is introduced to the apostles in Jerusalem and is accepted by them. Luke also gives the basis for this acceptance: Paul’s claim to have seen the Lord and his speaking about the Lord with ‘boldness’ (parrhesia, 9:27). It is by stressing the charismatic and material principles that Luke aligns Paul with the other apostles, and he does this in a way which is both subtle and powerful: What Peter does and says, Paul must also do and say.9 The conclusion is clear. Paul must be witness and apostle (martys and apostolos) even though these titles do not properly belong to him. The unique position of Jerusalem witnesses and apostles demands that Paul’s legitimate claim to apostolicity and pneumatic power must be authenticated by a somewhat circuitous method, by narrative rather than by title. Paul must appear as a man specially endowed with charismatic gifts, for example, healing, bold speech, in contrast to the picture we have from Paul’s own letters. We have here a piece of special pleading, but one that must be seen within the context of Luke’s overall aim. He is not simply interested in the rehabilitation of Paul but rather in the question of continuity in salvation history, in the mission of the church. As the apostles continue the ministry of the Lord, so Paul represents the legitimate continuation of ministry after the Jerusalem Twelve. Apologetical concerns relating to Paul are subsidiary to a far greater concern. 7.  Apostles of Antioch? The question might be asked: Has not Luke ultimately reversed the order which some have found in the development of ministry in the New Testament? Does Luke see the office of the original apostle 9. For the parallels between the deeds and words of Peter and Paul in Acts, see the article cited in note 4 above.

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continued in the ministry of a charismatic who cannot claim the same formal foundations to ministry? In what sense are Paul and Barnabas sent out from Antioch as ‘apostles’? Acts does not describe in what sense Barnabas is an apostle. Passages like Galatians 2:7–9 and First Corinthians 9:5,6 only imply that he is an apostle without giving the basis, without even giving him the title as in Acts 14:4,14. There is no hint that he is an apostle already in 4:36; the note that he was surnamed by the Apostles could indicate that he is marked as one distinct from their number, but it could be that Luke is here again simply speaking of the apostles as the Twelve. Barnabas appears as an intermediary between Paul and the Apostles (9:27), between Jerusalem and Antioch (11:22,24), between Antioch and Paul (11:25, 26), and finally with Paul between Antioch and Jerusalem (11:29, 30; 12:25; 15:2). In the light of this activity as an envoy, we can understand a small detail in the narrative of Acts that is easily overlooked. Where their names are coupled, Barnabas more often takes precedence over Paul, in terms of order.10 Were the two men simply apostles in the general sense of emissaries, charismatic envoys of Antioch where they were originally numbered amongst the prophets (13:1)? There is an overlapping of the role of prophets and apostles in Acts, but Paul and Barnabas are first mentioned as teachers in Antioch (11:26), and the normal situation in Acts is that the apostles stay at home in Jerusalem and the prophets who travel, as Earl Ellis has pointed out.11 There is hardly any doubt that Paul and Barnabas form an apostolic pair.12 While Luke distinguishes them from the original Twelve (9:27; 15:2), he is still concerned to show their close relationship with the Jerusalem Church long before their commissioning in 13:1–4. That Luke sees both men as apostles and not simply as in emissaries of the local church can be seen from several points. Paul’s call to a universal witness comes well before 13:1–4 and is repeated on two further occasions (chapters 22 and 26). The apostolic claim of both men is underlined, as we would expect, by Luke’s reference to the Spirit. Well 10. ‘Barnabas and Saul/Paul’ appears nine times, the reverse order seven times. 11. Ellis, ‘The Role of the Christian Prophet in Acts’, Apostolic History and the Gospel: Biblical and Historical Essays Presented to FF Bruce (London: Eerdmans, 1970), 64,65. 12. See Walther Schmithals, The Office of the Apostle in the Early Church (London: SPCK, 1971), 53,54.

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before they are sent out, both men are described as being full of the Spirit (9:17; 11:24). Thus, it is ultimately the Spirit who sends them out on the first missionary journey (13:4). There is no suggestion that the congregation sent them out on the second mission. They again go out as apostles of the Lord, equipped and led by the Spirit for their task. They remain, finally, not itinerant charismatic prophets but apostles of the Lord. Conclusion It would be interesting to develop what we have noted in Acts in contrast to Paul’s own picture of his apostolate. Is the more charismatic miracle-working Paul of Acts the same person as the man who decries the demand for demonstrable charism in Second Corinthians? A brief answer could indicate that Paul and Luke combined the same three principles in their picture of the apostles (formal, material, and charismatic) and that the time and place had determined the stress placed on all three. Luke may well have been fighting against similar opponents as Paul, that is, against enthusiasts who threatened to ‘dehistorise’ the gospel, the ministry, and the church, and who claimed immediate access to the Spirit. More important, the predominant principle remains the material. While ministry can never be divorced from persons who are gifted for it, what first characterised Christian diakonia of the Word was the Word itself. Office, charism, and gospel are kept in balance by both Paul and Luke. That same balance should be preserved today. A one-sided stress on office leads to clericalism; a one-sided stress on charism can lead to subjectivism with its confused babble of claims to divine truth from personal experience. Having said that, it may be worth considering whether gifts should play a greater role in the selection of candidates for public ministry and in their ministerial education and formation. The early church chose people who were already equipped for ministry by the Spirit. Theological education in Australia continues to bear the stamp of its European origins in that it stresses academic respectability. Is it not time to rediscover that other dimension, the certification of the Spirit? The plea for a new appreciation of charism in ministry does not imply the abandonment of traditional forms and structures of ministry as these have proven effective in the past. But it would seem

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equally important to appeal for greater openness to new ministries, in which the forms of the past are barely recognisable. This can be as dangerous as it is exciting since charisms can never be tied to or identified with set structures. Historic foundations and forms of ministry, such as apostolic succession, have tried to preserve what Luke was trying to preserve, the continuity of the gospel in history. But all forms of ministry are to serve the ‘matter’ itself, the gospel. And both the gospel and the charism of the Spirit cannot be institutionalised.

The Pauline Principle and the Ordination of Women

Previously unpublished discussion paper from 1998

Consensus and Dissent: an Historical Preface At union in 1966 there was official consensus within the Lutheran Church of Australia: a woman could not be called into the office of the public ministry.1 Scriptural support for this position was supplied by simple reference to 1 Corinthians 14:34,35 and 1 Timothy 2:11–14. Exegetical notes and theological argumentation were not necessary; there was no controversy over the matter. This consensus was not yet broken by giving women the right to vote at congregational meetings in1966.2 Nor was the situation much altered in 1978 when General Convention ruled that ‘the right to act as delegates at conventions of the Church may be granted to men and women alike’.3 Considerably more theological argumentation was provided than in previous statements—behind the relative brevity and even-handed tone of the 1978 statement lay a great deal of battle heat and dust! But the fundamental principle of subordination and reserve for women was still not called into question. Consequently, official statements of the LCA after 1978 centred only on the application of the principle of male authority and the subordination of women. Women could serve on boards and committees of the church and as 1. Theses of Agreement VI, 11, in Doctrinal Statements and Theological Opinions of the Lutheran Church of Australia (Adelaide: Lutheran Church of Australia, Volume 1, 1989): A13 (henceforth DSTO). 2. See DSTO 1989: F1. 3. The Role of Women in the Church; DSTO 1989: F2-3, 3.

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elders in congregations but were still debarred from serving as lay readers.4 Basic assumptions on which earlier statements were based were increasingly challenged and more thoroughly debated following the 1986 decision of the Commission on Theology and Inter-Church Relations to initiate a thorough study of the question whether women could be ordained. The point was soon reached where original consensus has been replaced by dissent on a variety of exegetical and theological questions. That situation remains unchanged. Two things are now clear: •

•

While a genuine theological consensus once lay behind the Church’s rejection of the ordination of women, it was one that was largely built on assumptions as to how the key texts and other biblical evidence were to be read. A great amount of detailed exegetical work was devoted to disclosing as clearly as possible the original meaning of texts. The assumption seems to have been that explication and application are one and the same process. There was relatively little reflection on the problems caused by an uncritical transposing of historical texts into a modern setting.

An Emotive Issue There is no more emotive issue in the LCA today than whether women may be ordained to the public office. Though some members have no strong opinion on the matter and are waiting for the Church, especially the bishops, to make a decision since proposed changes have not gained the required two thirds majority at successive synodical conventions, the rest of the Church remains deeply divided. It is a painful debate for many and is so for several reasons. Some are bewildered at the rejection of traditional practice and associate it with the rejection of the authoritative voice of scripture. Again, it has been suggested that to ordain women must have a domino effect, leading to nothing less than the loss of Trinitarian theology and to the ‘feminisation’ of the Church. Some are dismayed that clergy and theologians of the Church continue to be divided on 4. In 1984: DSTO 1989: F3; 1989: DSTO 1997: D1; 1993: DSTO 1997: F1.

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the issue. All naturally fear that the current debate and the resultant decision may lead to structural division. On the other hand, there are many—and not only women—who long for change and an end to the loss of members because of insistence on men-only clergy, a stance which has also led to members entering the ministry of the Anglican or Uniting Church. Literal or Inferential Meaning It is reasonable to assume that without the key texts1 Corinthians 14:33a–35 and 1 Timothy 2:11,12 there would be no debate. Other issues, as important as they may be, are subsidiary: the maleness of the apostles; the ‘headship’ of men in the order of creation and the ‘subordination of women’; the significance of Paul’s women co-workers, including the identity and role of Junia/s in Romans 16:7; the textual integrity of 1 Corinthians 14:33, 34; the importance of tradition. The appeal to a literal (and presumably obvious!) reading of the key texts helps little. Those who find here a lasting interdict against woman preaching and teaching still have to explain what the words mean: ‘. . .the women should keep silent in the churches. For they are not permitted to speak. . .’. A literal reading of 1 Corinthians 14:34, 35 would suggest that wives should not speak in the sense of engaging in a discussion but should carry on any further discussion with their husbands at home. The text does not speak of preaching or teaching, or of the behaviour of all women towards all men in the assembly,5 and vice versa. Further, a literal reading of 1Timothy 2:11,12 would have to lead to the conclusion that the supporting reasons for a woman’s submissiveness (Adam was created first; Eve sinned first) are not ad hoc arguments that had probative weight back then but remain eternally valid in any and all situations involving men and women. That Eve’s daughters are more culpable in God’s sight than Adam’s sons is an impossible proposition! Any argument whether pro or contra must argue inferentially, combining evidence into a coherent argument. Several proof passages 5. The Greek word ekklesia is here and elsewhere in the Pauline letters best rendered with ‘assembly’.

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will not suffice. So also, there is no statement in the New Testament that we may or must baptise infants, but we do so, inferring the legitimacy of such practice from the universality of sin and the universality of grace. Similarly, the argument for women being able to exercise the privilege of public ministry cannot produce a supporting proof text but can draw inferences from the evidence. It can argue that • • • •

the key texts make perfect sense in the context of the early church’s mission a male apostolate and male dominated local ministry made sense in the early church but do not suggest an eternally binding order there are clear indications in the teaching of Jesus and of the apostle Paul that men and women are equally heirs of the Kingdom and co-workers in the spread of the gospel legitimate implications for the ordering of ministry can be drawn from the gospel without turning the gospel into law.

Historical-Contextual Meaning The purpose of this contribution is to attempt a reasonable reconstruction—absolute proof is probably too much to hope for—of the historical circumstances which gave 1 Corinthians 14:33a–35 and 1 Timothy 2:11,12 specific meaning, and then ask how the texts speak to our historical circumstance. The argument for the ordination of women—both here and overseas—has suffered from at least two problems. The first is this: as already noted, it is a simple fact that there are no texts which say in so many words that women may be, let alone should be, admitted to the public ministry. It is true that no New Testament texts expressly say that men must ordained, but there are the two texts which call for women to be silent in some sense in public worship. But a simplistic citing of Bible passages on the assumption that their meaning is clear also will not suffice. The second problem of the pro argument is how to deal with the import of 1 Corinthians 14 and 1 Timothy 2, namely, that women are to act in a submissive and reserved manner in public worship. The two main texts have the following in common: women/wives are to remain silent; they are to show submission; they are to be learners or questioners rather than leaders and teachers. One can argue about the integrity of the textual tradition and about semantics, but the general import of the texts is clear.

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Various reasons have been offered to explain why we should not apply these texts in a literal way today. The proposition that Paul was a misogynist is hardly worth considering, and not only because it lacks proof. It also places Paul’s apostolic authority in question. Another solution, one we might call the cultural argument, comes in various forms. Its general thrust is that the early Christian movement arose in a male-dominated, patriarchal society. Strictures that applied to the conduct of women in society were simply taken over by the early church. Since our cultural and societal values place women on an equal footing with men (in theory if not in practice), the New Testament regulations about women speaking in public can no longer apply. There are several problems with this argument as thus stated. In the first place the concept of ‘culture’ is too general and elastic. Which culture are we talking about: Greco-Roman or Jewish? Do we mean Palestinian-Jewish or Diaspora-Jewish? In the Greco-Roman world culture was not a consistently uniform reality. There was a difference between the status accorded to women in the West and East of the Roman Empire—but even that is a generalisation! Nor can we make easy distinctions between Jewish faith and the cultural expression of that faith. The cultural argument by itself must logically finish with the inference, if not explicit claim, that it is our improved cultural values (the equality of women in our western societies) that determine how we read the old. Such a view is problematic. It is hardly deniable that we read ancient texts through cultural glasses, but our situation does not determine the original meaning of texts two thousand years ago. A far more differentiated and nuanced reading of the key texts is required. It is vital that we give proper attention to their historical setting and specific purpose. The thesis of this presentation is that the insistence on women keeping their reserve in public worship was part of Paul’s mission policy that in no way invalidated or militated against his gospel principle of the equality of all baptised. To insist that the policy must remain in place in the twentieth century, even though the original mission situation no longer obtains, is to compromise the gospel principle. Put simply, Paul expected women/wives to maintain restraint in public in order to advance the cause of the gospel. Today we should promote women in ministry for the very same reason: in the cause of the proclamation of the gospel. Here we can indicate the argument in no more than broad strokes.

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The Pauline Principle By Paul’s gospel principle we mean that aspect of Paul’s missionary proclamation which says that, on the basis of baptismal incorporation into Christ, the old disunity between people based on ethnicity, gender, and social status no longer applies in the church. In the version of the baptismal formula that Paul cites in Galatians 3:28, the last phrase clearly refers to Genesis 1:27. ‘There is no longer male and female ‘recalls the creation of ‘male and female’.6 Something that belongs to the old, created order is changed in the new. It would be totally preposterous to read Paul as saying that the gospel immediately and automatically transforms the whole of society. It did not do so then and does not do so now. Baptised Christians did not cease to be Jews or Gentiles, men and women, free people or slaves. Paul’s immediate and main point is that people, no matter what their background and social position, are ‘all one in Christ’. The text proclaims the unity of all in Christ. Does it do more than that? The implications to be drawn from Galatians 3:28 have been much debated, especially in connection with the debate over the ordination of women. Some insist that this text states a faith reality not to be translated into social reality. More specifically, it is viewed as referring to an eschatological truth that will be realised only at the consummation. When Paul looks at human relations within the family of the baptised, he does not rest content with making faith statements about eschatological realities. He orders relationships in the light of the gospel, and in such a way as to show that equality of people in Christ is part of their unity in Christ. A few examples will suffice to illustrate the point: • •

Onesimus may not have ceased to be a slave, but Paul obviously expected Philemon to treat him very differently now that he had become a Christian (Philem 15–17). Early Christians could not change whether they were of Jewish or Gentile background, but Paul expected each side to embrace and treat the other as equal in honour and standing (Rom 15:7–9; Eph 2:11–22).

6. The phrase is missing in 1 Cor 12:13 and Col 3:11; see John HP Reumann, Ministries Examined: Laity, Clergy, Women and Bishops in a Time of Change (Minneapolis: Augsburg, 1987), 109.

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Husbands and wives remain men and women with their own sexuality, but marital relationships are now determined by the love, respect, and mutual submission that they share as partners in the gospel (Eph 5:21–33).

That the gospel principle has practical ramifications for the way in which men and women relate to each other is clear from two other texts. In sexual relations between Christian partners, in the intimate expression of the union of a man and woman, there is no lording of one party over the other; neither party rules his or her own body (1 Cor 7:4). It is difficult not to read Paul’s words on the background of Genesis 3:16b: ‘Your desire shall be for your husband, and he shall rule over you’; Paul uses an intensive form of the same verb kyrieuo. Paul’s side comment in 1 Corinthians 11:12—that the Christian husband and wife are not independent of each other but remain interdependent—is highly significant precisely because it occurs within an argument for the clear distinction between men and women, husbands, and wives. Even the creation argument cannot be used to argue for the priority of the one gender over the other, ‘for as woman was made from man, so man is now born of woman’. In that sense, a woman is ‘head’ of any to whom she gives birth, also a male. It is just this last passage which raises the problem. How is it that Paul can enunciate what we have called the gospel principle and in the same breath call for behaviour of women in public which suggests that they are ‘under’ men in the sense that they are to reflect honour on their husbands? Some of the problems of 1 Corinthians 11:2– 16 can be solved by reading the text on the background of ancient concepts of shame and honour.7 But the most important question remains: how does principle relate to policy, that is, to the practical demands of the Pauline mission? Pauline Policy and Practice Though it proclaimed a radical gospel, the early Christian movement was conservative in its practice as it moved from the Palestinian mother-soil into the diaspora of the Gentile world. It did not seek to change social structures. This was due not only to the precarious 7. Bruce J Malina, The New Testament World: Insights from Cultural Anthropology (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1981), 25–48.

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social position of the church and the conviction that the return of the Lord was imminent—see how these two considerations govern Paul’s advice in 1 Corinthians 7 that people ‘remain’ where they are in society. Those considerations were important, but there was another that meant that the Pauline congregations could not radically change the position and function of women. We are talking about the Apostle Paul’s missionary strategy and the Jewish beginnings of the church. This is not the place to attempt anything like a complete survey of Paul’s missionary policy and practice. The apostle was never burdened with the modern necessity of perpetually drawing up mission statements and strategies! His task came with his call; everything was now placed in the service of fulfilling that call. There could be no compromise over the gospel, but Paul seems to have been amazingly elastic when it came to how the gospel reached people. Even if people preached Christ out of false motives, including rivalry with Paul, he could still be happy. ‘What does it matter? Just this, that Christ is proclaimed in every way, whether out of false motives or true; and in that I rejoice’ (Phil 1:18; NRSV). He could not only accept the work of others who were badly disposed towards him; he could also adapt himself to the personal situation of those who needed to hear the gospel, becoming a Jew to the Jews and a Gentile to the Gentiles (1 Corinthians 9:19–23). He could do this not because flexibility was itself a virtue, but because of his mission. ‘I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel. . .’ (9:22, 23). It is Paul’s concern for the expediencies of mission that help to explain why he does not insist on a radical application of the gospel principle. At this point we need to be a bit more specific about the focus of the Pauline mission. Though he was called to be an apostle to the Gentiles, Paul never ceased to be also an apostle to the children of Israel (see Acts 9:15). That is certainly how Luke saw the Pauline mission: from beginning to end he made the Jewish synagogue and community his starting point (compare Acts 13:6 with 28:17). We speak of the apostle as missionary to the Gentiles; it would be more correct to say: missionary to the Jews among the Gentiles, and then to the Gentiles themselves. Did Paul himself view his mission in the same way? Galatians 2:7, 8 should not be pressed to mean that Peter could go only to Jews and Paul only to Gentiles. Paul’s passionate concern for his fellow Jews,

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a concern reflected in Romans 9–11, meant that the gospel first had to be brought to them. It is not going too far to say that the Jewish synagogue was the seedbed of the church in the Greco-Roman world. The first Pauline converts were, in the main, either Jews or ‘Godfearers’ from the synagogue. And the focus of the mission of these churches did not look away from the local Jewish communities once the church was founded. The Jewish synagogues at Corinth and Ephesus figure prominently in the Lukan history of the Christian communities in those two cities.8 Despite this, Corinth has traditionally been seen as the prime example of a Gentile Christian community with little in the Corinthian correspondence to suggest a strong Jewish presence. Ephesus has been commonly regarded as the prime example of the success of the actual Pauline mission in confronting Greco-Roman paganism—in this case, the cult of the Ephesian Artemis. Both views can be challenged. It is wrong to suppose that the errors addressed in the Corinthian correspondence must have originated only in pagan Hellenism, that they could not also have appealed to—even originated with—hellenistic Jewish converts. Jewish Christians were present at Corinth, and with such non-Jewish names as Crispus (Acts 18:8; 1 Corinthians 1:14), Sosthenes (Acts 18:17; 1 Corinthians 1:1), Jason and Sosipater (Rom 16:21; Acts 17:5–9), Aquila and Priscilla (Acts 18:2, 18, 26; 1 Cor 16:19; these two also have connections with Ephesus). This should alert us to the possibility that other Corinthian Christians mentioned in Acts 18, First Corinthians 1 and 16, as well as Romans 16 could have been Jews as well.9 In the case of Ephesus, Rick Strelan has made a convincing case that Ephesus was not a success story for Paul’s Gentile mission, as is sometimes maintained.10 The Artemis cult continued to flourish despite the small Jewish Christian community at Ephesus that survived as a Johannine rather than Pauline community. We have looked at the origin of these two churches since they are the faith communities addressed in the key texts. Paul’s appeal for 8. For Corinth see Acts 18:8,17; for Ephesus see 18:26 and19:8) 9. See Gerd Theissen, The Social Setting of Pauline Christianity (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1982), 94,95. 10. Rick Strelan, Paul, Artemis, and the Jews in Ephesus (Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 1996).

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consistency of practice in all the churches (1 Cor 14:33b) was surely motivated by his concern for the preservation of unity in the service of the church’s mission. Common practice suggests a common situation: the need to ensure that practice did not shock Jews or provide fuel for the customary Roman distrust of new and foreign cults.11 The texts themselves should be able to tell us whether Paul’s ultimate concern was the preservation of a creational or liturgical order, or whether his concern was simply good order so as to avoid setting up skandala for both Jewish converts and potential Jewish and non-Jewish converts. The Specific Focus of the Key Texts The teaching of Paul on the subordination and silence of women in worship not only makes sense in a Jewish Christian setting; there are features in the texts which are best explained on that presupposition. But first a caveat is in place. I am not suggesting that all that Paul says on the behaviour of women in 1 Corinthians 11, 14 and 1 Timothy 2 is motivated by concern to keep peace and order in Jewish-Christian congregations. Nor is he concerned only with avoiding the giving of offence to Jews who are yet to be won for the gospel. The vision of Paul goes beyond Jews. • •

The reference to what is ‘proper’ or ‘degrading’ in 1 Corinthians 11:13, 14 embraces wider societal values in Corinth than merely Jewish sensibilities. The instruction in 1 Timothy 2:9–15 is framed by an appeal to the concept of modesty. Modesty, like sensible and seemly behaviour (v 9), was valued in women by Hellenistic society generally, not merely by Jews.

The two key texts are not identical in form and content. First Corinthians 14:33b-38 cites the regulation, undergirds it with citations of authority, and anticipates the objections of charismatics who might want to dispute the apostle’s ruling. The rationale for the ruling is given in v 35b: ‘For it is shameful for a woman to speak in church’. First Timothy 2:11,12 states the rule for the silence of women

11. See Craig Keener, Paul, Women and Wives: Marriage and Women’s Ministry in the Letters of Paul (Peabody MA: Hendrickson, 1992), 140–42.

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in apodictic manner. But here a more elaborate rationale for the practice is provided (vv 13,14). Despite differences, there are three points that the two texts have in common. Women/wives are to remain silent; they are to show submissive behaviour (neither text speaks of them submitting themselves to men/husbands); they are to be questioners and learners. The best way of understanding these three points and the one lesson they develop is to recall synagogue practice. After the reading of Torah and Haftorah, these lections from the Law of Moses and from the Prophets could be discussed, but only by male members. Participation of a woman in the discussion was impossible as was any woman reading the sacred text in the synagogue or studying it in private at the feet of a rabbi. The presence of a woman always involved the risk of ritual impurity. Thus, the women/wives are to ‘ask their husbands at home’ if they want explanations (1 Cor 14:35); they are to learn rather than teach (1 Tim 2:11,12). It is not difficult to understand how Jews or Jewish converts would have found any other behaviour anything but ‘shameful’. It may be that the two texts have another feature in common. The appeal to ‘the law’ in 1 Corinthians 14:34 without further specification or quotation, has continually puzzled commentators. Is he referring to the Old Testament as a whole, to the Mosaic law, to one passage like Genesis 3:16, or to rabbinic law? That Paul is even referring to Jewish custom should not be too quickly dismissed. Paul Billerbeck points out that custom could count as Torah.12 It is reasonable to assume that Paul could refer to the ‘the law’ without further specification because Jewish Christians would know what he meant. The rationale for the silence of women in 1 Timothy 2:13, 14 also causes problems with its reference to the Genesis account in the Torah. The argument for authority on the basis of temporal priority is a common Jewish argument, employed also in the New Testament.13 It is an argument that would make little sense to the non-Jewish mind. Likewise, the statement that Adam was not deceived cannot be taken purely at face value. It does make sense in the light of Jewish discussion over Eve’s guilt.14 A certain reading of the Genesis story is assumed, and that reading most reasonably belongs to the readers’ 12. Paul Billerbeck, Die Briefe des Neuen Testaments und die Offenbarung Johannes erläutert aus Talmud und Midrash (Munich: CH Beck, 1926), 468. 13. See, for example, John 1:15,30; 8:58; Gal 3:17; Heb 7:4–10. 14. See Keener, 114,15.

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Jewish past. Specific injunction in a specific circumstance explains the use of a specific way of arguing. Meeting Some Objections It might be objected that there is no other evidence for what we have proposed, namely, that practical conclusions were not drawn from a principal because of the Jewish origins and continuing mission of the early church to Jews. There are, in fact, two examples that show how mission expediency rather than insistence on principle could determine missionary practice—without leading to the surrender of the principle itself. •

•

The Pauline principle was that circumcision counted for nothing in the new covenant of grace (Gal 6:15; 1 Cor 7:19), yet the apostle circumcised young Timothy so as not to give unnecessary offense to Jews in a potentially ripe mission field. The principle enunciated by the Apostolic Council was that Gentile Christians were to be free of the law as a condition for entry into God’s people (see Acts 15:7–11, 19). Yet the minimum requirements of Gentile converts laid down by the Council did include one or two (depending on the meaning of ‘blood’) prohibitions which had Jews in mind. The avoidance of offence to potential Jewish converts was clearly a top priority (see Acts 15:19–21 with its reference to those who in every city listen to Moses being read in the synagogue). This decree, issued with the authority of the Holy Spirit as well as of the apostles, and outlined three times (see also 15:29; 21:25), was never repealed. The need for it simply lapsed.

Secondly, it might be objected that the above argument still sees culture as determinative for the behaviour of women in church. To this it must be asserted that the principle is Pauline, not drawn from the values of our present western society. Changes to the status of women in our society mean that the policy is no longer required (it would still most certainly be required in Islamic countries). For many—especially women—the insistence on the continuation of the practice is a skandalon, a cause of offense. Finally, it is repeatedly pointed out that equality does not necessarily mean exercising the same functions. In any case, the

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equality of Christians applies to their life together in the general priesthood, not to the public office. Here again, a basic distinction must be made. True, equality does not necessarily mean common functions; but there is no equality without the possibility of holding common functions. Pastors come from nowhere else but from the general priesthood, just as politicians, including premiers and prime ministers, come from the citizenry. Citizens are not equal because they are all political leaders, but because they all can become such. To say that men and women are equal in the Body of Christ is not to say that all must have the same function. It is to assert that some can have the same function because what is determinative in assigning the function is only the call of the Lord and gifting for that function, not gender.

Do We Need Bishops? Australian and International Discussions Between Anglicans and Lutherans

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 34/1 (2000): 14–26

Anglican-Lutheran Affinities Even though Henry VIII gained the title of ‘Defender of the Faith’ by writing against Martin Luther,1 there are affinities between the reformation movements in England and Germany in the sixteenth century. As is well known, there was very early in Cambridge a group of sympathisers of the Lutheran Reformation, some of whom became martyrs to the cause.2 The movements in both countries had their conservative and radical elements, but both the Church of England and the regional churches of the German states considered themselves not to be new denominations but the continuation and local manifestation of the church catholic. The historical continuity of the church as apostolic and catholic was expressed in ancient creeds, new formulations of the faith, the ordering of the church and its ministry, and in the rejection of iconoclast tendencies. Nothing was to be changed that did not require reformation. Political circumstances meant that the Anglican and Lutheran churches developed in different ways. Yet the churches of the Augsburg Confession were actually governed by regional princes, just as rulers led the Church of England in its break from Rome. In both cases, 1. Henry VIII and Cardinal Wolsey supervised the burning of some of Luther’s books in May 1521. 2. See Bruce W. Adams, ‘Three Anglo-Lutheran Martyrs Remembered’, Lutheran Theological Journal, 32/3 (1998): 123–27.

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secular powers aided the cause of the Reformation. This resulted in Anglican and Lutheran churches in Great Britain, Scandinavia, and Germany developing as national or state churches—with both positive and negative outcomes. More important are the obviously similarities between the Thirtynine Articles and the articles of the Augsburg Confession, similarities which have their origin in a consultation between English and German theologians in 1538.3 Despite differences in faith and order, Anglicans and Lutherans have never pronounced condemnations against each other. There are no mutual condemnations to annul, as in the case of Roman Catholics and Lutherans.4 However, while Lutherans have been united around historic confessions, Anglicanism has never developed such confessionalism, preferring to locate its confession of faith in liturgical orders. Anglican theology, especially since the formulation of the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral (1886–88), has seen ecclesiastical order as an essential mark of the church, but it is a caricature of Anglicanism to suggest that there is little concern for doctrine. Nor is it true to say that Lutherans are interested only in apostolicity in terms of doctrinal orthodoxy, and not also in the ordering of ministry. Both traditions have preserved a rich liturgical heritage, preserving the ancient traditions of the western mass purified of offensive elements. What is true of early Lutheran rites is true also of Anglican rites. Writing on the relationship of Lutheran ordination rites to medieval Roman rites, the American scholar Ralph Smith remarks that ‘on the basis of the liturgical reforms one cannot argue that a clean break existed between the thought and intent of the church in the medieval rites and that of the early Reformation rites'.5

3. This group drew up thirteen agreed articles of faith, based on the Augsburg Confession of 1530. They were the beginnings of Cranmer’s 42 Articles of 1553 and thus of the Thirty-Nine Articles of Religion. 4. See the signing of the Joint Declaration on Justification by representatives of the Vatican and the Lutheran World Federation at Augsburg, Germany, on 30 October 1999. 5. Ralph P Smith, Luther, Ministry, and Ordination Rites in the Early Reformation Church (New York: Pater Lang, 1996), 1. David S Yeago also argues for essential continuity between the ecclesiology of the middle ages and of Luther; see his article, ‘“A Christian, Holy People”: Martin Luther on Salvation and the Church’, Modern Theology, 13/1 (1997): 103,104.

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Significantly, liturgical practice, especially in the rite of ordination, has been a fruitful point of departure in discovering common understandings of ministry in our discussions in Australia. The Key Issue in Historical Perspective The central issue keeping the two communions apart has been the way in which ministry is ordered, especially the Anglican insistence on the historic episcopate. Few would argue for a simple line of development from the New Testament era to the ordered ministries of the second century. Similarly, different historical circumstances, not theological reflection alone, determined the way in which ministry has come to be ordered in the Anglican and Lutheran traditions. By itself the threefold ordering of ministry with bishops, priests, and deacons, should not be a point of controversy. Luther performed the first Lutheran ordination as early as 1525 when he presided at the ordination of a deacon, Georg Rörer. With three superintendents he also officiated at the ordination of Nikolaus von Amsdorf as bishop of Naumburg in Saxony in 1542. Though the Lutheran Confessions stress the unity of the ministry of word and sacrament, whether episcopal or presbyteral, their repeated references to bishops and pastors indicate that a distinction could be drawn between the two. Indeed, the ordination of von Amsdorf, and his enthronement as bishop, indicates the desire to preserve the special office of regional oversight, including the special responsibility to see to the provision of properly called and ordained pastors.6 The development in the Lutheran Reformation in Germany from an episcopal to a presbyteral ordering of ministry must be seen as arising out of historical necessity.7 Up to at least 1530, the reformers were hopeful that bishops would join their cause. Unlike Sweden, where bishops joined the Reformation, this did not happen in Germany. Here the reformers began to ordain in Wittenberg only when it was clear that the bishops would not examine or ordain candidates for them. Bugenhagen, as city pastor and ‘general superintendent’, was

6. See Peter Brunner, Nikolaus von Amsdorf als Bischof von Naumburg (Gütersloh: Gerd Mohn, 1961), 155,57. 7. For the following see Ralph Smith, Luther, Ministry, and Ordination Rites, 66-69.

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given the role of ordinator in Wittenberg,8 after the decree of the Elector John Frederick in May of 1535 gave the faculty of Wittenberg the mandate to ordain priests and deacons.9 That the first Wittenberg ordination took place only in 1537 shows the reticence of the reformers to take for themselves what they considered properly as an authority that belonged to bishops. The situation in England was different. Since bishops joined the Reformation, continuity with the past in terms of episcopal succession was smooth. There was no question of emergency arrangements to ensure that ministry continued. As the Anglican communion has spread to other parts of the world, the episcopal order has been preserved as a characteristic mark of the church. Since 166210 episcopal ordination has been considered necessary for authentic ministry, with the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral making this also the condition for fellowship with other churches. It is on this basis that the Church of England gradually established full communion with the Church of Sweden between 1888 and 1954, allowing Swedish Lutherans to receive the sacrament at Anglican altars. Similar arrangements were made with the Church of Finland already in 1935. Since the Lutheran churches of Denmark, Norway, and Iceland did not have the ‘succession’ their members were granted only ‘hospitality rights’. The Lutheran scene, with respect to episcopacy and succession, is not uniform. This has complicated Anglican-Lutheran relations. There are Lutheran churches with episcopal succession, churches with bishops but not claiming succession, and churches with presidents rather than bishops—though also exercising oversight (episkope) as an essential function of leadership. The question for Anglicans and Lutherans today is whether the affinities in our past are a sufficient basis for closer and more formal 8. It was as superintendent (= bishop) that Bugenhagen ordained also in Denmark. 9. In effect, Lutheran princes like John Frederick of Saxony and Philip of Hesse functioned as bishops in an emergency. For Luther’s justification of their special role, see LW 40:271. Later, as Smith observes, ‘the jurisdictional power appropriated by the prince from the episcopal structures of the Catholic Church was delegated to the superintendents’ (92). 10. See the 1662 Preface to the Ordinal which says that ‘no man shall be accounted or taken to be a lawful Bishop, Priest, or Deacon in the Church of England without ‘Episcopal Consecration or Ordination’.

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relationships. Should accidents of history, which saw some Lutheran churches cut off from episcopal succession, forever determine relations between the two communions? Inter-church dialogue is not a matter of overcoming history or of ignoring it. We are challenged to discover in our common confession of the faith, in our liturgies, and in our church polity, the seeds of a declared relationship that is mutually enriching and of benefit to the members of each church. Global Conversations Begin Apart from the long-standing fellowship between the Church of England and the Lutheran Church of Sweden, personal contacts between Anglican and Lutheran church leaders in the world were fostered, in this century, through the formation and functioning of the World Council of Churches. Personal contacts also between England and Germany were tested but not destroyed by two world wars.11 The Lutheran World Federation proposed formal, worldwide conversations between the two communions in 1963. The Lambeth Conference and the LWF formed an ‘Anglican Lutheran Commission’ which met four times from 1970 to 1972. In its report, AnglicanLutheran International Conversations,12 the Commission reported agreement on central issues: sources of authority, the church, the word and sacraments, apostolic ministry, and worship. As a result, it recommended that the existing communion between the Church of England and Scandinavian Lutheran churches be extended worldwide, and that greater local cooperation should be the subject of further exploration. As expected, the report of the Commission documented disagreement on episcopal succession, requiring separate statements on the subject by each party in an otherwise common statement. However, appendices to the report from the two chairmen placed this disagreement in proper context. Anglicans were advised not to insist rigidly on episcopal succession as the sole touchstone of 11. A notable example is the friendship between George Bell, Bishop of Chichester, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. 12. The Report of the Conversations 1970–1972 authorized by the Lambeth Conference and the Lutheran World Federation (the Pullach Report) (London: SPCK, 1973).

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ecumenical relations; Lutherans were challenged to examine whether all matters of church order, including the historic episcopate, are of only secondary importance.13 Further Anglican-Lutheran consultations and agreements followed the Pullach Report of 1973: the Helsinki Report of 1983,14 the Cold Ash Report of 1983,15 and the Niagara Report of 1988.16 These have provided the basis for agreements reached in the last decade in Europe and North America. European Agreements From 1985 to 1988 delegates of the Church of England, the Evangelical Church in the Federal Republic of Germany, and the Federation of Evangelical Churches in the German Democratic Republic gathered at Meissen with the aim of establishing closer relations. The resulting Meissen Common Statement established an agreement which came into effect in 1992. These discussions involved Lutheran, Reformed, and Union churches in Germany, so the agreement in faith is stated in broad rather than specific terms. The Meissen Agreement is significant in that it involved German churches which, though they had bishops, did not claim to have them in historic succession. With respect to ministerial oversight in the church, the Common Statement affirms a shared starting point: We believe that a ministry of pastoral oversight (episkope), exercised in personal, collegial and communal ways, is necessary to witness to and safeguard the unity and apostolicity of the Church. (V 15.ix)17 13. See the statements in the Report by the Bishop of Leicester and the Archbishop emeritus of Uppsala, 29,30. 14. Anglican-Lutheran Dialogue. The Report of the European Commission, Helsinki, August-September 1982, London, 1983. 15. Anglican-Lutheran Relations. Report of the Anglican-Lutheran Joint Working Group. Cold Ash, Berkshire, England, 28 November – 3 December 1983, London and Geneva, 1983. 16. Report of the Anglican-Lutheran Consultation on Episcope, Niagara Falls, September 1987, London, 1988. 17. See paragraphs 23 and 26 on ‘Ministry’, in Baptism, Eucharist and Ministry, Faith and Order Paper No. 111 (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 1982).

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The essential disagreement is then clearly stated: Lutheran, Reformed and United Churches, though being increasingly prepared to appreciate episcopal succession ‘as a sign of the apostolicity of the life of the whole Church’, hold that this particular form of episkope should not become a necessary condition for ‘full, visible unity’. The Anglican understanding of full, visible unity includes the historic episcopate and full interchangeability of ministers . . . (16)

The practical result of the Meissen Agreement was mutual Eucharistic hospitality, but without full interchangeability of ministers (VI 17.vi),18 and a commitment to work for greater unity (VI B). In 1989 official talks began between the Anglican churches in England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, the Nordic Lutheran churches in Denmark, Finland, Iceland, Norway and Sweden, and the Baltic Lutheran churches of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. These twelve churches, with some fifty million members, already enjoyed close relations, including intercommunion, as a result of conversations between 1909 and 1950. In addition, they were already episcopal in structure. The hope was that regional agreement between Anglicans and Lutherans would go beyond the existing piece-meal arrangements. In particular, there was the hope for new relationships with the Baltic churches after the collapse of the communist regimes.19 The Poorvoo Common Statement was finalised in 1992. By the time the Declaration was formally signed in 1996 (at Eucharistic celebrations in Norway, Estonia, and England–the latter in Westminster Abbey), the Lutheran churches of Denmark and Latvia had withdrawn from the agreement.20 The Declaration itself contains 18. The Meissen Agreement was signed in a Eucharistic celebration in Westminster Abbey on 29 January 1991. 19. For the setting in which the Poorvoo conversations took place, see Mary Tanner, ‘Mission: Strategies and Prospects in the Context of the Anglican-Lutheran Poorvoo Agreement’, Ecumenical Trends (December 1996): 9–14. Tanner rightly draws attention to the mission imperative which motivated the discussions from the outset. 20. The celebration in Westminster Abbey on 28 November 1996, was attended by Queen Elizabeth II. For the text see The Poorvoo Common Statement: Conversations between the British and Irish Anglican Churches and the Nordic and Baltic Lutheran Churches, The Council for Christian Unity of the General Synod of the Church of England, Occasional Paper No. 3, 1993.

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six mutual acknowledgements affirming each church’s catholicity and apostolicity with reference to sacramental practice, faith, ministry, and mission. There follow ten commitments, including mutual recognition of members, their acceptance at each other’s altars, exchange of clergy, and invitation to each other’s bishops to participate at the ordination of bishops. In short, there is full Eucharistic communion and interchange of ministries. The Poorvoo agreement has been seen as a surrender of Lutheran teaching21 or as a breakthrough. Certainly, the twelve clauses summarising ‘the principal beliefs and practices that we have in common’ (III 32) are brief but need to be read on the background of agreement established in previous consultations. That is the case also in the crucial section on ‘Episcopacy in the Service of the Apostolicity of the Church’ (Section IV 34-57), which simply develops what is meant by the familiar22 statement: We believe that a ministry of pastoral oversight (episcope), exercised in personal, collegial, and communal ways, is necessary as a witness to and safeguard of the unity and apostolicity of the Church. Further, we retain and employ the episcopal office as a sign of our intention, under God, to ensure the continuity of the Church in apostolic life and witness. For these reasons, all our churches have a personally exercised episcopal office. (III 32.k)

The exercise of episcope is here not seen as guaranteeing the church’s unity and apostolicity; it is ‘witness’ and ‘safeguard’. Likewise, the episcopal office does not ensure faithfulness to the apostolic witness; it is the ‘sign’ of a solemn ‘intention’. Apostolicity is, in the first instance, an attribute of the whole church as it ‘lives in continuity with the apostles and their proclamation’ (paragraph 36). ‘Thus, the primary manifestation of apostolic succession is to be found in the apostolic tradition of the Church as a whole’ (39). The threefold ministry of bishops, priests, and deacons, as a pattern which developed in early times, represents different tasks 21. For a very critical assessment, see The Poorvoo Declaration in Confessional Perspective, The Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod, St. Louis, 1997. 22. There are obvious echoes of the Lima Statement, Niagara Report, and Meissen Common Statement.

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in the ‘one ministry’ of proclaiming the word, celebrating the sacraments, and providing pastoral care (41). Though bishops have the special responsibility for regional oversight, especially ‘for the orderly transfer of ministerial authority in the Church’, they carry this out collegially ‘with other ministers and the whole community’ (44). To ordain a bishop in succession is not to guarantee the faithfulness of the bishop or the continuing faithfulness of the church. It is a sign of the church’s intention to remain faithful to the apostolic faith, life, and mission (50, 51). The ‘breakthrough’ clauses draw the logical conclusions: Faithfulness to the apostolic calling of the whole Church is carried by more than one means of continuity. Therefore, a church which has preserved the sign of historic episcopal succession is free to acknowledge an authentic episcopal ministry in a church which has preserved continuity in the episcopal office by an occasional priestly/presbyteral ordination at the time of the Reformation. (52) . . . Resumption of the sign does not imply an adverse judgement on the ministries of those churches which did not previously make use of the sign. (53)

The Poorvoo Statement raises an obvious question. If Anglicans can recognise the apostolicity of an episcopal Lutheran church where succession has not been ‘historic’, can they also recognise the ministry of a Lutheran church that has intentionally claimed apostolicity only in terms of faithfulness to the apostolic witness? Secondly, can such Lutherans accept episcopacy in succession as a sign of the church’s apostolicity, in the interests of closer relations with Anglicans? These questions have been put to the test in North America. North American Agreements Lutheran-Episcopal dialogue in the United States began before the international dialogue.23 The first phase (LED I, 1969–72) recommended continuing conversations and offered specific proposals for limited inter-communion. The second phase (LED 23. There were already in 1935 conversations between The Episcopal Church and The Augustana Evangelical Lutheran Church which had its roots in Sweden.

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II, 1976–80) issued joint statements on justification, the gospel, the Eucharistic presence, the authority of Scripture, and apostolicity. As a result, the Episcopal Church and the three American Lutheran churches, which later (1987) united to form the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, entered into an Agreement on Interim Eucharistic Sharing. A third series of dialogues (LED III, 1983–91) addressed questions that had to be resolved before full communion (communio in sacris) could be established, especially how ministry is to be ordered. This resulted in two final reports: Implications of the Gospel (1988), Toward Full Communion and Concordat of Agreement (1991). Churchwide study of the latter was promoted by the Lutheran-Episcopal Coordinating Committee after the bishops of the ELCA declined to recommend adoption. There was considerable debate within both churches on the way in which the first draft of the Concordat addressed the vexed question of the ordering of ministry.24 The Episcopal Church was asked to agree to the temporary suspension of the Ordinal of 1662 requiring that all clergy be episcopally ordained. Lutherans were asked to accept the threefold ministry of bishops, presbyters and deacons in historic succession, the historic episcopate being regarded as a symbol of church continuity and unity, not as an essential guarantee of faithfulness. This meant that all future ordinations were to be episcopally conducted. Particularly offensive to many Lutherans was the proposal that Episcopal bishops should assist in the ordination of Lutheran pastors to ensure the authenticity of Lutheran ministry, and the suggestion that there be ‘bishops for life’. Many saw the demand for acceptance of the historic succession as a denial of article VII of the Augsburg Confession which states that ‘for the true unity of the church it is enough to agree concerning the teaching of the gospel and the administration of the sacraments’. At general assemblies in 1997 the Episcopal Church agreed to the Concordat while the ELCA rejected it by the narrow margin of six votes.25 Lutheran concerns were then taken up by a Drafting Committee of three Episcopalians and three Lutherans, under the 24. Here the Concordat reflects the Niagara Report on the Anglican-Lutheran Consultation on Episcope of 1988. 25. The ELCA did agree to full altar and pulpit fellowship with three Reformed churches in America.

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chairmanship of Marty E Marty. The final draft, Called to Common Mission: a Lutheran Proposal for a Revision of the Concordat of Agreement (November 1998), included significant changes: a) A section on ‘Agreement in Ministry’ developed the ministry of the whole people of God as the context for what the proposal said about ordained ministry (paragraphs 6–12). b) To eliminate the conclusion that the Lutheran church was becoming Episcopalian, the demand for Episcopal participation in Lutheran ordinations was removed. Continuity in succession can be gained from bishops in other Lutheran churches which claim to have the historic succession (17). c) In accepting the historic episcopate for the sake of unity, Lutherans were not being asked to affirm it as necessary or essential to unity (16). d) While speaking of ‘bishops in historic succession’, any reference to the threefold ministry of bishops, priests, and deacons was removed (3).26 Thus the ELCA was not required to ordain deacons. e) The reference to the bishop’s office as ‘life service’ was removed. These changes ensured endorsement of the Concordat by the ELCA in August 1999,27 though voices of protest within the ELCA will probably continue to be heard for some time. The Episcopal Church’s convention in 2000 endorsed the Concordat with virtually no opposition. These developments in the United States have been mirrored in Canada where Anglicans and Lutherans have been in dialogue since 1983. In 1989 the Anglican Church of Canada and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada28 entered into an ‘Interim Sharing of the 26. The Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral does not make the diaconal office a requirement for union between Anglican and other churches. The renewal of the diaconate is the subject of ongoing discussions between Anglicans and Lutherans on an international level. See The Diaconate as Ecumenical Opportunity: The Hanover Report of the Anglican Lutheran International Commission, published for Anglican Consultative Council and the Lutheran World Federation, Anglican Communion Publications, London, 1996. 27. It was endorsed by a vote of 716 to 317, just 27 votes more than the required twothirds majority. 28. This is the sister church of the ELCA. The Lutheran Church–Canada is in full fellowship with the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod.

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Eucharist’. In 1997 a Joint Working Group prepared The Waterloo Declaration. In July 1999 the ELCIC voted nearly unanimously to approve in principle the declaration of full communion with the ACC on the basis of the report, Called to Full Communion: The Waterloo Declaration. The general synod of the ACC approved it already in 1998. After further refining of the document full approval of all its proposals was gained when both churches met in simultaneous convention in Waterloo, Ontario, in 2001. The Australian Dialogue Our Australian dialogue has learned much from overseas discussions, but our situation is very different. We do not share the close historical and structural ties that have long existed between the churches that now share the Poorvoo Agreement. We have not reached the stage of interim Eucharistic sharing which has been the first step towards the Concordat in North America. On our long path we have stepped cautiously, worked with limited goals, and noting disagreements while striving for common statements. The Final Report of the first phase of Australian AnglicanLutheran Dialogue (1972–84) contained agreed statements on the Eucharist (1973), ministry (1975), baptism (1981) and AnglicanLutheran marriages (1983).29 Practical results were modest: official recognition of each church’s baptisms and pastoral guidelines on inter-church marriages. The second phase (1987-94) studied the progress of overseas conversations, especially as documented in the Niagara Report (1987). The dialogue’s own progress report on ‘Episcope and Unity’ (1993) acknowledged that ‘in varying and similar ways, both churches give personal, collegial and corporate expression to the exercise of episcope’. It further stated that Anglican and Lutheran churches can acknowledge each other as churches standing in the apostolic succession and can affirm each other’s ordained ministries as valid expressions of gospel episcope which are not essentially different. By ‘apostolic 29. See Stages on the Way: Documents from the Bi-lateral Conversations between Churches in Australia, edited by Raymond K. Williamson, Joint Board of Christian Education, 1994, 26-55.

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succession’ we mean ‘a succession in the presiding ministry of a church which stands in the continuity of apostolic faith’ (9 and 10).

In the third phase of dialogue, begun in 1996 with new teams,30 we have taken up the challenge laid down already in 1984 in the dialogue’s report to our two churches. Without giving up the final goal of full communion, we have explored the possibility of a more immediate goal: shared ministry to people who live in rural or otherwise isolated areas. This has brought us back to the key question. Is there the unity in faith and order to allow such pastoral co-operation to take place? In seeking to answer that question we have relearned important lessons. Dialogue without commitment to a clear goal is an ecclesiastical luxury, no matter how congenial the talks may be. Secondly, dialogue is not a matter of winning theological arguments but of joint exploration on the basis of our common faith. Thirdly, the aim of dialogue is not the increase and glory of a denomination, but pastoral care of God’s people, obedience to our Lord’s call to unity, and faithfulness to our task of witness and service in the world. The Proposed Covenant In September 1999 the dialogue teams drew up a document to be submitted to the two churches for approval and action: Covenanting for Mutual Recognition and Reconciliation between The Anglican Church of Australia and The Lutheran Church of Australia. It contains the following statement: We recognise each other as churches that, despite our failings, stand in the continuity of apostolic faith and ministry. We acknowledge that in each other’s ordained ministries gospel oversight and administration of the means of grace are real and effective. We pledge to work together to develop joint participation in mission and witness, and to continue to seek ways of manifesting the unity that is ours in Christ.

30. Co-chairmen were Bishop Graham Waldon and the present writer. The addition of Bishop David Silk of Ballarat to the Anglican team meant important contributions from one who helped formulate the Poorvoo Statement.

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First proposed, based on agreement in faith and order already established, are ‘regional agreements for eucharistic hospitality and recognition of ministry’. Cooperation is to address pastoral need. Growth towards unity is seen as beginning on the local level. Regional agreements are to be made on the following basis: a. joint public profession, by participating congregations, of the catholic faith as contained in the Nicene Creed, b. an undertaking to respect the distinctive traditions enshrined in the Augsburg Confession and the Book of Common Prayer with the Thirty-nine Articles of Religion, c. joint commissioning of clergy by the local Anglican bishop and Lutheran president, The second part of the covenant would commit the two churches to work together towards a ‘concordat for full communion and reconciliation of ministries’. This would result in full Eucharistic sharing, with interchangeability of members and ordained ministries Australia-wide. The doctrinal basis for the proposed Covenant is developed in two appendices. ‘Agreement in Faith and Order’ lists past statements of the Australian conversations and acknowledges what we have learned from overseas Anglican-Lutheran agreements. There follow thirteen statements outlining essential agreement in doctrine. These have been drawn from but, in our opinion, improve on the doctrinal clauses of the Poorvoo Agreement.31 Order, Episcopacy and Succession ‘Agreement in Ministry’ forms the second appendix.32 These formulations reap the benefit of Anglican redefining of the episcopal 31. No separate statement on justification was drawn up; the dialogue team could endorse Justification: A Common Statement of the Australian Lutheran-Roman Catholic Dialogue, Adelaide, 1998. 32. For another analysis of the Australian Anglican-Lutheran discussions on episcopacy, see Duncan Reid, ‘Are Bishops An Ecumenical Problem? Episcopacy and Episcope in Two Bilateral Conversations’, Episcopacy, Views from the Antipodes: Essays presented to Archbishop Keith Raynor, edited by Alan H Cadwallader with David Richardson (Adelaide: Anglican Board of Christian Education, 1994), 289-305.

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office in its relationship to the church and its mission. This has come about, in part, in response to the appeal of the Niagara Report that ‘Anglican Churches should make the necessary canonical revisions so that they can acknowledge and recognise the full authenticity of existing ministries of Lutheran Churches’. This presupposes a broader understanding of apostolic succession, seen no longer as ‘primarily an unbroken chain of those ordaining to those ordained’, but rather as ‘a succession in the presiding ministry of a church, which stands in the continuity of the apostolic faith’ (paragraph 94). Anglicans worldwide are ready to talk of the historic episcopate as one expression of episcope. On the other hand, Lutherans have become increasingly prepared to grant that the various ways in which episcope is to be exercised in the church should include the special office of regional oversight. All this is reflected in our Australian conversations. ‘Agreement on Ministry’ defines the office of the public ministry as ‘the authorised performance of certain duties by a leading individual or individuals within the community of the faithful’. It is based not on personal gifts, but on the call of the Lord through the church. The second section dealing with the more controverted matter of order in ministry takes a lead from the Lima document, which sees patterns of ministerial order emerging as a result of historical development.33 The final result was that bishops had responsibility for episcope over several communities, while presbyters remained leaders of local communities. While Anglicans have preserved the three orders, Lutherans use the term order in the sense that ‘nobody should publicly preach or teach or administer the sacraments in the church without a regular call’.34 Our two traditions speak of order in different ways, but the difference should not be exaggerated The Poorvoo Common Statement speaks of a single pastoral office in three forms. While Anglicans preserve the three forms, the plurality of offices reflects a diversity of pastoral functions and relationships within the one ministry of the church. Thus, the bishop is seen as the focus of unity and continuity among the faithful.

33. See BEM, ‘Ministry’, paragraphs 19-21. 34. The phrase rite vocatus also implies the ritual action of ordination.

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On the other hand, as the document states, The Lutheran stress on the unitary nature of the public office rests on the unity of the word and sacrament as the essential content of ministry. Here the pastoral office combines features of the episcopate and of the presbyterate, while the church remains free to appoint supervising bishops and to adopt auxiliary offices. Lutherans have seen order as serving the faith.

Whether the essential office is seen as that of the bishop or of the pastor, the concern is the same: the orderly transmission of the faith from generation to generation and the exercise of episcope in the service of the gospel. This orderly transmission is what we mean by succession. It is enacted liturgically in the rite of ordination. In what is perhaps its most important paragraph, the statement then says, If for Anglicans the pastoral office resides in an episcopate assisted by the presbyterate and for Lutherans in a pastorate of which some members are presidents/bishops, there is no irreconcilable difference in the procedure for the orderly transmission of ministerial authority in ordination. In the Anglican Church the bishop, in association with priests, ordains to the presbyterate. In the Lutheran Church the president, in association with other pastors,35 ordains to the pastorate. The intention in ordination is in both cases the same, to ensure the continuity of the same ministry instituted by Christ. . .

Our rites of ordination express the truth that pastoral oversight is essentially collegial. Our liturgical practice, not simply dogmatic formulations,36 assures us that we are doing the same thing with the same intention. ‘Agreement in Ministry’ finally addresses what is essential in ministry, and what can be changed. The essentials remain. Both faith 35. This is now the accepted practice of the LCA, one that should be continued for obvious reasons. See Church Rites, prepared by the Commission on Worship, Lutheran Church of Australia (Adelaide: Openbook, 1994), 137, note 2. 36. This is the method followed by Ralph P Smith in his study of Luther’s understanding of ministry and ordination; see note 5 above.

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and order belong to the catholicity and apostolicity of the church; there is a succession of faith and office. The crucial question is whether the LCA can adopt the episcopal succession. Lutherans also can see the episcopal office as a sign and symbol of the church’s apostolicity and catholicity. The confessors did not reject bishops, only bishops who opposed the gospel. So ‘the real question is not whether Lutherans can have bishops, but what this office means in theological terms’. The challenge to Lutherans is whether, ‘for the sake of peace and unity’ (to use the language of the confessors), and in the cause of co-operation with Anglicans in particular, they can • •

• • •

• •

•

accept the episcopal office as a sign of the apostolicity and catholicity of the church, affirm the value of the historic episcopate within the orderly succession of the ministry of Christ through the ages, without implying that the episcopal office is necessary for salvation or that it guarantees by itself, the orthodoxy of the church’s faith, ensure that future bishops of the Lutheran Church of Australia are consecrated by a Lutheran bishop or bishops in the historic succession, make provision that all pastors are ordained by a bishop in keeping with the duty of his office to oversee the faith and order of the church. Conversely, the challenge presented by the covenant to Anglicans is to recover the essential unity of the episcopate and the presbyterate in the transmission of the apostolic faith and the administration of the sacraments, and in the shared responsibility for pastoral care of the faithful, ensure that the faith they profess is in conformity with the faith delivered by the apostles, understand the difficulties Lutherans would have with the proposal that an Anglican bishop must lay hands on a Lutheran candidate to authenticate his consecration to the episcopal office and to ensure the succession of office, recognise the intention of the Lutheran Church to be nothing other than apostolic and truly catholic in its faith and practice.

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The Future There has already been cooperation between Australian Anglicans and Lutherans in the provision of local ministry. A crucial question, before full fellowship could be established, would be how the succession in ministry could be established to the satisfaction of Anglicans. Unlike Anglican-Lutheran agreements overseas, the Australian proposal is cautiously modest. It is only a beginning. One can only hope that our two churches will at least affirm that the vision outlined by the dialogue is one that can be pursued further.

G. From Martyr to Public Witness

The Rhetoric of Hebrews: Paradigm for Preaching

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 7.1 (1993): 3–12 Also published in Good Shepherding: A Journal of Christian Ministry, 6.4 (2002): 15–22

Preaching as Church Rhetoric Proclamation of the gospel is the essential rhetoric of the church. The ancient Greek and Roman writers on rhetoric saw the ordering of reality and not description as the function of persuasive speech. That applies also to preaching. We proclaim the living Word so that, by the Spirit’s power, lives are ordered. The preached word is performative word (Isa 55:11; 1 Cor 1:18; Heb 4:12). Preaching employs rhetorical devices. Whether this happens consciously or not is another matter. David Buttrick reminds us that all preachers were once trained in rhetoric, ‘the ancient wisdom that undergirds all human conversation . . . Older works on homiletics could assume rhetorical training. We cannot’ (Buttrick: 40). But if preaching is to be more than propositions aimed at the intellect it must consider those characteristics of communication, which ancients like Aristotle, Seneca, and Quintilian, noted as belonging to persuasive argument. It does not necessarily mean studying classics, though every preacher would profit from reading Aristotle’s Ars Rhetorica. It does mean giving due attention to a central truth: How something is said is just as important as what is said.

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Hebrews as Sermonic Rhetoric Rhetorical criticism is now firmly established in New Testament studies as an adjunct to literary analysis. While the polished Greek of the writer to the Hebrews has long been acknowledged, there is growing appreciation for his rhetorical skills (we only assume the writer was male). Though lacking an epistolary opening, Hebrews reads as a letter. The writer calls his message ‘a word of exhortation’, a term which Acts 13:15 uses for a synagogue address. Whether discourse or letter, Hebrews shows facility with a wide variety of literary devices: alliteration (the repetition of the initial letter pi in 1:1 adds to the cadence of the perfectly structured opening period); anaphora (frequent repetition of a phrase, as in chapter 11: ‘by faith'), inclusio (the repetition of a theme or phrase to bracket a section, as in 1:3,13); chiasm (the abba form is best illustrated in 5:1–10); the argument from the lesser to the greater, called the qal wahomer in Hebrew (2:2,3; 9:13,14; 10:28,29; 12:9,25); litotes (affirmation by negation of the contrary); hendiadys (the use of two expressions for one idea). The captatio benevolentiae to get the audience ‘on side’ appears at 6:9,10. Attempts have been made to work out a complete chiastic structure for the letter and to discover the rhetorical shape of the discourse, though rhetorical analysis can detect the use of conventions which the author used to give ‘shape’ to his argument. Effective composition and arrangement of material (synthesis) was more than a matter of mere style (phrasis), determined by personal preference. It was conditioned by the setting of the speech—the rules of rhetoric first related to oral presentation. Oratory was judicial: seeking to persuade an audience to make a judgment concerning the past, deliberative: making persuasive argument for future action, or epideictic: seeking affirmation or action in the present (Kennedy: 19, 20; Mack: 34, 35; Cosby: 94). Hebrews conforms most closely to epideictic oratory since it ‘sets forth the praise of a person, in this case Christ, and seeks to promulgate values which followers ought to live out’ (Reumann: 168). Further, amplification (auxesis) by means of comparison (synkrisis) is most suitable for the use of epideictic oratory, according to Aristotle Ars Rhetorica 1.9,38–40. Much of Hebrews is precisely that, amplificatory comparison, as the author compares Jesus to the angels, to Moses, to the Levitical and Aaronic priests, and to Melchizedek, or as he compares the new covenant to the old, the new holiness to the old cultic purity.

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Thirdly, epideictic speech deals with blame and praise. Both appear in Hebrews. Blame, both stated and inferred, is found at 5:11–6:8, but is followed immediately by praise in 6: 9–12. The author is here not sitting on the fence but is observing rhetorical balance. Blame by itself would be harsh, praise by itself would be dishonest. Heard together they serve a final purpose: warning. The rhetorical movement in Hebrews is from praise of Christ to praise and blame of the readers, leading to final exhortation. Attempts to superimpose on Hebrews a complete textbook model of an ancient speech tend to put it into a straitjacket (Reumann: 167). It is more profitable to note the shape of the argument from case to case and to ask. How is the form of presentation determined by rhetorical conventions? The way in which the author argues cannot be neglected in the process of concentrating on doctrine alone. The Ethos of the Preacher According to Aristotle (Ars Rhetorica 1.2,1356), there are three components to artistic proof, regardless of speaker, audience, or type of discourse. Ethos is the character of the speaker which establishes his credibility. Pathos describes the reaction of the hearers. Logos is the probative force of the argument itself. The Christian preacher proclaims Christ not self (2 Cor 2:4,5). Yet the gospel must be embodied in a person who has credibility— granted that the efficacy of the message is not dependent on the person of the preacher. What is the ethos of the author of Hebrews? What is his personal standing with the ‘Hebrews’? Compared to Paul’s Corinthian correspondence, Hebrews seems impersonal. The usual prosopographical (personal) data at the beginning and end of a letter are missing. Not one place or person is named to help us date or localise writer and audience. It is natural to assume that Timothy in 13:23 is the person of the same name encountered in the writings of Paul and Luke, but we cannot be sure. We cannot even be sure whether this Timothy has recently been ‘released’ from captivity or whether he has just ‘departed’ from some place; the meaning of apoleloumenon in verse 23 is not clear. The addition of a greeting from those who are from Italy at 13:24 is, likewise, more of a riddle than a help. The letter could be written to Italy, from Italy, or a place where mutual friends from Italy happened to be present.

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We can infer some things about the author. Despite the plea that the masculine participle in 11:32 (diegoumenon) does not rule out a female author such as Priscilla (Hoppin: 32), it is best to assume a male writer. His prayer that he be ‘restored’ to the readers in 13:10 tells us nothing about the nature or duration of the separation. Yet clearly the author expects to be recognised by his audience as an authoritative figure. His logos reflects this. Whatever his past or present relationship to the community, he expects to be heard as a leader. We need only observe how the request for prayer support in 13:18,19 comes after the call to remember past leaders and obey present leaders (verses 7,17), and immediately precedes the prayer to the Great Shepherd of the sheep (verse 20). His appeals for recognition and remembrance of other leaders could, of course, suggest that his present standing with the readers is not totally assured. Perhaps he needs to be ‘restored’ to them (verse 19) in more than one sense. Be that as it may, the author does not establish his ethos in a Pauline way. Fellowship in prayer is a prominent feature in Paul’s letters, whether expressed in requests (Rom 15:30; 1 Thess 5:25; 2 Thess 3:1) or assurance of prayer (Phil 1:9; Col 1:3, 9). The only such reference to prayer in Hebrews comes at the end. Even terms of address are rather impersonal and not suited to establishing either ethos or pathos. The readers are called brothers and sisters (3:12; 12:19; 13:22 in exhortation) and ‘holy brothers’ (3:1 also in a paraenetic context). ‘Beloved’ in 6:9 offers the sole glimmer of personal warmth, but all these terms belong to the stock of epithets used among early Christians. The paraenetic style of Hebrews does not necessarily indicate a close relationship between author and audience. Cohortatives using the inclusive first-person plural (‘let us . . .’) are dominant. Direct address in the second person plural is rare in the major part of the letter, occurring early only at 5:1-12 in the context of reproof, at 6:912 in a stylised captatio benevolentiae, and at 10:32–36 which contains a reminiscence meant to undergird an appeal. Only in the large block of exhortation at the end of Hebrews do we find a sustained appeal in the second person (12:3–25 and 13:1–24). Even here, direct address gives way momentarily to the inclusive cohortative in the first-person plural (12:25a–28). This variation of form in addressing the readers suggests rhetorical variety rather than intimacy with the audience.

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The Authority of the Preacher Hebrews lacks explicit claims to authority which would support the writer’s ethos. He never bases his right to be heard on a special diakonia or exercise of divine power (dynamis) as Paul does. From 2:3b we can deduce that he does not belong to the body of first eyewitnesses. He normally speaks in the first-person plural (‘about this we have much to say’, 5:11; see also 6:9 and 8:1). The plural does not represent apostolic authority, not even a collegial authority as often in Paul’s letters. Our author drops the plural only at 11:32 as he concludes his great encomium of those who have lived by faith (11:32). It may be that he changes to ‘what shall I say?’ because he is here speaking as a narrator of examples (hypodeigmata) rather than as an expositor of the scriptures. Because he is not an apostle, the author does not use some of the common Pauline appeals. He never claims a special possession of the Spirit (see 1 Cor 7:40; 2 Cor 3), never refers to his relations with other authorities (see Gal 1:11–20; 1 Cor 15:5–11), and never adopts the stance of an authoritative traditor in the passing on of a sacred tradition (see 1 Cor 11:23; 15:3; 1 Thess 4:1,2; 2 Thess 2:15; 3:6). Nor does he ever ask the readers to imitate him as a model (see 1 Cor 4:16,17; Phil 3:17; 1 Thess 1:6; 2 Thess 3:7–9). He never cites a ‘sentence of holy law’ which would mark him as a prophet, nor does he cite an authoritative word or command from the Lord (see 1 Cor 5:3–5; 7:10–25; 14:37). What, then, is the writer’s authority in the community? The way he argues allows some deductions. He is, firstly, a teacher. He can castigate dullness of hearing and slowness to learn because he is recognised as an eminent teacher. He knows the elementary doctrines which were the first catechetical primer of the readers and which, sadly, must be relearned (5:11–6:3). He can argue, castigate, and encourage with authority because he has been respected as a teacher. Castigation from an outsider would not have the same effect. Secondly, the author is an expositor of the Scriptures. Much of his ‘sermon’ is direct quotation or allusion to Old Testament texts—129 of the 303 verses of Hebrews are textual in this sense. His authority as interpreter of the Scriptures does not rest on personal skill in devising his own midrashic extensions of the text. The way in which he deals with Psalm 95 in chapters three and four, Genesis 15 and Psalm 110 in chapter 7, Jeremiah 31:31–34 in chapters 8 and 10, and other key texts

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like Psalm 2:7 (Heb 1:5; 5:5), presupposes that such texts already had special significance for the community. The author can assume that any further insights which he draws from these texts will be accepted. Finally, the author is a worship leader. He knows that the problems besetting the readers are leading to the danger of neglecting worship (10:25). His argument is cultic, but not in the sense that it merely uses illustrations from the Old Testament cultus to point to the superiority of the Christian faith. It is cultic because every climax in the arguments of Hebrews is a statement about worship (4:16; 10:19– 25; 12:22–24; 13:15,16). Certainty of faith in Christ as the Son and High Priest has meaning only if it leads to the sacrifice of praise on the part of those have been sanctified to become priests who dare to draw near to God’s holy throne. The Logic of Rhetorical Persuasion Though Hebrews seems to be a stylised treatise lacking in personal warmth, it is anything but an impersonal, doctrinal discourse. It is an extremely passionate, pastoral appeal for bold confession and constancy of faith, directed to a community in danger of lapsing under the threat of persecution. The preacher is intensely concerned about the spiritual welfare of his audience. He knows them well enough to know how to elicit pathos in them. Closer insight into the relationship between author and recipients can come when we follow the writer’s own logic of persuasion, one which may not always be immediately apparent to modern readers. The author’s general method of argumentation and the presupposition with which he works should be noted. If we fail to take note of what is assumed as given (the ‘ideological world’ shared by writer and recipients), the logic will sometimes seem unclear, even unconvincing. Hebrews works with an inferential logic, educing further meaning from propositions assumed to be true, or giving the arguments for a previously stated premise. For example, it is assumed that the readers already know that Christ is the exalted High Priest long before that truth is argued in detail—see how the title High Priest is introduced as part of a confession in 3:1 and 4:14 before the full significance of this confession is argued in chapter 7. The preacher of Hebrews is no less apodictic than Paul, yet he likes to draw conclusions from

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known realities, either stated or assumed, rather than simply make authoritative pronouncements. Stylometric analysis of Greek particles in Hebrews highlights the importance of logical connectors. The use of common particles like ‘for’ (gar) and ‘therefore’ (oun) ‘can be seen as a crude indicator of the writer’s interest in giving reasons and drawing consequences . . . The use of these words . . . offers an index of the logicality of a given writer’ (Kenny: 35). The use of gar may occasionally be due to literary style and nothing more, yet Hebrews tops the table in its use by New Testament writers (91 times, a frequency of 1.84 per cent compared to 1.40 per cent in the Pauline corpus, both much higher than in other New Testament writers). The use of oun is less prominent in Hebrews (13 times, an index of 0.26 per cent compared to 9.33 per cent in Paul), as is the use of ara (‘so then’, twenty-seven times in Paul, only twice in Hebrews). An initial conclusion is that the writer prefers to state something and then give the reasons, rather than give arguments leading to a conclusion. This is true with respect to the development of Christology, but the logic works in the other direction every time the author gets to the nub of his sermon. Each block of paraenesis begins with a particle indicating that final conclusions are being drawn from the prior christological argument (2:1; 3:1; 4:14; 10:19; 12:1). The movement here is not that of premise to proof but of given premise to conclusion (see also 4:1; 6:1; 9:15; 12:12). As noted above, oun (expressing result) appears less frequently in Hebrews than gar (giving reason). But there are other particles and phrases for which the author has a special predilection. They include hothen (‘from whence it can be concluded’, used six times, never by Paul), epei (‘since’, nine times) and dio or dioti (‘therefore’, nine and two times respectively). That dio is characteristic of Hebrews is shown by its insertion even into the biblical quotation of 3:10. To this list of particles we can add phrases like dia touto (‘for this reason’) in 2:1 and 9:15, also placed in a quotation at 1:9, and di’ hen aitian in 2:11. Logical consequence is sometimes expressed as necessarily clear (anangke in 7:12 and 9:16; anangkaion in 8:3) or beyond dispute (choris pases antilogias in 7:7). In other cases, the writer is more cautious, arguing for what is evident (katadelon) in 7:15, fitting (prepei) in 2:10 and 7:26, or logically consistent (opheilei) in 2:17 and 5:3,12. He also knows when there are limits to the conclusions to be drawn (‘One might even say that . . .’) in 7:9.

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Though lacking the lively interplay of diatribal rhetoric loved by Paul, Hebrews occasionally invites the readers to draw their own conclusions. For example, interrogative questions form the inclusio to frame the opening catena of texts cited to prove the superiority of the Son over the angels (1:5,13). Such questions are really another device for drawing conclusions from a previously stated proposition (see also 1:14; 2:16–18). However, the most characteristic form of the if-that-then-this logic in Hebrews is the frequent argument from the less to the greater or qal wahomer, noted above. Rhetoric as Medium for the Message The interpretation of Hebrews must differentiate between proposition, proof, and conclusion. Yet all three belong together to give a total effect. The argument is intended to be suasive in its entirety, not in any single element. The special challenge to the interpreter is to listen carefully, so that the ‘proof ’ is not heard to say more than is intended. To illustrate, we can again refer to chapter 1. The proposition is that the Son is greater than the angels (verse 4). The following catena of seven texts gives the supporting argument from biblical evidence. It serves as exemplary elucidation and is not meant to say more than the author states. So, it is futile to speculate whether the author is polemicising against a worship of angels. The most we are to hear is that the exalted Son is to be worshipped also by the angels. That is explicit in the quotation in verse 6: ‘Let all the angels worship him’. The problem being dealt with is not some cult of angels but a failure to draw correct conclusions from the exalted status of the Son. The comparison (synkrisis) between Christ and the angels is designated to glorify him. The entire chapter is presented with such beautiful symmetry that it has the effect of an encomium, or song of praise. The author begins by stating that final revelation through the Son is the beginning of true theology (1:1,2). He then proceeds to theologise, to sing the praises of him who is exalted far above the angels. This provides the basis for the exhortation in 2:1–4. The community’s witness must conform to God’s own witness to his Son. The hymnic presentation of the Son’s superiority over the angels elicits the correct response: worship—most of the texts cited in 1:5–13 are from the psalms.

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Another example can be cited to show how form is integral to the argument itself. Recent analysis of the great encomium of the faithful in chapter 11 helps to explain its rhetorical force. The chapter is a classic example of exemplary elucidation. It uses repetition (anaphora) and word play (paranomasia) with the repetition of ‘by faith’ (pistei or en pistei) to provide examples (paradeigmata) of those who lived by faith in the promises of God. The power of the passage depends on its aural impact. The art of the ‘preacher’ becomes more apparent with the observation that ‘the term pistis was a term for rhetorical proof. Thus, Hebrews presents a series of examples . . . of confidence (pistis) as proofs (pisteis)’ (Mack: 73). An understanding of how rhetorical devices function will help us to understand the logic of some notoriously difficult passages in Hebrews. For example, the logic of 5:11–6:3 is problematic. The preacher first castigates his audience for remaining at the level of first principles. The inference is that they are incapable of more profound instruction. Yet in the next breath he invites them to leave the elementary doctrines and go on to maturity. We should note that exaggeration (hyperbole in Greek, superlatio in Latin) was part of the orator’s art (Cosby: 81). Overstatement here serves to sharpen the censure of the hearers’ slow progress. Left at that, reproof could have a discouraging effect. Coupled with the following exhortation, it delivers a message of encouragement: They are capable of better things (6:9). Another example of a hyperbole follows immediately in the statement about the impossibility of restoring apostates (6:4). If this is taken as a final, objective theological statement, we run into the kinds of difficulties that Luther and others have had with this passage. It threatens to deny the gospel and place limits on divine grace. But here again, the author is using exaggeration to point to the dire consequences of apostasy. The rhetoric cannot be divorced from the message; the medium serves the message. But the rhetorical form— legitimate hyperbole—is not to be confused with the final message itself. The medium is not the message! Sermon and Situation We have noted that rhetoric is much more than stylistic ornamentation. It includes both the logic of argumentation and the forms used to address a social and cultural setting shared by speaker and audience.

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It involves an understanding of language conventions in a given community (Mack: 14,15). The rhetoric of Hebrews should thus tell us something about its audience. The recipients are probably inhabitants of an urban centre rather than people scattered in a rural area. They are expected to understand the refined language and rhetorical conventions used by the author. They share with him the heritage of Hellenistic Judaism, a way of reading the scriptures, and a confession to Christ (3:1; 4:1; 10:23). All this is used to reach the emotions and will of the readers as well as their minds. A sermon has persuasive power only when directed to real life situations. We can here make only preliminary proposals towards the reconstruction of the situation of the ‘Hebrews’. The movement from Christology to paraenesis (2:1-4; 3:7–4:16; 5:11–6:12; 10: 19–39; 12:1; 13:25) suggests that christological heresy is not the initial problem. Christology serves as a springboard to exhortation. The significance of faith in Christ as Son and High Priest is explicated by the author but not in such a way as to suggest that anything he says would be contested. Another conclusion can be ruled out. The writer’s amplification (auxesis) of the faith is developed from the common ground of key biblical texts, a confession, and what appear to be Christ-hymns (1:2,3 and 5:8–10). So, he is not attempting to win converts. Theories which see Hebrews addressed to Jewish priests or prospective converts from Qumran are wildly off the mark. The problem of the Hebrews does not begin with doctrine but with social pressure. Apostasy is the feared end-product of the social situation. Loss of confidence in the community is not merely the product of time, an understandable fading of first love. It is caused by suffering for the faith (11:24–40; 12:1–11; 10:32–39), though no one in the community has yet suffered martyrdom as the price of constancy (12:4). The argument for the superiority of Christ and of the new covenant remains theological theory unless related to a social reality. Barnabas Lindars suggested that the community’s problem is lack of certainty over freedom from sin through Christ’s death. But this reduces the focus of Hebrews to an inner spiritual problem. Lindars suggested that the letter addresses a dissident group within the community— thus the appeal to remember past and obey present leaders (13:7,17;

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Lindars: 11,19). Yet the letter draws no distinction between groups such as the strong and the weak, or between those who are enduring and those who are wavering. We have a sizable group in which all are suffering pressure. Ernst Käsemann once rejected as fantasy the thesis that Hebrews counters the problem of a ‘Judaizing disintegration threatening the Christian community or the danger of apostacy towards Judaism’ (24). He began his famous studies of Hebrews in 1936, writing the first draught in 1937, during the enforced leisure of a prison sentence imposed by the anti-Semitic Nazis! Little wonder that he emphatically rejected any anti-Jewish feeling on the part of the writer of Hebrews. True, but the passionate appeal of Hebrews to hold onto what is superior surely suggests the temptation to move back to the old. The call to suffer with Christ ‘outside the camp’ in 13:13 does not necessarily apply attacks on the readers made by Jews, just as we need not assume that some Jews are seeking to eat with Christians, whatever else 13:10 may mean. The most probable situation is this. The readers are being tempted to seek security under the cover of Judaism which, despite attacks from pagan society, has some status in the Roman Empire. Without knowledge of the location of the readers, we are left guessing about the legal status of Judaism as a recognised religion (religio licita) in their home territory. Yet these Christians must now be in a less secure position, socially, than the local Jews. Loss of faith has social repercussions, just as strong faith has concrete communal manifestations, such as solidarity with the suffering (10:34). Suffering has social ramifications: the threat to group identity, cohesion, and solidarity. It is easy to understand how this could lead to a diffident approach to worship and to a waning of those acts of kindness which demonstrate group identity and solidarity (see 10:24: 10:32,36; 13:1–5). The call back to worship and to actions which demonstrate group cohesion is not pro forma paraenesis but relates to social reality. Suffering could produce other reactions apart from the dispersion of the group. It could produce antagonism and the desire for revenge or drive believers underground into a secret existence. Hebrews counters all such possibilities in a way which reminds us of the tactic of First Peter, also addressed to a persecuted community. First Peter reminds its readers of their status as the elect and holy People of

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God who belong to God’s household (Elliott). Hebrews reminds its audience of their status as priests, called to draw near to God because of the past and present work of their great High Priest. Further parallels might be drawn between the social standing of the communities behind Hebrews and First Peter. Elliott has provided strong arguments for understanding the terms ‘exiles’ and ‘aliens’ (parepidemoi and paroikoi) in First Peter 1:1 and 2:11 as describing a certain social class of people: resident aliens. Whether this is so in the case of Hebrews deserves examination, but this much is clear: the description of the patriarchs, as aliens and temporary dwellers (xenoi and parepidemoi) in Hebrews 11:13, the picture of God’s people as on the move in chapters 3 and 4, the image of the Christian life as a race in 12:1–12, and the use of verbs which suggests decisive movement, especially ‘approach’ and ‘come out or leave’ (proserchomai and exerchomai), suggest that the community faces a twofold danger. It is losing its sense of direction and its location in the wider society. Hebrews assures its audience that there remains a final rest for God’s suffering people. It contrasts the eternal world of ultimate reality with the transient world of earthly reality (1:10–12). It holds up the sure hope of a final reception of what God has promised to his saints. Yet the writer’s response to suffering is not an exclusively futuristic eschatology as one might expect. The central message is that access to God in worship—the feature of the new covenant— is possible now, not merely in the future (4:16; 10:19–22; 12:22–24). The heavenly High Priest who is the same yesterday, today, and forever (13:8) has drawn the sanctified into the realm of the eternal which has invaded the world of transience. The realised eschatology of the author is based on his understanding of worship as that which characterises the people of the new covenant. Käsemann was right. There is no polemic against Judaism, only the insistence on the superior superiority of the new over the old. The argument is scriptural, from beginning to end. There is no reference to the temple in Jerusalem and to its cult, though they probably still existed at the time of writing. Hebrews is best dated well before AD 70, at a time when the readers could still understand themselves as members of a messianic movement within Judaism, and when the sharp distinctions between church and synagogue had not yet been drawn. Persecution from Gentiles had made the relationship of these Christians to their parent body, Judaism, a burning issue. Confiscation

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of property, imprisonment, and public abuse appear to be extreme forms of suffering that the readers endured in the past (10:32–34). Yet the former days could return. To seek refuge back in the synagogue would be a natural temptation, even if some small surrender of the uniqueness of the Christian faith were required by such a move. All this is, admittedly, a hypothesis, but it is better than other readings which tend to reduce Hebrews to a treatise on Christology. One thing is sure. People did not join the early church because it presented a perfect system of thought. It provided a home for people who needed to know who they were and where they belonged. Further research will, hopefully, reveal more fully the social reality behind Hebrews. References Bligh, John (1966) Chiastic Analysis of the Epistle to the Hebrews, Oxford: Athenaeum Buttrick, David (1987) Homiletic: Moves and Structures, Philadelphia: Fortress Cosby, Michael R (1988) The Rhetorical Composition and Function of Hebrews 11 in Light of Example Lists in Antiquity, Macon, Ga.: Mercer University Press Elliott, John H (1990) A Home for the Homeless. A Social-Scientific Criticism of 1 Peter its Situation and Strategy, Philadelphia: Fortress Holmberg, Bengt (1990) Sociology of the New Testament: An Appraisal, Minneapolis: Fortress Hoppin, Ruth (1969) Priscilla, Author of the Epistle to the Hebrews, and Other Essays, New York: Exposition Press Käsemann, Ernst (1984) The Wandering People of God: An Investigation of the Letter to the Hebrews, Minneapolis: Augsburg Kennedy, GA (1984) New Testament Interpretation Through Rhetorical criti cism, University of North Carolina Press Kenny, Anthony (1986) A Stylometric Study of the New Testament, Oxford: Clarendon Lindars, Barnabas (1991P) The Theology of the Letter to the Hebrews, Cambridge: CUP Mack, Burton L (1990) Rhetoric and the New Testament, Minneapolis: Fortress Reumann, John (1991) Variety and Unity in New Testament Thought, Oxford: OUP Vanhoye, Albert (1963) La Structure Litteraire de l’Epitre aux Hebreux, Paris: Desclee de Brouwer

Martyr and Hero: The Origin and Development of a Tradition in the Early Christian Martyr Acts

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 15.1,2 (1981): 9–17

It seems that every age and every movement of any significance must have its martyr figure. While the blood of the Christian martyrs may well have been the seed of the church, the blood of political martyrs has also been exploited to the full by the movements for which they died. The communist world has its saints. Collectors of Eastern European stamps have been regularly presented with a gallery of those who died for the communist cause. Young revolutionaries of the Third World have had their Che Guevara, and Ireland its Bobby Sands. The early church, also, was not alone in looking back on a history of persecution and martyrdom. Ancient paganism had its martyrs. The same church which endured bitter oppression from state authorities for three centuries soon found it possible to retaliate, using harsh measures against the pagans. One of the most famous martyrs of all time is the young Alexandrian woman, the Neoplatonist Hypatia, whose story has been immortalised by the Victorian novelist Charles Kingsley. Subsequent centuries saw not only the sufferings of Christians caused by fellow-Christians: the Reformation and Counter-Reformation produced martyrs on both sides of the fence, though the Spanish Inquisition remains perhaps the darkest blot in the history of the church. There were also the sufferings inflicted on Jews by Christians. Indeed, if any people know what persecution and martyrdom is, it is the Jewish people. Apart from all ethnic, cultural,

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linguistic, and religious ties, that which today stamps Judaism most is a history of suffering. Nevertheless, the Christian Church has with very good reason fostered the memory of her martyrs, written them in her liturgies, celebrated their death days as their birthdays, and held them up as heroes of the faith. In this connection it is interesting to note how the first three centuries of the Christian era remain the classical period of martyrdom for the church, this even though it can be shown that the twentieth century has the greater claim to be known as the age of Christian martyrs, at least as far as sheer numbers are concerned. The last century saw the rise of a Bonhoeffer veneration, going beyond admiration, which would hardly have brought joy to the young Lutheran pastor himself, had he been able to foresee it. The most common picture of the Christian martyr remains that portrayed in the great martyr-acts and martyrologies of the more distant past, so much so that the church has occasionally experienced some embarrassment at popular moves to heroicise individuals who have proved themselves, either by suffering for their faith to the point of death, or by a way of life which clearly attested their faith, to be champions of Christ. The church has the right and duty to thank God for the example of that noble army of martyrs. At the same time, it needs to be reminded that martyr heroics are not characteristic of the Christian faith, that an over-evaluation of the martyr to the detriment of Christ and his glory is an ever-present danger. The purpose of this study is not to retell the often-told story of the church-state relations, from Nero down to the last holocaust under Diocletian, Galerius, and Maximinus Daza, nor are we interested at this point in tracing the cult of the martyrs as a subject for itself, as fascinating as that might be. Here we can still read with great profit studies devoted to these topics last century by such scholars as Achelis and Holl.1 All this study intends to do is to develop the thesis that the martyr-acts reflect, from the outset, some features which can be traced back to pre-Christian Jewish as well as pagan Hellenistic influences. It may be that, by tracing the history of these features, 1. H Achelis, Das Christentum in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten, Volume II (Leipzig: Quelle & Meyer, 1912), and Karl Holl, ‘Die Vorstellung von Martyrer und die Martyrerakte in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung’, Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Kirchengeschichte, Volume II (Tübingen: Mohr/Paul Siebeck, 1928), 68–102.

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especially that of the martyr as hero, we may find an answer to the question of the origin of the Acts themselves, and at the same time locate various dangers in the development of this tradition. The relevance of the Books of the Maccabees for our discussions will immediately be clear in general, if not in detail. Parallels between Second and Fourth Maccabees and the Ascension of Isaiah on the one hand, and first Clement 5 and 6 and the Martyrdom of Polycarp on the other, have been noted. Not surprisingly, many have suggested that the picture of the Christian martyr as an idealised figure has its origins in the great persecution of the Jews under Antiochus Epiphanes in the second century before Christ. Whether this can still be maintained is problematical ever since von Campenhausen, the noted Heidelberg church historian, published his study Die Idee des Martyriums in der alten Kirche in 1936.2 He argued that the Jewish concept of martyrdom formed only a general background to the later Christian concept. More recent studies by Alison Trites3 have confirmed the observation that the use of the words martys, martyrein (‘witness’ and ‘to witness’), and cognates in the New Testament always reflects the missionary task of the church, and never fully reflects the later technical language of martyrdom.4 More important, the Jewish martyrs died to defend the honour of God and the holiness of his law. The Christian martyrs died as part of their verbal witness to Christ and the power of his death and resurrection. Nevertheless, it is still clear that the later Christian accounts of the martyrs were influenced by the Jewish accounts, at least in a formal, literary sense. It is to the literary records that we turn to examine the rise of the Christian martyr-acts and to a theme found in them. The church had endured a century of persecution before the first martyr-accounts came to be written in the middle of the second century. Why do we not have records of the saints who died in the time of Nero and Domitian? Why no accounts of the martyrs who suffered 2. Die Idee des Martyriums (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 1936). 3. A Trites, ‘Martys and Martyrdom in the Apocalypse’, in Novum Testamentum, 15.1 (1973): 72–80; also, The New Testament Concept of Witness (Cambridge: CUP, 1977). 4. In Revelation the word martys preserves its original meaning of ‘witness’, though Trites concludes that some passages show a slight shift in semantic development. Nevertheless, ‘it is still questionable whether the martyrological understanding has become part of the dictionary definition of the word; ‘Martys and Martyrdom’, 80.

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in Asia Minor under the governor Pliny in the reign of Trajan? That the numbers were too few to warrant recording, or that the church did not think it proper to commemorate their deaths in view of the expected end of the world, are hardly satisfactory explanations. We move closer to an answer when we relate the role of the martyr as a witness to Christ to the role of the prophet in the early church. In an essay on the historical development of the martyr-acts, Karl Holl illustrated the possibility of a clash between the claims to the possession of the Spirit on the part of the martyrs and of the prophets.5 Montanism contributed greatly to the loss of the living voice of the prophets, but even before prophecy died out the living voice of the Lord had come to be found more and more in in the witness of the martyrs in suffering and death. In a real sense, the martyrs were seen as the heirs of the apostles in witnessing to Christ. Thus, we have an explanation for the fact that the possession of the Spirit is a standard feature of the early martyr-accounts. In the Martyrdom of Polycarp, for example, the trial and death of the saint is seen as a series of miracles worked by the Spirit: he reveals to Polycarp the manner of his death (5:2); in his passion Polycarp’s face is lit up with the divine glow of the Spirit (12:1), and already on entering the arena, he hears an angelic voice calling him to fight manfully (9:1). His death is accompanied by strange portents (15:1; 16:1). Such features recur in later acts. However, the martyrs claim to the Spirit caused considerable difficulty for the church and its clergy, since the faithful flocked to the prisons and dungeons to receive a word, or even forgiveness from the martyrs. The clash between the unofficial clergy in the prisons and the clergy of the church is well documented in the third century and was later replaced by the rivalry between the martyr and the ascetic.6 This new appreciation of the Spirit’s role in the sufferings of the martyr led to a new literary genre which recalled the life, suffering, last words, and death of notable martyrs. Here was the living voice of the Lord, still speaking through his faithful saints. It would thus appear certain that we have, at least in part, an explanation for the rise of the martyr-acts only late in the church’s history. But this is hardly a complete answer. We should also note that from the outset (as in the Martyrdom of Polycarp), the picture of the martyr is tinged 5. Holl, ‘Die Vorstellung’, 74, 75; see also Achelis, Das Christentum, 275, 276, 349. 6. See the documentation by Achelis, 275–276, and in Appendix 91.

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with a certain heroicism, something not surprising. The courage, faith, and hope, of the martyrs, their unflinching valour in facing most horrible torments, give them every right to be characterised as heroes of the faith. It is equally clear, also in the martyr-acts, that the faithful die to the glory of God. Indeed, the acts themselves are doxological in purpose. The martyrs of Scili say their gratias agimus or Deo gratias on hearing the verdict of the heathen judge.7 At the end of the Martyrdom of Polycarp there appears the doxology which was to become the standard conclusion to the martyr-acts. Nevertheless, human heroism remains a key feature. It is found, above all, in the almost stereotyped language used to picture the martyr as a noble athlete fighting the good contest (agon) for the prize (brabeion) of eternal life. By the time we come to the Church History of Eusebius, the athletic images become so standardised that ‘athlete’ equals ‘martyr’. What are the origins of this picture, and do these origins or the tradition behind this picture throw some light on the literary form and purpose of the early martyr-acts? In the Acts there is an observable effort to portray the martyrs as dying in a way reminiscent of the Lord’s own death. Since they participate in his sufferings, their deaths must resemble his. The martyr is an imitator of Christ in his death (Ignatius, Rom 4:2; 5:1; Eph 1:2; Trall 5:2; Pol 7:1). Stephen, the first martyr, prays for his tormentors with Jesus' own words (Acts 7:59, 60; Luke 23:34, 46). This conscious patterning is most clear in the Martyrdom of Polycarp. His judge is called Herod (6:2; 8:2); the soldiers go out to arrest him as if he were a thief (7:1; Matt 26:55). Polycarp rides to his passion on a donkey (8:1), and as he enters his passion, he prays, ‘God’s will be done’ (7:1). Clearly, it is not from the Gospels that the picture of the martyr as a heroic athlete is taken. Luke 22:44 pictures Jesus as falling into an agony (agonia) in Gethsemane, but this ‘struggle’ is his battle for victory in the great hour of temptation and trial. Although it has been suggested that Luke portrays Jesus as the proto martyr, there is no evidence that the early church looked to the scene as setting the pattern for the later martyr-athletes. Nor can this feature of heroism implied in the athletic image be traced back solely to Paul’s use of the athletic image. Although the 7. Mart. Scil. 14–17.

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contest (agon) in Paul often connotes suffering for the sake of Christ and the gospel, his concern is not to picture himself as a martyr, but as a great contender for the gospel.8 In the good fight of faith for the faith, suffering plays a role, but in no instance does the thought of martyrdom stamp his picture of the athlete of Christ. Thus, the origins of the picture of the martyr hero as an athlete must be traced back further than the New Testament. It is well known that the athlete occupied a special position of honour in ancient Greek and Hellenistic culture.9 Just as virtue itself (arete) begins in Homeric literature as the valour of the warrior, so later the special character of mind and body called kalok’agathia is best illustrated in the person of the noble athlete who steels his body against privations and trains himself for ultimate exertion and trial. It must be remembered that the three great games (agones) of the Greek world, the Olympic, Pythian, and Isthmian Games, all had a sacral meaning. They were part of the worship of the gods, a liturgy held in or near a sacred precinct. The prizes given to the victors were dedicated to the gods. With the collapse of classical Greek ideals and the rise of professionalism in the sporting world (nothing is new!), the games fell somewhat into decline. While the gymnasium remained part of the essential machinery for inculcating Hellenistic culture, the athlete often became the object of scorn from tragedians, poets, and philosophers, from the fifth century BC onwards. True virtue was now seen as strength of mind and character and the mastery of the inner self, and not as the brute physical strength or prowess of the athlete. The traditional polemic against athletes can be traced back as far as the seventh century BC, but it gained momentum until becoming a standard feature in the thought of the pre–Socratics. Plato and Aristotle take up an old jibe when arguing that the true

8. See 1 Cor 9:24–27; Phil 3:2–14; Gal 2:2; 5:7; Rom 9:16; Phil 1:27–30; 2:16; Col 1:29–2:1; 4:12,13; Rom15:30; Phil 4:1,3; 1 Thess 2:2,19. The athletic image, possibly mixed with that of the gladiator, appears in the Pastoral Letters in 1 Tim 4:7–10; 6:11,12; 2 Tim 2:3-5; 4:6–8. For a detailed analysis of these passages, see Victor C Pfitzner, Paul and the Agon Motif: Traditional Athletic Imagery in the Pauline Literature. Supplements to Novum Testamentum XVI (Leiden: EJ Brill,1967). 9. For more detail on what follows, see Pfitzner, Agon Motif, 16–72.

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athlesis and true askesis consists not in the cult of the body but in the training of self in the pursuit of virtue. It was, however, the Cynics, and later the Stoics, who made this polemic a standard theme of their diatribe against society with all its ills. The only truly good, noble, and heroic contest is that waged by the sage who struggles to live according to the divine reason within, in the fight against fate and fortune, in the pursuit of equanimity of mind and soul. In picturing the true contest for virtue, all the old athletic imagery is used, including the laudatory epithets once applied to the athletes of the arena and racetrack, the gymnasium or palaestra. The tenacity of this traditional use of the athletic image can be seen from Pauline and Deutero-Pauline usage, particularly in certain standard implied or stated contrasts. Thus, there is ‘the good fight of faith’ and the ‘unfading prize’ which contrasts with the corruptible crown of the athlete. In the later diatribal presentation of their moral agon in the writings of late Stoics like Seneca, Epictetus, Plutarch, and Marcus Aurelius, Hercules provides the heroic model for the philosopher. In demythologised form he becomes the pattern for moral achievement, the patron saint of the moralist who wrestles to overcome all obstacles to virtue. The trials (ponoi) of Hercules become examples of moral endeavour to be emulated. It is easy to demonstrate that the vocabulary and imagery of popular moral philosophy had a great influence on Hellenistic Judaism, especially in Alexandria. Not surprisingly, the picture of the contest for virtue is prominent in the writings of Philo and even appears in the Greek Old Testament, the Septuagint. Two examples will suffice. In speaking of the pursuit of virtue, the Book of Wisdom 4:1 says: Present, we imitate it; absent, we long for it; Crowned, it holds triumph through eternity, Having striven for blameless prizes (athla) and emerged victorious from the contest (agon).

In 10:10–12 there is the picture of Wisdom guiding Jacob: She guarded him closely from his enemies and saved him from the trap they set for him. In an arduous struggle (agon) and she awarded him the prize,

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To teach him that piety is stronger than all.

The last line of the passage leads us directly to a new and bold picture of the heroic athlete found in the accounts of the Jewish martyrs who suffered at the hands of Antiochus Epiphanes IV of Syria. The recurring theme of Fourth Maccabees, a synagogal homily in the style of a diatribal homily betrays its philosophical background in the pagan world: ‘Pious reason rules supreme over the passions.’ The influence of Stoic thought is clear in the words of ‘reason’ (the ruling universal principle within each person) and ‘passion’ (the sensibilities to which one is subjected), but now the noble martyr, the true hero, is the person who strives for piety, who wrestles against an evil opponent to preserve the honour of God and the holiness of his law. Not the pagan sage but the Jewish martyr is the true athlete, the true example of patient endurance. Now it is the old man Eleazar and the mother with her seven sons who endure terrible trials (ponoi), greater than any Hercules endured.10 The athletic metaphor dominates the entire account of their deaths; a few references will suffice to illustrate the extent to which it is employed. Eleazar, almost adopting the role of a stoic sage, ‘endured the toils . . . and like a noble athlete being buffeted, conquered his tormentors' (4 Macc 6:9,10). Defying the tyrant’s threats, the seven brothers cry out, ‘We through our evil treatment and endurance will win the prizes of virtue and will be with God for whom we suffer’ (9:8). As in the diatribe, the athletic and military images flow into each other, as when the first brother, dying in the flames, cries out to the others, ‘Imitate me, my brothers. Do not desert me in my contest (agon). Wage a holy and honourable warfare on behalf of righteousness’ (9:23,24). All who died for their faith are truly ‘champions of virtue’ (12:16). Just as the athletic heroes were once feted at Olympia, so now the victorious martyrs are acclaimed as great athletes of God who have carried off the true prize (15:29; 16:14-16). In 17:11-16 there is an epitaph which reads something like a Pindaric ode sung to a victorious group of athletes: For truly it was a holy contest (agon) in which they contended. For on that day, virtue, testing them 10. 4 Maccabees 9:17,18; 11:5; 15:11–13.

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through endurance, set before them the prize of victory, incorruption in everlasting life. The first to contest was Eleazar; the mother of the seven sons also joined in the contest, and the sons contended. The tyrant was their opponent (literally, antagonist), and the world and the life of humans were the spectators. Godliness won the victory, crowning her athletes. Who but wondered at the athletes of the divine law? Who were not amazed at them? Here are the unmistakable beginnings of what was later to become the standard vocabulary of the Christian acts of the martyrs. Though he uses the athletic image, Paul represents a break in the tradition, in so far as he transfers the Christian ‘contest’ from the context of an individualistic ethic to the realm of the apostle’s struggle for the free course of the gospel as in First Corinthians 9:24-27, or to the characterisation of the life of faith in its eschatological perspective in Philippians 3:12–14. Suffering may be involved in the struggle but there is a complete absence of any heroics. Instead, Paul lauds the power of God who works through human weakness (2 Cor 4:7–12). Hebrews pictures the struggles of persecuted Christians as a contest to be endured with patience. ‘Recall the former days when you endured a great struggle (athlesis) with sufferings.’ Later the unknown author adds, ‘Let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us’ (10:32 and 12:1). But the author does not yet speak of martyrdom in the strict sense, for in 12:4 he reminds his hearers that they have not yet ‘antagonised’ to the point of shedding blood. The martyres in 12:1 are not martyrs, but those like the saints listed in chapter 11, have lived by faith, and run the race to its victorious conclusion. That there are only hints at the martyr tradition of the Maccabean literature is even more surprising, since Hebrews does seem to know or at least refer to these books.11 There are also traces of the agon tradition in First Peter and Revelation, especially in the reference to the crown of glory which the faithful will receive in the next life. But here also all emphasis is on the glory of God and his Christ, not on the glory of the saints who are faithful unto death. 11. Compare Heb 11:35,36 with 2 Macc 6:19,28.

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When we come to the Apostolic Fathers, we detect a mixture of elements. Ignatius frequently uses the athletic image.12 Often his language shows the influence of Paul’s writings. The bishops in the whole church are called to ‘contend’ for the faith of the gospel. However, the famous picture of the deaths of Peter and Paul and the Neronian martyrs in First Clement 5 and 6 shows the continuation of the martyr tradition as first detected in Fourth Maccabees. The first account contains the words, Let us come to those who became athletes in the days nearest to us; let us take the noble examples of our own generation. Through jealousy and envy the greatest and most righteous pillars of the church were persecuted . . . and contended (athlein) to the point of death.

The passage goes on to picture the trials (ponoi) of the apostles, including the journeys of Paul in the east and to the ends of the west (like Hercules!), and his gaining of the prize (brabeion) for endurance. Martin Dibelius convincingly argued that this description of the apostles’ death betrays Stoic influence.13 Whether this can be used to question the historicity of the count as a whole is a problem for itself. Surprisingly, Dibelius in his analysis of the passage makes no reference to Fourth Maccabees. Both this document and First Clement 5 and 6 point to the martyrs as examples to be emulated, just as the Stoic points to his demythologised Hercules as a paragon of virtue. True, the deaths of the Christian martyrs are not related, as in Fourth Maccabees, with any concentration on the excruciating agonies they suffered. Nevertheless, we see the continuation of the tradition of the philosophical sage in the recollection of the apostles’ trials or labours (ponoi) and in the picture of Paul’s wandering over the face of the earth— in the philosophical tradition it is the sage who travels the world in search of virtue. In the final analysis, the account in First Clement remains closer to the martyr accounts of Fourth Maccabees, with its picture of the contest to the point of death14 and

12. Ignatius, Ad Polycarp 1:2,3; 2:3; 3:1; 6:1; Ad Eph 4:1 etc. 13. M Dibelius, ‘Rom und die Christen im ersten Jahrhundert’, in Botschaft und Geschichte, Volume II, edited by G Bornkamm, 192–195. 14. Compare, for example, 1 Clem 5:2 with 4 Macc 6:30; 7:8; 13:1.

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to Paul’s picture of the good fight of faith, than to the purely Stoic picture of the moral contest of the philosopher. The Martyrdom of Polycarp presents us with the first example of a new literary genre in the early church, the martyr-acts. Here for the first time, there is the consistent use of the athletic image as part of the technical language of martyrdom. We gain an insight into the purpose of this fascinating document from 18:3. Polycarp’s ashes are preserved so that the faithful might celebrate the day of his martyrdom ‘to commemorate those who have already contested (proathlein) and to prepare those who are still to suffer’. As in Fourth Maccabees, this noble and holy contest is fought against a godless ruler who is styled as a tyrant.15 From the many parallels which might be drawn between the two documents, a small selection is enough to show the close connections that exist. The fires are cold for the martyrs (Mart Pol 2:3; 4 Macc11:26). The tyrant respects the age of the sufferer (9:2; 4 Macc 5:6). The tormentors waver in their purpose (11:2; 4 Macc 6:23; 9:1). The wonder of the spectators, the stress on the heroism of the martyrs and their endurance, on their nobility in suffering, are all features which offer parallels. We get very close to the concept of the martyrs’ death as an atoning sacrifice (Mart Pol 14:1,2; Ignatius Rom 4:2; 4 Macc 6:29; 17:21). The Martyrdom of Polycarp forms a bridge between Fourth Maccabees, Paul, and Hebrews on the one hand, and between the first references to Christian martyrs and later fully developed martyracts on the other. Only when the traditional character of the athletic images is appreciated can its continued retention in the martyr-acts be understood. After all, the contests of the gladiatorial arena had nothing in common with the old athletic contests of ancient Greece! If there is any polemic against athletes, it is no longer directed against those who took part in the physical games, but against other ‘athletes’ in a figurative sense. The athletic image remains firmly embedded in the martyracts down to the fourth century and can be easily documented in the writings of such fathers as Tertullian, Origen, and Augustine. The climax of this development is perhaps best seen in the Church History of Eusebius, particularly in his account of the Palestinian 15. See Mart Pal 2:4; 17:1; 19:2 and compare with 4 Macc 1:11; 8:22; 16:14.

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martyrs. Once more the agon is holy (HE VIII 2.3, 7.2; Mart Pal III). It is fought against the earthly ruler as against Satan himself (HE V 1.5,6; X 4.60).16 Once more the martyrs are given the heroic epithet ‘noble’ (HE V 1.17; Mart Pal IV 4; VIII 13). Again, they strive for an immortal prize (HE V 1.36). The image was so tenacious that it was easily transferred into the Latin language. Tertullian even gives us the rather far-fetched image of the Father as the promoter of the contest, the Spirit as the trainer, and the Son as the referee.17 Before returning to the question asked at the beginning of this study, we should note how together with the picture of the martyrathlete there developed the picture of the ascetic as an athlete. The asketikos agon can be documented as early as Second Clement 7 where the struggle against the flesh to keep the seal of baptism pure and undefiled is portrayed in a manner which is closer to the thought of the diatribe or Philo than to any passage in Paul or in the martyr-acts. Occasionally the two pictures run into each other. The contest of the martyr and the ascetic merge in the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, for example in Martyrium Matthaei 2, or in the Sibylline Oracles (II 48,49). The growth of eremite and monastic ideals naturally further the concept of the ascetic agon. An excellent example of this can be seen in Syriac literature, in the seventh treatise of Aphraates the Persian in Concerning the Penitents. Here the candidate for baptism is called to the contest (aguna in Syriac) of asceticism— baptism is itself called the water of testing. ‘He who has completely purified his soul is fit for the contest, because he no longer has anything behind him which he could remember or to which he could again lapse back.’18 But the most Stoic expression of the ascetic agon against the passions of the flesh appears in the Psalms of Manichean Gnosticism. One cannot read certain texts here without recalling the original Stoic picture of the philosopher-athlete—‘All hail, O busy soul that has finished her fight (agon) and has subdued the ruling power, the body and its affections. Receive the garland from the hand of the Judge.’19 Here, as in Pistis Sophia 249, the contest has again become the struggle to suppress the flesh in the effort to escape the body, 16. The classical example of this feature occurs in the Passio Perpetuae where the martyr has vision of herself wrestling with a dark Egyptian who is Satan 17. Tertullian, ad Mart 3. 18. Text in Patrologia Syriaca I, edited by J Parisot (Paris, 1894), columns 394–50. 19. See A Manichaean Psalm Book, edited by CRA Allberry (Stuttgart, 1938), 57.

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to preserve the divine spark implanted in the soul. The hero is now again the moral athlete! In his book Märtyrer und Gottesknecht, Eduard Lohse reminds us that the early church soon claimed the Maccabean martyrs as its own.20 This fact is demonstrated also by the influence of Fourth Maccabees on First Clement 5 and the Martyrdom of Polycarp. We also know that the Christians in Antioch appropriated the graves of the Maccabean martyrs and raised a church on the site, thereby preventing the local Jews from honouring their own saints! Later, Jews were denied the right of appealing to these martyrs in their controversies with the church. In the light of this appropriation, it is understandable that other features were adopted which originally belonged to the Jewish concept of martyrdom. There appears the idea that the martyrs at death go immediately to heaven to take their place at the side of the patriarchs and prophets—and in the Christian version, of the Apostles. This feature is one of the bases for the emergence of the cult of martyrs. Jewish influence is also seen in the fact that, in contrast to the marked heroics of the Cynic-Stoic picture of the philosopher-athlete, there is a significant absence of heroics in the early martyrdoms. Only later did abuses such as grasping at martyrdom arise when the death of the martyr came to be over evaluated or esteemed for itself as part of an ethic of achievement. In most early martyrdoms the stress that remains uppermost is this: The saints died for Christ, not to display their courage or virtue.21 The question remains. Do the above observationss shed any new light on the rise and purpose of the martyr-acts in the second century? We have seen that a standard motif in the traditional use of the athletic images is the polemical tone it often carries. To the athletes of the games the philosophers said, ‘We are the true athletes. We are engaged in the only true and noble contest’. To the pagan philosophers of their day the Hellenistic Jews who had suffered for their faith said, ‘No, our martyrs are the true athletes of virtue and piety’. We cannot complete this chain by suggesting that the Christian martyrs were later contrasted with their Jewish counterparts, this 20. Lohse, Märtyrer und Gottesknecht (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 3rd edition, 1963), 55. 21. See Ignatius, Ad Eph 12:2; Mag 14; Trall 12:2; 13:3.

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for two reasons. There is no polemic against Jews or Judaism in the Christian martyr-acts. Secondly, we have seen that the church claimed the Jewish martyrs for itself. If there is any implied polemic, it must be against the world of the persecutors and against the pagan world. At this point we can with profit return to Karl Holl’s reminder that the martyr accounts show the influence of Roman Hellenistic literature.22 Paganism also had its martyrs. The philosophers sang the praises of those who had remained true to their conviction till death. We recall that there was often a conflict between the philosopher, especially the Cynic or Stoic, and the Roman state authority. We know that these philosophers were banished from Rome under the Flavian emperors because of their carping criticism of the state and society in general. The parallel between the Christians and their struggle against state authority and the philosophers’ conflict with the state was seen by none other than the Stoic Epictetus (Diss. IV 7,6). He compares the fearless attitude of the Christian before the earthly tyrant with that of the philosopher who has his own contest to fight. The same emperors whom Christianity remembered as its first and most cruel persecutors were likewise branded in the Vita Apollonii as the bitter enemies of philosophy. Holl reminds us that the glorification of these pagan heroes had, long before the martyr-acts arose, formed the subject of a series of philosophical edificatory writings in the Roman world. Clemens Alexandrinus testifies in his Stromata (IV 56.2) to a writing of Timotheus of Pergamum, called Concerning the Courage of the Philosophers. While the concept of martyrdom in its Christian form did not arise from pagan philosophy, the literary presentation of andreia or heroic bravery in the martyr-acts had much to do with heathen literary counterparts. Though the Cynics and Stoics—at least the later popular variety— were persecuted under the Flavians, the meditations of Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius and the Lives of Plutarch give ample testimony to the rise in popularity of moral philosophy in both the first and second centuries. It is easy to understand how the Christians borrowed both literary forms and images from the picture of the philosopher’s agon to present their own picture of those who alone merited the title of true athletes, the martyrs of Christ. This was made all the easier 22. See Holl, Die Vorstellung, 78, 79.

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since the church already possessed an account of the Jewish martyrs which paralleled and outshone the picture of the pagan philosopher’s contest. There is thus a mixture of influences in the Christian martyracts, both Jewish and pagan. But the actual thrust of the new literary genre was not anti-Jewish, but anti-Pagan. In this connection it must not be overlooked. that the first martyr-acts came into being at roughly the same time that Stoicism, in its popularised form in the writings of Marcus Aurelius, saw its last great flowering. That is surely more than a coincidence. Nor is it quite by accident—and here we must draw the threads of our argument together—that the martyr-acts arise at the same time as the first great apologies of the Christian faith. One can suggest that while the acts were indeed written for the edification and preparation of the faithful, that is for their own possible martyrdom, they also were meant to present a defence of the faith to the pagan world which had its own heroic martyrs. Against the attacks of the pagans, the early apologists pleaded the antiquity of their faith, just as the Jewish Philo had done in presenting Judaism to his pagan contemporaries in Alexandria, arguing that Moses was much older than Socrates or Plato. It was also quite natural that the writers of the martyr-acts should appeal not only to those who had recently suffered for their faith, but also to the pre-Christian Jewish martyrs who were seen as belonging in hope to the Christian Church. Thus, the Maccabean Books became part of the Greek Bible. Tertullian preserves the picture of the martyr as the prophetic witness to Christ, while at the same time pointing to pagan examples of suffering and endurance. He recalls the example of a variety of people down through history, including Dido and Cleopatra who willingly preferred death to dishonour. And in this list the philosopher is well represented (ad Mart 4). Naturally, as the early stress on the martyr’s possession of the Spirit gave way to a stress on the role of the martyr as witness to the pagan world, the martyr-acts became increasingly important in the apologetics of the church. Those who died for Christ were the true successors of the Jewish martyrs, the true champions of virtue such as no pagan philosophers could ever be. Any study of the early Christian acts of the martyrs remains an academic exercise if it does not speak to those who are living now. It may be that our century will bring another great ‘contest’ of oppression, continuing the story of Christian suffering behind the

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old iron curtain and extending it to include minority groups in China and elsewhere. From our safe situation in the free Western world, it is easy to look back on the history of the early church, and to pass criticism on false developments and dangerous features in the history of Christian martyrdom. But the early church still teaches us lessons today. It reminds us that there are false heroics, a corruption of an act of testimony to a heroic performance. As Eric Asking reminds us in an essay written in honour of a more recent martyr, the German New Testament scholar Ernst Lohmeyer,23 the possibility exists of both an obsession with the idea of martyrdom and a false escapism from the world. We have seen how the Stoic picture of the moral athlete reaches its climax in Christian tradition in an asceticism which amounts to a denial of the world. True Christian martyrs die, if we may express it thus, in solidarity with both Christ and the world. Their witness to the Lord of life is directed to their persecutors and to a fallen and suffering world. They do not die with the aim of assuring their own eternal welfare. That would be to divorce martyrdom from the original meaning of the word martyr as witness. One would hope that the death of each Christian can be seen as part of the witness to Christ which was an essential feature of that person’s life. It may be that testimony in death will be at certain times and places in the future the only effective witness left to Christ’s followers!

23. E Asking, ‘Das Martyrium als theologisch-exegetisches Problem’, In Memoriam Ernst Lohmeyer, edited by W Schmauch (Stuttgrt: Evangelisches Verlagswerk, 1951), 224–32.

From the Invincible Sun to Christ the Pantocrator: Tracing an Iconographic Trajectory on Roman and Byzantine Coinage

First published in Lutheran Theological Journal, 50/1 (May) 2016: 9–28

Ancient coins are works of art, indicators of economic conditions, pieces of political propaganda and records of contemporary events. Their iconography is important also for the reconstruction of religious developments, especially the inseparable connection between politics and religion in the Greco-Roman world. More use of coinage could be made in the study of the early church, especially of the Constantinian period, to supplement the available literary records. What follows is a brief attempt to adduce numismatic evidence that helps to plot the transition from the Roman cult of the Invincible Sun to the worship of Christ the Son in the post-Constantinian centuries of the Western world. It would be difficult to say what the definitive icons of our Western culture are. It is not that we lack icons; the problem is that we are bombarded with images in advertising and all media, whether aurally or visually transmitted, or with the ‘living icons’ of our political, entertainment and sporting worlds. It is possibly easier to determine the images that impressed themselves on the minds of people in the ancient Roman world. Apart from public statuary and painting, it was the Roman coinage that transmitted a kaleidoscope of images that were potent because they were small and completely portable. Since official images were continuously issued in new mintages, coins in daily use became something like the media of the ancient world: informative and powerful in conveying official messages, especially state propaganda. The iconic value of ancient coins as monuments of

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what rulers wanted their subjects to note cannot be overstated. The state could certainly be identified with public buildings, monuments, and statues, but in an age without printed and electronic mass media, it was coinage that carried the most up-to-date information and propaganda. Even a conservative estimate suggests that emperors in the first four centuries of the Roman imperium issued multiple new coin types on a weekly basis, particularly new reverses. By contrast, our modern everyday coinage is static in what it depicts on both obverse and reverse. The symbolic and iconographic value of coins in the Roman world is underscored by the existence of many coins that were minted in the name of an emperor who reigned for no more than a few weeks or even days. In the case of usurpers making a bid for the purple, we must assume that coins were secretly minted beforehand to publicise the accession of a new emperor once he had been acclaimed as imperator by his troops. My purpose here is to trace and illustrate an iconographic trajectory in a vital period of church history. It stretches from the Roman coins of the late third and early fourth centuries that depict the emperor with the radiate crown, together with the coinage of the same period honouring the Invincible Sun (sol invictus), to the emergence of Christian motifs on coinage in the late Constantinian era. It ends in the eventual depiction of the nimbate Christos Pantocrator in the iconography of Byzantine coinage. It is a trajectory with elements of both continuity and discontinuity. The coinage of Rome in the third and fourth centuries provides us with a wealth of evidence for religious developments in the late imperium. It supplements literary evidence for a trend to monotheism in the decades leading up to the Constantinian era. However, the coinage poses some problems. It challenges any suggestion that the transition from paganism to Christianity was a smooth and easily discernable development. Multiple questions arise: •

•

How is it that there are few signs on the coinage, the most obvious medium of state propaganda, of any official change in the state’s stance towards Christianity immediately after the religious settlement that came with the edict of Milan in AD 313, which ended the persecution of Christians? Why do Christian symbols appear regularly only after Constantine’s death in AD 337, that is, on the coins of his sons,

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especially of Constans and Constantius II? And why, when Christian symbols do appear, are they generally of a militaristic nature? Even more puzzling is this: Why does the Constantinian coinage still occasionally promote the pagan cult of the Invincible Sun?

Another question is this. Is there a connection between the radiate crown of the emperor and the halo of light or nimbus that is first given to emperors and members of the imperial family already in the fourth century, and then later to Christ? At issue is not the origin of the halo or nimbus itself. This can be traced back to representations of the sun in ancient religious iconography (Collinet-Guerin). Such representations and symbols are common, whether as the winged disk of Egypt (also to be found on ancient Israelite seals; Keel and Uehlinger, 248–65 and 276–78), or the fiery disk of Persia or the radiating locks of Apollo-Helios in Greek art. The nimbus is common not only to the cultures of Egypt and the Fertile Crescent, but also to the Incas. The Greek myths tell of gods appearing in human form with haloes of light around their heads. The halo thus appears in Greek and Roman iconography to mark the heavenly origin of the gods and the divine authority of earthly rulers. The nimbus, whether a complete circle or rays of light emanating from the head, also appears in the art of Brahmanism, Buddhism, and ancient Slavic religion (Müller, 167). Our purpose here is not to explore the origin of the halo in Christian iconography (in non-Christian usage it always suggests the corona of the sun). Our immediate goal is simply to explore whether Roman coinage indicates some religio-political relationship between the iconography of the cult of the Invincible Sun and that of the Christian emperor who is regent for Christ the Son of God, the heavenly king. This discussion is limited to coins and would have to be supplemented with the evidence of statuary, inscriptions, sarcophagi, mosaics, and early icons. The Political Use of Religious Types A few preliminary observations on the nature and purpose of religious types on the reverse of Roman coinage are necessary. Reverse types in the imperial period generally served three purposes:

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to confirm the legitimacy of the ruling emperor and his heirs, to glorify his achievements, whether real or supposed, to honour the gods and minor tutelary deities, the personifications that typified the state as well as the emperor’s rule.

One can argue that all three functions merge. Religious types dominate coin reverses in the pagan (and Christian) state for the simple reason that religion served a political purpose. Roman religion was a complex matter. There was the cult of the state and the emperor (Roma et Augustus). There was the ancient pantheon of Jupiter, Juno and company to be acknowledged. One could be initiated into an oriental cult like that of Mithras, Cybele or Isis. Those with an honorable pedigree paid their respects to the memory of the departed who were symbolised by the ancestral busts in their homes. The domestic deities that ruled the home and workplace, the penates and lares, had to be given their due. All these observances had one thing in common: religion was not a matter of personal faith commitment but of ritual observance. Ritual performance maintained political and social stability, familial welfare, and personal safety. The popularity of divination and astrology (the latter can be said to have been the religion of the emperors for three centuries) illustrates the accepted belief that it was by ritual that one could determine the nature of the hour and even avert possible evil. The Romans had a genius for order, but they shared the general view of the ancients that the natural state of things was disorder, even chaos. Even the divine and numinous powers could contribute to chaos. Religion was thus mainly a matter of knowing how to lock into other worldly powers to avert evil and chaos. The state itself, of course, was a prime agent of order. With all this in mind, it is perfectly understandable that the heads of state, including Julius Caesar, occupied the high priestly office of Pontifex Maximus (Figure 1), and that imperial coins from the beginning often had astrological motifs, indicating the destiny that guided both state and emperor (Figure 2) Social and political stability, familial welfare, and personal safety, all three were thought to be safeguarded by the official state cult. The connection between communal, familial and personal wellbeing became even more obvious once Octavian took on the title Pater Patriae (Father of his Country) in 2 BC. The state was his family; one’s welfare depended on the welfare of the emperor.

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Figure 1.  Denarius of Julius Caesar as Pontifex Maximus, 49 BC

Figure 2.  Denarius of Augustus, Capricorn reverse, 18-16 BC

That the city and state of Rome had their own divinely endowed genius was popular thinking already in Republican times and can be documented on the coinage (Figure 3). Homage to the genius of the emperor, as well as of Rome, was a natural development of the consecration of Julius Caesar. As princeps (head of state) and divi filius (son of the divine Julius Caesar), Augustus had to have a tutelary genius as much as did ancient Roma! It is not necessary to import eastern models of divine kingship to explain the rise of the emperor cult in the west. The regular consecrations of popular deceased emperors sufficed to ensure that the imperial office was tinged with divine attributes—despite the excesses of emperors like Caligula, Nero, Caracalla, or Elagabalus, all of whom were never honoured with the title divus. Incidentally, the consecratio or apotheosis of the emperor did not cease with the Christianisation of the empire. The last to be consecrated after death was the western emperor, Valentinian III (AD 455).

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Figure 3.  Roma on a sestertius of Gordian II, AD 238

To acknowledge Roma et Augustus was all that was required of those who lived in the empire; it was a token of loyalty. Otherwise, religion was one’s own private business. Even the emperors had their own pet deities, like Domitian who frequently put the war-like Minerva on his coins, while styling himself as Hercules. Or they sought to characterise their reign with favourite personifications such as Aequitas, Fortuna, Pax and so on, even when their reign was anything but just, fortunate, or peaceful! In some cases, the appropriation of some politically motivated personifications becomes ironical in the light of events. For example, the joint senatorial emperors Balbinus and Pupienus, who reigned no more than ninety-eight days in AD 238, issued coin reverses depicting Concordia (they were at loggerheads!) and Victoria (they stared at defeat most of their three months in power!) (Figures 4 and 5).

Figure 4.  Sestertius of Balbinus, Concordia reverse, AD 238

Figure 5.  Sestertius of Pupienus, Victoria reverse, AD238

To the plethora of gods and minor deities, to the many public and private cults, more could be added. Christianity, like Judaism, would have been totally acceptable in this culture except for one thing. It was

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atheistic, meaning that it had too few gods. Refusal to acknowledge the genius of Roma et Augustus meant that its adherents could become politically suspect. Any differences in lifestyle and personal behaviour only exacerbated any communal suspicion that Christianity was a subversive cult. This suspicion can be detected in the situation of the people addressed in the New Testament letter of First Peter. The Cult of Sol Invictus The growing popularity of the cult of the ‘invincible sun’ from about the middle of the third century is not difficult to explain. Sol had long been celebrated on Roman coins, commonly associated with Apollo (Figures 6 and 7). So, the sun god was no foreign deity, especially in the eastern half of the empire. The orientalising process in the eastern part of the empire from the second half of the third century served to further the popularity of sol invictus. But political chaos was the main contributor to the rising popularity of the Invincible Sun.

Figures 6 and 7.  Alexander Severus (AD 232) and Valerian (AD 253-60) with Sol reverse

The third century of Rome saw a succession of military emperors who were both cause and result of political chaos. The empire was under pressure on its eastern fronts from the neo-Persian Sassanid Empire, and on its European front from various Germanic tribes. It was the army that chose the emperors to meet a never-ending series of national crises. There was little if any involvement on the part of the patrician classes or the senate in Rome. When one emperor failed, he was assassinated and another acclaimed. Few emperors survived for long. Valerian I was even taken captive by the Persians and disappeared from history in miserable captivity; there were stories of his flayed skin being exhibited for people to gawk at. And even a hero like Claudius II (268–70), whose victories against barbarian invaders gained him the title Gothicus, could not avert the threat of further invasion before dying of the plague. The very existence of the empire was often extremely tenuous.

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Since the military now determined the fate of the empire, the army’s tutelary god naturally figured prominently on the official imperial coinage of the day. Sol was associated with Mithras, whose cult was that of the Roman soldier. That is the most likely explanation for the prominence of sol invictus, despite the lack of specific Mithraic motifs on the coinage depicting the sun god. Inscriptions on statues, deo soli invicto Mithrae, substantiate the identification of Sol with Mithras. That the cult of sol invictus was specifically Roman is clear; there is no evidence of a cult of helios aniketos—the Greek equivalent of ‘invincible sun’. From early in the third century the obverse of the standard silver (later much debased) coin, the antoninianus, shows the bust of the emperor with the solar radiate crown (Figure 8), while the bust of the empress rests on the lunar crescent (Figure 9). The radiate crown had long been depicted on Roman imperial coin portraits, beginning with the consecration coins of Augustus, but its consistent use coincides with the age of the military emperors when sol invictus becomes the symbol of imperial military strength.

Figures 8, 9.  Trajan Decius with radiate crown (AD 251); Galeria Valeria with lunar crescent (AD 308)

The cult of sol invictus was promoted, in particular, by Aurelian (AD 27075) who erected in Rome a temple to the sun, proclaimed also on his coinage as ‘Lord of the Roman empire’. Identification with Jupiter, Apollo, Bacchus, Mithras, Hercules, and the Syrian god Elagabal, helps to explain how Sol became the supreme deity of the empire, the source of imperial power, the symbol of the state itself. As sol invictus comes, the sun is even the companion and associate of the emperor Aurelian.

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There is another factor to consider in tracing the popularity of Sol at that time. The middle of the third century saw the concerted effort of the emperors Trajan Decius and Valerian to stamp out Christianity. Since the cult of sol invictus, the one supreme deity, represented loyalty to the state in the face of external threats, it could also serve as a tool against monotheistic Christianity which represented an internal threat to national security. However, in a real way the trend towards monotheistic conceptions in the third century of the empire can be understood as paving the way for the eventual acceptance of Christianity in the next century. The Diocletian Reforms and the State Cult The establishment of the tetrarchy under Diocletian accompanied the division of the empire at the end of the third century. East and West were now each under an Augustus and a Caesar (the official title of the heir apparent). Any attempt at realistic portraiture was now given up in the interest of stylised busts suggestive of powerful, autocratic personalities, closer to the gods than to their subjects. Unsurprisingly, the cult of the invincible sun was again vigorously promoted (Figure 10), even if Diocletian and his colleague Maximian were associated with members of the traditional Roman pantheon, especially Jupiter and Hercules.

Figure 10.  Sol invictus comes on a follis of Licinius I (AD 317-18)

Two other types (that is, total design including inscription) dominate the new bronze follis coinage. The one is dedicated to the genius of the Roman people (Figure 11), the other to the genius of the emperor

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himself (Figure 12). The fact that the figure depicted is much the same in each case would suggest that the divine genius guiding the destiny of empire and emperor could be viewed as one and the same.

Figures 11 and 12.  Follis of Diocletian (AD 284-305) and of Galerius (AD 305-11)

The glorification of the Roman People rather than of Rome is simply due to the transference of power to outside the actual city of Rome; power was centred in the East well before Constantine dedicated his new capital in May, 330 AD. Many different coin types, depicting various deities, continue into the early years of the fourth century, the century that saw the most terrible persecution of Christians. However, it is the continued prominence of the cult of sol invictus that helps to interpret the story of Constantine’s famous vision at the battle of the Milvian Bridge in October 312. Whether the vision was real or Constantine’s convenient, later reconstruction of events is irrelevant. Significant is that in Eusebius’ version of the vision, the cross and the words, ‘Under this sign you will be victorious’ (the later Greek version is en toutō nika), were seen on the backdrop of the setting sun. We can surmise that Constantine replaced the invincible sun with the more powerful Son. How is this reflected in Constantine’s coinage? The simple answer is rarely, and at first not at all. The Initial Absence of Christian Types There is ample evidence that the cult of the Invincible Sun thrived in the early years of Constantine’s reign. Marlowe (2006) points out that the triumphal arch of Constantine, dedicated in AD 315, was carefully positioned to align with the colossal statue of Sol beside the Colosseum, so that Sol formed the dominant backdrop when seen from the main approach towards the arch.

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Sol is as prominent on the early coinage of Constantine as on that of Aurelian (Figure 13). The sun is depicted as ‘companion of our Augustus’ or simply as ‘the invincible companion’ on the whole range of gold, silver and bronze coins. That Constantine’s accession to the rank of Augustus took place on the festival of Sol on December 25 would help to explain the early popularity of the sun cult in his reign. Yet we would be justified in expecting ample numismatic evidence of Constantine’s conversion and legitimisation of Christianity after the edict of Milan. We might, for example, expect the regular appearance of the Christian monogram, the sign that Constantine was supposedly told to place on his soldiers’ shields, assuring him of victory against Maxentius (this is the Lactantius version of what preceded the battle at the Milvian Bridge).

Figure 13.  Follis of Constantine from c. AD 316, 17 with Sol Invictus reverse

The Christogram or conjoined Chi Rho symbol appears in Constantine’s silver coinage on only one coin-type. The reverse with two winged Victories and the inscription, ‘To the glorious victory of our eternal princeps’, is quite common. The specific obverse in question was struck at the mint of Siscia (Sisek) also on his coinage and shows a very small Christogram in front of the helmet of Constantine (RIC, Plate 162, no. 648; RCV, 16303). Only some obverse dies (meaning the engraving used to stamp coins) depict the symbol, so the coins are extremely rare. In addition, there is another reverse on a small bronze, issued only in Constantinople in AD 327-8, which pictures the labarum (military standard with the Chi Rho symbol) over a serpent, with the inscription spes publica (RIC, Plate 163, no. 649; Mattingly, Plate LXIII, no. 7; RCV, 16287). This also is very rare, but the message is clear: under the guidance of Christ, the emperor and Roman state will triumph over all evil.

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To the year AD 320 belongs a series of bronze coins with military reverses issued by Constantine, his co-ruler Licinius, and their heirs, featuring a Christogram on the standard. Also rare and very late in Constantine’s reign (minted at Arles in 334–35) are small bronzes with the bust of Roma and a Chi Rho on the reverse. In these late years Constantine’s heirs also issued military types showing a small Christogram. In summary, we find a small Christian symbol on early mintage issues of AD 319, 320 and then late in 334-336. In the intervening years, there is only the one large Christogram reverse limited to the mint of Constantinople in AD 327-8. One could be excused for suggesting that citizens would not have detected from the coins in their purses that the empire was heading in a new direction as far as religion was concerned. In fact, it could hardly have escaped their attention that the old deities continued to appear regularly on coin reverses, at least until AD 321 in the West and 324 in the East after which more ‘neutral’ types predominated, relating to the emperor and his family. The relative absence of Christian types is, on reflection, not surprising, and can be explained by several factors. Constantine’s political opportunism probably played a part in his conversion. A totally ruthless character, intent on gaining and maintaining power, he had his father-in-law the emperor Maximianus strangled, and murdered his own son Crispus and wife Fausta. Though he built churches and consulted church leaders, the Christianity that he inherited from his mother Helena and that he professed until the moment of baptism before his death, was arguably less a matter of conviction and more one of expediency and adopted to serve his political goals. There is another factor perhaps more important than the genuineness of Constantine’s faith. The continuation of Rome’s ancient religious icons represented the continuation of political stability. Even the consecration coins of Constantine carry on a pagan tradition; they carry no specific Christian symbols. They are much smaller than those issued in honour of his father, Constantius Chlorus (Figures 14 and 15), but the bust is again veiled, and calls for the veneration of his memory as one who is now divus (RIC, 32)! Another consecration reverse of Constantine shows him in a chariot with the manus dei (hand of God) above (RIC, 37). That symbol can, of course, be given

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a Christian interpretation, but does not have to be interpreted in that way. And even if we are to interpret the manus as designating Constantine as God’s agent, it must be remembered that the coin was issued posthumously by the emperor’s openly Christian sons.

Figures14 and 15.  Consecration of Constantius I and Constantine minted AD 307–309 and 341–346.

Political conservatism surely helps to explain not only the relative lack of Christian symbols on Constantine’s coinage, but also the continued depiction of sol invictus on the reverse of coins well after AD 212 and as late as 326 (RIC, Plate 162, no. 643) also on issues in the names of Constantine’s heirs, including Crispus who was made Caesar in 317. How are we to explain the persistence of obviously pagan coin types to the very end of Constantine’s reign? The only reasonable explanation is that the traditional religious coin reverses, including those in honour of sol invictus and the genius of the Roman State and emperor, represented political stability and the continuance of traditional Roman values. Sudden removal of such types by Constantine would have represented a subversive attack on the ancient conservative values represented and upheld by the state. Only thus can we explain the persistence, for example, of the title Pater Patriae right down to Theodosius the Great and the practice of consecration until Valentinian III. We do not know at what point Christians became the majority in the empire. Obviously, there were enough of them in positions of power to allow Constantine’s three sons to mint coins with overt Christian symbols. Coin types depicting or referring to the sun god are conspicuously absent, though the cult itself endured for some time. There was still a substantial portion of the populace that retained pagan practices (Figure 16) and could rejoice when Julian the Apostate restored the old pagan cults, including that of the sun (he was proud to call himself the servant of rex sol).

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Figure 16.  Coin of Julian II (AD 360-63), with bull of Attis reverse: SECURITAS the state is now again safe from the clutches of the subversive Christians!

The Introduction of Regular Christian Types Apart from Julian II, Constantine’s heirs avoided the use of pagan types, specialising in military motifs with harmless personifications like Pax or Victoria. The symbol that first appears regularly on the coins of Constantine’s sons is the modest, one could say, unobtrusive Christian labarum, the military standard with the Christogram, created by Constantine according to Lactantius. Thereafter the emperor, holding a labarum, regularly symbolises the role of emperor as vice-regent of God (Figures 17), especially in subduing the enemies of the now Christian state. Naturally, rebels and pretenders like Vetranio (AD 350) and Procopius (AD 365–66) also claimed this symbol for themselves. They, too, wanted to be seen as defenders of the faith.

Figure 17.  Siliqua of Valentinian I (364–375) with labarum

Probably the first to mint coins with the large Christogram (Chi Rho with alpha and omega; see Rev 21:6) was Constantius II (AD 337– 361). The type was probably copied rather than initiated by the rebel Magnentius (350–53) at Trier, who minted the same large Chi Rho reverse also in the name of his son Decentius as Caesar (Figure 18).

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The reason for striking this rather spectacular reverse may have been to support the claim to legitimacy for the reign of one who was a barbarian as well as a usurper against Constans (337–350), the son of Constantine the Great and the brother of Constantius II. Its use was obviously politically motivated. The legend hoc signo victor eris —rather than hoc signo vinces—appears on coins of rebel emperors Vetranio and Magnentius, who again were probably copying the type from Constantius II who used the reverse also for his Caesar or heir, Constantius Gallus. This might be seen as proclaiming their orthodoxy in contrast to the Arianism of Constantius II.

Figure 18.  Double centenionalis of Decentius (AD 352-53) with Christogram

Developments with Byzantine Coinage Right to the end of the Roman empire and well into the Byzantine empire (to the end of the seventh century to be precise), there was no attempt to portray Christ on coins. The Eastern emperor Marcian struck a rare gold aureus in AD 450 to commemorate his marriage to Pulcheria, sister of the Western emperor Honorius. Here we have the figure of Christ standing between bride and bridegroom, with all three figures nimbate, a type that became common in Byzantine coinage. But even without a portrait or figure of Christ, the standard title of the emperor on coins, Dominus Noster (Our Lord; abbreviated to DN), was enough to remind subjects of the other Dominus in whose service they stood. The manus dei or winged victory that often appears over the head of the emperor is clearly meant to serve as a constant reminder that the emperor is regent of Christ (Figure 19). Christ and cross authenticate imperial rule. Byzantine coinage

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normally depicts an obverse on which the emperor wears a crown with cross, or holds a cross in one hand and a globe or other symbol of office in the other.

Figure 19.  Solidus of Valentinian II (AD 375–392); two emperors nimbate

The first to put an actual portrait of Christ on a coin was Justinian II (in his first reign, AD 685–695). The political message is unmistakable: Justinian styles himself servus Christi but Christ is rex regnantium (King of kings). This practice of portraying Christ on the coinage continued thereafter until the collapse of Byzantine rule in AD 1453. At times the bust of the emperor completely disappeared. From the time of Leo III (717–41) the normal obverse of the standard silver coin, the miliaresion, was simply a cross with the legend Ihsus Xristus Nica (Jesus Christ conquer). There was no bust of the emperor. The reverse legend simply proclaimed the emperor as ‘king by the grace of God’ (Figure 20).

Figure 20.  Leo VI (AD 886–912) ‘by the grace of God, king of the Romans.’

The bust of the emperor also disappears on the so-called anonymous bronze coins from the late tenth to the late eleventh century (John I to Alexius I Nicephorus, AD 969–1059, a period of ninety years).

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The obverse shows the nimbate bust of Christ or Christ enthroned, with the reverse merely inscribing the title of the emperor as ‘King of kings’.

Figure 21.  Constantine IX (AD 1042–55) with cruciform nimbus

Is there any connection between the radiate crown of sol invictus in the third century and the halo surrounding the head of Christ that becomes a feature of Christian iconographic art from early in the fourth century? In Greek mythology the gods who appear in human form sometimes have a nimbus around their head, signifying that they come from another world. But there is a great temporal gap between such mythology and Byzantine iconography. It is more likely that the nimbus that originally represented the corona of the sun is the natural successor to the radiate crown. The nimbus makes its appearance on gold and bronze coins from the beginning of the fifth century (Anastasius I, AD 491–518). It appears first around the head of the emperor and his consort, not the head of Christ. It seems reasonable to propose that the nimbus was meant to suggest the corona of the sun. Sol, among other things, represented eternity. So did the nimbus or halo. It is perfectly understandable that emperors chose to be shown wearing the nimbus rather than the radiate crown given the latter’s past association with the cult of the invincible sun. Further, in the case of human beings, the nimbus could represent divine authority without suggesting deity. The nimbate head of Christ appears on statuary as early as the fourth century (Müller, 176); its regular appearance on Byzantine coinage is much later. The reason for this is difficult to ascertain. From

530

Early Christian Witnesses

the time of Basil I (AD 867–886) to the fall of the Byzantine Empire, this was the normal way to portray Christ. However, the nimbus of Christ differs from the normal nimbus in so far as it is cruciform (Figures 21–23).

Figure 22.  Cruciform nimbus of Christ, Nicephorus III (AD 1078-81) Figure 23.  Manuel II with nimbus for emperor and Christ (AD 1391-1423)

Conclusion A case can be made for a clear line of development from the religious typology on Roman coins, especially the many variations of the sol invictus reverse used to support the authority of the state, to the iconography of the late Roman and Byzantine era which also announced Christ the Pantocrator as the foundation of the empire. In terms of religious typology, the mintages of Constantine mark a transition stage in which the old pagan cult of the sun was for a while still the mark of a secure state under legitimate rule—even if the emperor no longer officially paid homage to the old deities. In our modern world, at least in the West, the religious legitimisation of political power on coinage has all but disappeared, though it is not so long ago that coins of Kaiser Wilhelm in WW I bore the rim inscription, Gott mit uns. The United States still circulates currency carrying the motto, In God we trust, but presumably it is a generic god that is to be trusted. These days we certainly find offensive the blatant use of Christ to undergird political claims, though Christian leaders in the West have claimed, with religious fervour, to be waging a just and holy war against terrorists. Is any pretension to have God on one’s side in the political arena much different from the political use of religion in the Roman and Byzantine imperium? New Testament confessions picture the ascended Christ as King of kings and Lord of lords. Those confessions find their echo on late

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531

Roman and Byzantine coinage. Such terminology contains an obvious polemic against the powerful of this world. However, these days it is not easy to identify with the picture of Christ as all-powerful and all-conquering militaristic King. Our world searches for order in the midst of chaos, but an easy linking of Christ as heavenly ruler with specific political powers on earth does not speak to that search. Many of us find it much easier to construct a relevant Christology around the picture of the humble Suffering Servant. References Berrens, S (2004) Sonnenkult und Kaisertum von den Severern bis zu Konstantin (193–337 n. Chr.), Stuttgart: Steiner Collinet-Guerin, M (1961) Histoire du nimbe des origines aux temps modernes, Paris: Nouvelles éditions latines Halsberghe, Gaston (1972) The Cult of Sol Invictus, Leiden: E J Brill Jacob, Kenneth A (1959) Coins and Christianity, London: Seaby Keel, Othmar and Christoph Uehlinger (1998) Gods, Goddesses, and Images of God in Ancient Israel, Minneapolis: Fortress Kent, JPC (1978) Roman Coins, London: Thames and Hudson. Marlowe, E. 2006. ‘Framing the sun. The arch of Constantine and the Roman cityscape’, Art Bulletin, 88: 22342 Mattingly, Harold (1960) Roman Coins from the Earliest Times to the Fall of the Western Empire, Chicago: Quadrangle Books. 2nd edition Müller, Nikolau (1953) ‘Nimbus’, in Encyclopedia of Religious Knowledge, edited by SM Jackson, Volume VIII, 175,176 Kent, JPC (1981) Kent Roman Imperial Coinage = RIC, Volume VIII, The Family of Constantine, edited by, London Sear, David R (2011) Roman Coins and Their values = RCV, Volume IV, London: Spink Stevenson, Seth W (1964) A Dictionary of Roman Coins, reprint of 1889 edition), London: Seaby

Biblical References

Genesis 1:2 361 1:27 454 2:7 262, 362 2:24 365 3:9 50 3:15 92 3:16 455, 459 3:42 170 4:26 346 6:1–4 156 6:3,17 362 11:5 19 11:30 18 12:6 18 12:8 346 13:4 346 18:13 133 20:12 133 21:33 346 22:2,6 17 23 18,19 24 17 24:27 135 24:49 136 24:67 18 26:25 346 28:12,17 149, 150 31:14–44 11, 12

32:10 136 33:19 346 34:5 346 42:16 133 44:13–45:14 13 47:29 136

Exodus 12:22 255 12:23 179 12:46 255 17:6 369 18:21 134 19:6 213, 419, 421 25:40 150 31:3 361 33:12–34:8 239 33:19 345 34:5 345 34:6 135 34:29–35 368 34:34 370 40:34,35 239

Leviticus 14:4–6 255 16:11–17 236

533

Early Christian Witnesses

534

17,18 58 19:17 166, 170

Numbers 9:12 255 16:1–35 166 19:6 255 20:11 369 22:28–30 20 22:37 133 24:2 361 25:9 63 25:30 171

Deuteronomy 6:4 52 11:2 199 13:15 134 17:6 171 17:14 134 18:15 198 19:15 171 21:22,23 303, 348, 350 22:20 134 32:3,6 346 32:39 89 32:43 158

Joshua 1:14 139 2:14 136 7:20 133 24:14 137

10:10 361 12:144 137

2 Samuel 2:6 139 6:23 18 7:13,14 135 15:20 135

1 Kings 2:4 137 3:6 135 8:11 239 17:17–24 200 18:24–26, 37, 38 347 18:26–29 117 19:12 153 21:10,13 171 22:11 133

2 Kings 4:18–37 200 4:33–35 200 5:7 366 19:17 133 20:3 334

1 Chronicles 12:17 170

2 Chronicles

Judges 9:15,16,19

1 Samuel

137, 139

15:3 133 31:20,21 137

Biblical References

Ezra 6:7 253

Nehemiah 9:6 366 9:13 144

Esther 3:3,8 172 2:9,17 144

Psalms 2:7 198, 488 6:1 170 8:2 308 11:8–11 137 12:1 137 14:25 133 16:8–11 334 16:8 198 25:5 143 25:10 135 26:3 136 29:1,2,9 149 30:10 136 31:5 136 33:6 362 34:12–22 334 36:7 156 37:7 156 38:1 170 40:11,12 135 43:3 136 51:11 361 56:9 260 57:3 136 61:4,5 156 61:7 135 62:1,5 156

67:1–3 102 69:26 211 69:34 149 70:90 LXX 199 71:20 366 71:22 136 79:6 347 85:4–7 102 85:11 136 89:14 135 97:7,9 148, 158 103:19,20 157 104:1 LXX 199 104:29,30 362, 366 105:2 LXX 199 108:4,11 135 109:8 211 110:1 198, 253 111:7 134 115:1 135 116:10 362 116:12–19 347 117:1,2 135 118:17,18 89 118:30 138 119:32–52 396 119:160 144 138:1,2 149 138:2 135 145:4 102 145:18 133 146:6 136 148:1–14 149

Job 1:21 179 2:6 180 2:10 179 3:4 362 4:16 153 27:3 362

535

536

33:4 366 34:14,15 362 36:6 366

Proverbs 3:1–3 136 8:20 334 9:7,8 170 11:18 134 12:17–22 133 14:22 136 16:6 136 20:28 136 22:21 134 24:25 170 28:23 170

Ecclesiastes 7:33 144 11:9 334

Isaiah 2:4 170 2:22 215 6 150 6:3 80, 159 6:5 150 8:2 171 8:14 401 12:4 347 13:18 133 26:9 361 28:11,12 374 38:18,19 136 40:3 334 41:25–27 347 43:9 133 43:20,21 419 49:1–6 LXX 396

Early Christian Witnesses

52:7 396 52:13 253 55:11 50, 483 61:1 361 63:10,11 361 64:7 347 65:12 172

Jeremiah 6:14 137 8:11 137 10:10 133 10:25 347 12:5 396 14:13 134 21:8 334 23:21 137, 396 28:9 138 31:31–44 487 31:31 362 32:41 146 42:5 133 51:31 396

Ezekiel 3:14 361 11:24 361 18:23–25 334 22:8 137 37:9,10 366

Daniel 8:12 142 10:9 260 11:22 133

Hosea 4:1 136

Biblical References

Joel 2:19,42,43 442 2:28 361 2:32 LXX 347

Amos 5:10 170 8:11 122

Micah 4:1 215 4:3 170 7:20 136

Habakkuk 2:2 396 2:20 153, 156

Zechariah 2:13 153 4:6 361 7:9 133 8:3,8 136 13:9 347

Malachi 2:6 144

Matthew 1:23 184 3:2 88 4:17 88 5:1 324 5:3–11 78 5:22 337 5:37 337

5:45–48 338 5:46,47 167 6:7 167 6:12,14 337 7:22,23 121 7:24 324 7:29 325 8:18–22 324 9:10,11 167 9:25 197 10:3 167 11:19 167 11:29 184 12:31 337 13:23 336 14:28–33 268 15:11 337 15:15–22 426 16:15–19 267f, 426 16:18 168 16:19 170, 173 16:21 303 17:19 325 18:1–14 168 18:2 184 18:15–18 165–173, 168, 170, 173, 184 18:15 166 18:15–20 169f 18:16––20 166, 172 18:16 171 18:17 168, 177, 181 18:20 184 18:21,22 166 19:28 213, 440 20:17 325 21:5 184 21:16 308 21:31,32 167 22:16 140 23:8–10 323 24:24 121

537

538

24:30 338 26:42 239 26:55 501 26:60 171 26:61 261 28:16,17 273 28:19,20 25 28:19 109, 279 28:20 184

Mark 1:27 325 3:28 337 4:8 336 4:34 325 5:33 139 5:40,41 197 6:30 324 6:31 325 6:45–8:26 197 6:56 197 7:24–30 198 8:29 50 8:31 252, 256 8:38 321 9:1–8 196 9:28 325 9:31 252, 256 10:33,34 252, 256 10:45 423 12:4 334 12:14 140, 338 14:49 258 14:55–60 195, 257 14:58 261 14:64 257

Luke 1:1–4 186 1:15 191

Early Christian Witnesses

1:35 103, 191 1:41 191 1:43 190 1:46–55 56 1:67 191 2:11,30 190 2:14,28 153 3:16 191 4:1,14,18 191 4:14 103 4:20,21 324 4:22 337 5:1–11 267, 269, 272, 278 5:17–25 196 5:23 197 6:12–16,25 211, 440 6:20 293 6:47 324 7:6 190 7:15 197 8:15 336 8:53 197 9:31,51 219 9:53 219 9:51–19:27 218 10 21 10:21 191 10:23 325 11:4 337 11:13 191 12:12 191 13:24 382 13:32–34 219 14:26 324 15:3–7 168 17:3 166, 168, 169 17:4 166 17:11 219 17:21 78 18:1 219 19:11 219 19:38 153

Biblical References

19:41–44 219, 443 20:21 140 21:15 195 22:2,30 440 22:7 423 22:20 201 22:29,30 213 22:44 501 22:69 195 23:6–12 257 23:27–31 219, 443 23:34,46 195f, 501 24:26 303 24:30,31 279 24:31,32, 42,43 267 24:33,47–49 209, 439 24:44–49 210 24:47,48 279 24:48 193 24:49 103, 209

John 1:1–18 266 1:1–8 145 1:1–5 50 1:1,18 233 1:7,8,15,19,29, 251 32,34 1:9 146 1:10,11 250 1:13 295 1:14–18 238 1:14 109, 144, 154, 238, 249, 267 1:15,30 459 1:17 289 1:26,31,33 15 1:29 293 1:31 275 1:45–2:1 273 1:46 274

1:51 154, 291, 296 2:4–11 249 2:11 38, 250, 275f 2:12–16 292 2:13–22 233 2:19–22 154 2:19 261 2:20 295 2:22 253 2:25 251 2:29 125 3:2 324 3:5,6,27,31 241 3:5 106 3:6–8 102 3:11,32,33 251 3:13 296 3:14,15 93, 252, 297 3:14 75, 303 3:16–21 250 3:16 241 3:19–21 250 3:19 294 3:21 142, 275 3:23–26 291 3:23 289 3:26 251 3:33 276 4:9–29 22 4:14 239 4:22,32 15 4:23,24 145 4:23 133, 154, 239 4:26 260 4:27 271 4:34 245 4:39 251 4:43–46 273 4:44 251 4:48 276 5:18 258 5:19 285

539

540

Early Christian Witnesses

5:21 366 5:31 251 5:32–37 251 5:33 145, 251 5:36 245, 251 5:39 251 5:41, 44 239 5:44 79 6:11–38 22 6:11 233, 271, 279 6:26 276 6:32 75,146 6:37 295 6:41,43 274 6:46 425 6:47–51 287 6:53 287 6:60–71 274 6:63 106, 285 7:1,25,30,44 258 7:3,4 274 7:18 239 7:27,41,52 274 7:28 15 7:30 249 7:37–39 102, 425 7:39 239, 253 8:13 251 8:14,18 251 8:19 15 8:20 249, 258 8:26–30 79 8:28 239, 252, 260 8:31,32 145 8:32,34 145 8:39–47 146 8:44–46 144 8:44 250 8:50 239 8:58 459 8:59 258 9:1–3 180

9:3 275 9:11–38 92 9:30 15 10:11 255 10:16 278 10:25 251 10:30 233 10:31,39 258 10:36 243 11:4, 13–16, 25, 276, 38,44 11:4 239, 276 11:7 273 11:15 276 11:41,42 233, 235, 276 11: 53 21, 234, 258 11:57 250 12:8 256 12:16,23,28 253 12:16 239, 253 12:17 251 12:23 234 12:27–30 235, 259 12:27,28 233, 239 12:29 154 12:30 233 12:31 258 12:31–33 252 12:32 278 12:33 271 12:38 250 13:1,2 277 13:1 249, 254, 260 13:7,12 277 13:11,18 277 13:12–16 423 13:18,19 260 13:18 256 13:23–25 280 13:25 271 13:30 260 13:31,32 239

Biblical References

12:32,33 239 13:36–38 235 13:36 271 14:4–6 277, 341 14:6 133, 145 14:12 196 14:13,14 234 14:13 79 14:15–17, 25, 26 425 14:15,21 242 14:16 240 14:17 145 14:26 240 15:1 146 15:5 260 15:7,16 234 15:10 242 15:13 242 15:16,27 278 15:20,27 241 15:26,27 102, 145, 240, 251, 425 16:7 240 16:8-11 102 16:13 71, 145 16:14 104 16:20 241 16:23,24,26 234 16:30 277 16:33 241 17:1-8 237–40 17:4 245, 257 17:5 249 17:6 275 17:9–17 240–44 17:17 144, 145 17:18 278 17:19 145 17:20–26 244–246 18:1–11 259 18:4,5 260, 277

18:6–8 260 18:9 255 18:12–27 261 18:19 257 18:20,21 258 18:28–19:16 259, 261 18:28 254 18:30 257 18:36 382 18:37 144, 251 18:38 145, 258 19:3 261 19:5 258 19:13 256 19:14, 32, 42 254 19:14 258, 261 19:19 258 19:24, 28, 36, 37 256 19:25–27 255f, 262 19:26–28,30 234 19:28–30 257, 262 19:28 277 19:29 255, 278 19:35 251, 280 19:36,37 255 19:38–42 262 20:2, 9, 13, 14 15, 277 20:8 280, 280 20:11–16 15 20:12 154 20:21–23 266, 278, 426 20:21,22 243f 20:23 170 20:25 266 20:26 273 20:29–31 270 20:29 266 20:30, 31 265–67 20:30 273 21:1–25 266 21:1–19 268

541

542

Early Christian Witnesses

21:1–14 265–281 21:2 273, 275 21:4 15, 272, 276f 21:7 276 21:11 278 21:9–13 279 21:14 275 21:19 278 21:20–22 280 21:23 267 21:24,25 280 21:24 251, 267, 280 21:25 266, 273

Acts 1:1–8 439 1:2,4,8 209f, 212, 439 1:5 191 1:6 218 1:7,8 212 1:8 102, 192f, 212, 217 1:9–11 196 1:15–26 210, 439 1:15,16 214 1:18 103 1:21,22 76, 193, 221f, 438, 444 1:25,26 208 1:29 303 2:1–36 441 2:21 347 2:42 325 2:1–36 214 2:1–4 199 2:11–22 199, 208, 215 2:11 350 2:14 208,214 2:15 444 2:17 105, 199, 227 2:17–21 215 2:19 216 2:21, 28, 38 188

2:21 198 2:22–31 194 2:22–29 223 2:22–24 223 2:23 198, 209 2:25–36 213 2:25–31 223 2:25–28 198 2:29 103,192 2:32, 33 191, 195, 196, 210 2:32 223 2:33, 34 25 2:34 198 2:36, 38–40, 47 198 2:36 195, 223, 303, 350 2:37–39 124,195 2:37 188 2:38,39 209, 223 2:42–47 215 2:42 325 2:46 219 3:1–10 194, 196, 223 3:1–3 219 3:2 198 3:3–5 186 3:6,16 188 3:15 193 3:16 348 3:18,24 198, 201 3:19 369 3:21 196 4:3–9 192 4:7,10–12,30 188, 215 4:8 209, 224 4:10 303, 350 4:13,29,31 103, 441 4:31 209, 224 4:31,33 216 4:32–37 197 4:32 124, 209 4:33 442 4:36 224f

Biblical References

5:1–11 166, 180, 194, 223 5:3–9 192, 216, 337, 442 5:12–16 197 5:12 216, 442 5:15,16 194, 1971, 223 5:17–26 194, 223 5:20,25,42 219 5:30 303, 350 5:31 253 5:32 193, 216,224 5:34–39 194, 223 5:40 216 6:2,6 216f, 442 6:2 208, 210 6:3 192, 209 6:4 423 6:5,10 192, 209 6:10 195 6:12 423 6:13 195 7:37 198 7:55 209 7:56 195 7:59,60 195f, 501 8:1–17 442 8:1 217, 443 8:12–17 213 8:14,15 193f, 218, 223, 443 8:14–17 217 8:18–24 194, 223 8:20 209 8:23–39 443 8:25 2219 8:29,39 192, 217 8:30 46 8:34–39 124 9:2 341 9:12 194, 223 9:14,21 347 9:15 221, 456 9:17–19 124 9:17,18 192, 217, 443

9:17 222, 226, 447 9:22 198 9:26–30 193f 9:27–29 192, 215, 441 9:27 222, 225f, 445f 9:32–43 200 9:34 196 9:40,41 194, 197, 200, 223 10:3 103 10:9–16,19 218, 443, 445 10:19,20 220 10:19 224 10:25,26 194, 223 10:36–39 193, 222 10:38 210 10:43–48 218, 443 10:43 198, 201 10:44–11:18 192 10:44–48 124 10:44 193 10:45 103, 209, 218, 443 11:1 218, 443 11:12 224 11:16,17 191f, 209, 220, 444 11:21 369 11:22–24 225, 446 11:24 224, 226, 447 11:25,26 225, 446 11:27–12:25 186 11:29,30 225, 446 11:30 216, 225, 441 11:45 220 12:2 211, 439 12:2–17 194, 223 12:25 225, 446 13:1,2,7 225 13:1–4 192, 211, 226, 439, 446 13:1 225, 446 13:4,9 22 13:4 447 13:6–12 194, 223

543

544

Early Christian Witnesses

13:6 456 13:9 209 13:15 484 13:16,26 194,223 13:17–25 194 13:24 211 13:27–31 194, 223 13:29,39 192, 350 13:31 193, 195, 222f, 444 13:33–36 194, 223 13:33 198 13:35 198 13:38,39 188, 195, 223 13:43,46,50 225 13:46 192, 201 13:47 200 14:3 192 14:4,14 193, 221, 224f, 444, 446 14:8–14 194, 223 14:12,14 225 14:15 194, 223, 369 14:16–18 200 14:23 428 15:2,22,35 225 15:2 225f, 446 15:4,6,23 216, 441 15:7–11,19 460 15:8–11 192 15:9 166 15:11 220, 444 15:12,25 225 15:19–21 460 15:19 369 15:20,29 58 15:28 193, 224 15:29 460 15:30–35 226 16:4 218, 221, 441 16:6,7 193, 196, 209, 223, 228 16:10–17 187

16:16–18 194, 223 16:17 330 16:23,24 194, 223 16:30 188 17:4,10 225 17:5–9 457 17:16 209 18:2,18,26 457 18:6 201 18:8,17 457 18:24–19:6 124 18:24 339 18:25 209 18:26 192 19:6 194 19:8 192, 213 19:9,23 341 19:19,25,29 225 19:21,22 209, 223 19:35 369 20:5–21:18 187 20:10 194, 223 20:22–28 213 20:22,23 223 20:24 194, 222, 398, 423, 428 21:4,11 223 21:9,10 77 21:11 213, 221, 444 21:25 58, 460 22:3 382 22:4 341 22:14,15 221 22:15,16 193, 222, 347 22:17–21 222 22:42–47 197 23:11 193, 222 24:14,22 341 26:16–18 221 26:16 193, 222, 444 26:20 369 26:22 222

Biblical References

26:24–32 194, 223 26:26 192 27:1–28:16 187 28:17 456 28:27 369 28:28 201 28:31 103, 213

Romans 1:1 435 1:3 326 1:4 79, 103 361, 367 1:5 52, 208, 423, 436 1:11 373, 426 1:14 359 1:16 103 1:17 86 1:18 140–142 1:24,26,28 181 1:25 140 2:2–11 140 2:8 142 2:12 321 2:20 141 3:3–7 141, 146 3:24 348 4:17 366 4:23,24 301 4:24,25 367 4:25 350 5:1 372 5:2 341 5:4 115 5:5 359,361 5:9 372 6:1–11 305 6:4,9 79 6:4 335, 340, 367 6:15–17 329 6:17 327, 329, 334f 6:18–23 370

6:23 180 6:25 104, 424 7:6 362, 372 7:22,23 84 7:22 84 8:1–17 180 8:2,6 362, 372 8:4 335, 340 8:9–11 359, 361 8:9 363 8:11 366f 8:13 181 8:14–16 361f 8:14 375 8:18 370 8:19 370 8:21 370 8:23 362, 372 8:26–34 372 8:26,27 361 8:34 79, 353 8:37–39 315 9:1 140, 361 9:16 381, 404 9:30–10:15 401 9:30–10:4 381 10:4 86, 368 10:9–14 347 10:9 73 10:13 347 10:15 396 10:17 46, 82, 88 11:29 424 11:31 87 12:1 98, 114, 366, 413, 419, 421 12:11 372 12:3-8 102, 372f, 5424 13:4 58 13:13 335 14:15 338 15:7–9 454

545

546

Early Christian Witnesses

15:13,19 365, 372 15:15 338 14:17 336, 361, 372 15:8 141 15:13,19 103, 371 15:14 426 15:16 421 15:17 207 15:27 373 15:30 372, 381, 403f, 486 15:31 423 16:21 457 16:26 52

1 Corinthians 1:1 435, 457 1:1–3 344f 1:2,3 313, 348 1:2 177, 307, 373 1:5,17 348 1:10–17 313 1:13 344 1:14 457 1:17 307 1:18–2:16 115 1:18–25 56 1:18 31, 72, 73, 116, 309f, 313, 330, 343f, 348, 437, 483 1:18,24 103 1:20 180 1:21 312 1:22 307 1:23 311 2:1–5,13 437 2:1,2 351 2:1 348 2:2 307, 311f 2:3,4 73 2:4,9,10 369 2:4,5 116, 177

2:4 102,103, 207, 365, 371 2:5 103 2:6,8 180 2:6 313 2:8 310 2:10–16 73, 311, 372 2:11–13 361 2:12 359 2:13 207 2:14,15 84, 306 2:15 311 3:1,6 306 3:1–3 181 3:4–16 313 3:10–20 314 3:10 208, 423, 436 3:16,17 155, 401 3:17 321 3:21–23 315 4:1,2 102 4:1 331 4:3–5 175, 176, 403 4:4 315 4:9 381, 388 4:6,18,19 174, 331 4:13 429 4:15–17 335 4:15,16 333 4:16–20 336 4:16,17 331, 487 4:17 329f 4:20 103 5:1-5 165, 174–182 5:2–4 175 5:2 181, 183 5:3–5 487 5:3,4 361 5:4 184 5:4,5 177, 180 5:8 142 5:11,13 181

Biblical References

5:12,13 174, 175, 179 5:18 423 6:1–8 178 6:2 175, 401 6:4–10 375 6:4 306 6:5 361 6:11 371 6:12–19 365 6:12 306, 401, 403 6:14 79, 367 6:15,16 401 6:15 114 6:17 361, 364, 366 6:19 98, 114, 359 7:4 455 7:7,17–24 424 7:10–25 487 7:10,11 322, 328 7:10,25 327 7:10 339 7:19 60 7:40 177, 207, 345, 361, 374, 436, 487 8:1–12 402 8:1–7 401 8:1 174 8:4 423 8:6 339 8:13 403 9:1 115, 207, 208, 435, 237 9:4–18 328 9:5,6 224, 403, 446 9:5 339 9:10 338 9:12,13 423 9:13 401 9:14 327, 338,339, 351 9:16,17 383 9:19–23 170, 456 9:22,23 456

547

9:22 388 9:24–27 380f, 385, 387, 391f, 394–6, 400–402, 505 10:3,4 106, 369 10:8 63 10:11 180 10:23 30, 401 11:1,2 331, 335, 340 11:2–16 455 11:2–10 156 11:2 327 11:10 155, 156 11:11,12 455 11:13,14 458 11:16 340, 353 11:21 311 11:23–29 375 11:23–26 73, 326f, 330 11:23 115, 301, 322, 350, 403, 487 11:25 201 11:26 343, 352f 11:29 177 11:30 179, 180 12:1–3 98, 307, 310 12:2 73, 121, 374 12:3 102, 105, 369, 372 12:4–31 102 12:4–13 374 12:4–11 424 12:4–7 109, 359, 370f 12:7,8 375 12:11 361 12:13 114, 123, 359, 371,373, 425, 454 12:16 373 12:27–31 373 12:28 208, 435 12:31 121, 338 13:10–12 372 13:1 121, 152, 155, 171, 173

548

Early Christian Witnesses

13:4 174 13:6 142 13:12 146 14:14,15 361 14:19 373 14:21–25 374 14:23 349 14:28–35 155 14:32 374 14:33,40 414, 430 14:33a–35 451f 14:33b–37 59, 457f 14:34,35 449, 451, 459 14:35 459 14:36 345, 429 14:37 487 14:38 321 14:39,40 122 15:1 115 15:2 330, 350 15:3–7 73, 326, 331 15:3,4 301, 327 15:3 256, 322, 350, 487 15:5–11 487 15:8–10 115 15:8 207, 435 15:10 423 15:15 423 15:17 40 15:22 366 15:28 53, 78, 371 15:32 388 15:35–49 365 15:44–46 114, 115 15:45 362, 365f, 370 15:49 370 16:58 398 16:13 398 16:19–24 344 16:19 457 16:22 177, 321, 326, 345

2 Corinthians 1:22 370, 372 2:4,5 485 2:5–12 182 2:7 426 2:14–16 400 2:14 388 2:16 368 3:3–8 368 3:3,6 362 3:3 207, 436 3:5,6 337 3:6 361f, 366, 369, 372 3:9 423 3:16–18 367–370 3:17,18 208, 363, 365 3:17 437 3:18 102, 372 4:2 142 4:3–6 85 4:4–6 370 4:7–12 56, 375, 388, 505 4:7 316, 436 4:13 362 4:16 84 5:5 370, 372 5:7 125, 370 5:18 429 6:1–10 383 6:7 142 6:12 306 7:12 182 7:14 142 9:6 321 10:2,3 335 10:7 181 10:10 174, 374 11:1–12:13 207, 316, 374 11:10 142 11:23–29 436 11:24–28 383 11:30 104

Biblical References

12:1–10 115, 436 12:4 152 12:6 140 12:7 179, 181 12:9,10 104, 181, 375 12:12 104, 207, 436 12:21 182 13:3–5 115, 311 13:4 367 13:8 142 13:14 359, 375

Galatians 1:1 435 1:9 321 1:11–20 487 1:12 327 1:13,14 334 1:16 115 1:17 221 1:19 339 2:2 323, 381, 396, 403 2:5,14 142 2:7–9 224, 446 2:7 456 2:9 423 2:11 173 2:20 301 3:1 303, 355 3:2–5 359, 373 3:2 82, 99 3:5 373 3:13–18 362 3:13 303, 350 3:17 459 3:19,20 114 3:19 88 3:23,24 85, 94 3:24 368 3:27 339, 429 3:28 454

4:4 79, 309, 326 4:5,6 362f, 372 4:25 369 4:29 362, 369 5:1–12 387 5:1 398 5:5 372 5:7 142, 381, 394 5:11 305 5:16–18 361 5:16,17 180 5:16 335, 375 5:17 83 5:18 361 5:22,23 102 5:24 305 6:1,2 183, 338, 426 6:14 303, 305 6:15 460

Ephesians 1:3–10 155 1:5 372 1:13 142, 361 1:14 372 1:17 372 1:18 155 1:19 103 1:20–22 353 2:2,10 336 2:2 334 2:3 334 2:6 155 2:11–22 454 2:11–17,19 155 2:16 305 2:18 341, 372 2:20 208, 335, 362 2:21,22 155 2:24 335 3:5 208, 362

549

550

Early Christian Witnesses

3:9,10 339 3:12 341 3:16 84, 103, 365, 371 3:20 103 4:1,17 335f 4:1,8 340 4:2 142 4:4–6 109, 359, 370f 4:5 339 4:7–16 424 4:8–12 372f 4:11,12 208, 362, 429, 431 4:11 435 4:17–21 336 4:17 335 4:20–25 340 4:20,21 339 4:21–24 340 4:21 338f 4:22–5:1 337 4:22-31 337 4:22 84, 334 4:24 84, 142 4:30 361, 372 5:1–20 340 5:1 333, 338 5:2,8,15 336 5:2 335,339 5:8,15 335 5:9 142 5:10–17 338, 382 5:12 334 5:15 335 5:21–33 455 5:26,27 373 6:11–14 398 6:12 382 6:14 142

Philippians 1:9 486 1:17,18 351

1:18 142, 456 1:19 363 1:27–30 380, 382, 388, 398, 403f 2:1 375 2:5–11 73, 79, 303, 350, 353 2:8–11 260 2:10,11 154, 353 2:11 326 2:16 381, 396, 403 2:17 419, 422 3:10 367 3:12–14 388, 403, 505 3:17,18 334f 3:17 487 3:10 103 3:11 348 3:12–14 380, 396 3:17–21 403 3:17,18 335 3:17 331 3:18 305 3:21 365, 370 4:1–3 381, 396, 398 4:1,3 403f 4:9 327, 331 4:18 419

Colossians 1:3,9 486 1:5 142 1:9–12 336 1:10,11 336, 340 1:11 103 1:12–16 154, 155 1:13 154 1:15–20 154, 303, 350, 353 1:15 370 1:20 302, 305 1:28 351 1:29–2:1 381, 398 2:5 175, 361

Biblical References

2:6–8 335 2:6 327, 340 2:14 305 2:15 388 2:18 381 3:5–9 84 3:5 181 3:7 335 3:10 84, 454 3:12–17 426 3:14 338 3:15 381 4:5 335 4:12 381, 398

1 Thessalonians 1:5 103, 207, 365, 371 1:6,7 332f, 335, 340 1:6 487 1:9 369 2:2,19 381, 396 2:11,12 333 2:12–14 332, 335 2:12 340 2:14–16 332 2:19 403 2:2 404 3:8 398 4:1–12 335, 338 4:1,2 335, 487 4:1 322 4:8 359, 361 4:9 425 4:14 79 4:15 333, 327, 338f 5:2 339 5:12 425 5:19–21 122 5:19 102 5:25 486

2 Thessalonians 2:11,12 142 2:13 373 2:15 329, 331, 398, 487 3:1 486 3:6–18 334 3:6–12 335 3:6,11 335 3:6 327, 330f, 487 3:7–9 331, 487

1 Timothy 1:7 142 1:11 329 1:18,19 392f 1:20 177, 179 2:4 142 2:6 79 2:7 139, 142 2:9–15 458f 2:11–15 59 2:11–14 449 2:11,12 451f, 458f 3:15 142 3:16 353, 367 4:7–10 381, 392f, 398 4:14 425 5:19,20 170, 171, 173 6:4 133 6:5 142 6:11–16 404 6:11,12 381, 392f, 398

2 Timothy 1:6 425 1:7,8 103 2:3–9 393 2:5 381, 386, 398

551

552

Early Christian Witnesses

2:14 133 2:18 142, 203, 307 2:22 347 3:7 142 3:8 142 3:16 65 4:2 170 4:4 142 4:5 382, 423 4:6–8 393 4:6 422 4:7,8 381f, 398, 404 4:17 388

Titus 1:3 329 1:9,14 170 1:14 142 2:15 170 3:5 106

Philemon 15–17 454

Hebrews 1:1,2 6, 75, 490 1:2,3 492 1:3,13 484 1:3 353 1:4–13 490 1:5,13,14 488, 490 1:6–14 157 1:6 158 1:9 489 1:10–12 494 2:1–4 490, 492 2:1 489 2:2,3 484 2:2 158

2:3 487 2:5–9 157 2:10–18 263 2:10,11 489 2:16,18 490 2:17 489 2:18 242 3:1 486, 488f, 492 3:7–4:16 492 3:10 489 4:1 489, 492 4:12 483 4:14–16 263 4:14 488f 4:16 156, 157, 242, 488, 494 5:1–12 486 5:1–5 413 5:3,12 489 5:5 488 5:8–10 353, 492 5:11–6:12 492 5:11–6:8 485, 487 5:1–6:3 491 5:11 487 5:14 382 6:1 489 6:2 123 6:4 491 6:9–12 486 6:9,10 484, 486f 6:9 491 7:4–10 459 7:7 489 7:9 489 7:12,15 489 7:25 242 7:26 489 8:1,2 158, 232 8:1 487 8:3 489 8:5 150

Biblical References

9:12,24 158 9:15 489 9:16 489 10:19–39 492 10:19–25 488 10:19–22 494 10:19,20 156, 341, 416 10:19 489 10:22 158 10:23 492 10:24 493 10:25 156, 488 10:26 142 10:28,29 484 10:28 171 10:32–39 492 10:32,36 493 10:32 382, 495, 505 10:34 493, 495 11:4–40 491 11:1 125 11:13 494 11:19–21 158 11:24–40 492 11:32 486f 11:33 382 11:35,36 505 12:1–13 387, 492, 494 12:1–4 382 12:1 489, 492, 505 12:2 303 12:3–25 486 12:4 492 12:9,25 484 12:12 489 12:19 486 12:22–24 157–159, 488, 494 12:23 159 12:25–28 486 13:1–24 486 13:1–5 493 13:7,17 486, 492 13:8 494

13:10,13 493 13:13 493 13:15, 16 158, 159, 419, 421, 488 13:18–20 486 13:22 486 13:23,24 485 13:25 492

James 1:17 142 3:14 142 5:19 142, 171

1 Peter 1:1 494 1:2 109 1:3 419 1:22,23 142, 419 2:4–10 416, 419–421 2:9 243 2:11 494 3:1 170 3:18–22 353 3:18 366f 3:21 106 4:7–5:5 419 4:14 367

2 Peter 1:12 142 1:20 77 1:21 65 2:14 382

1 John 1:1 109 1:5–8 144 1:6 142

553

Early Christian Witnesses

554

2:4 146 2:8 146 2:21–25 146 2:20,27 144, 426 2:23 289 2:27 425 3:18 142 3:19 144 3:21 143 4:1 426 4:2,6 146 5:16 171

2 John 142 3 10

146 426

3 John 1 142 3,4 146 8 146

Jude 3

382

Revelation 1:1–3 150 1:1,10 158 1:6 159, 413, 419, 421 1:17 260 4:3 159 4:8 80, 159 4:11 159 5:6–14 159 5:9,10 413 5:10 159, 416, 421 5:11 159 7:2,3 147 7:9–17 160 7:9,14 159 8:1 156 8:3–5 147 10:1–4 147 11:8 303 11:15–19 160 12:11,12 160 14:1–5 160 15:1–8 160 19:1–10 160 20:1 147 20:6 419, 421 21:1–22:5 160 22:20 326, 345

Index of Names

A Achelis, H, 498, 500

Adams, Bruce W, 463 Albertz, M, 30 Allberry, CRA, 508 Alter, Robert, 9 Arnold, Bradley, 397, 405 Arnold, CE, 405 Asking, Eric, 512 Asmussen, Hans, 231 Atkinson, James, 286

B Backmann, Ph, 176 Bainton, Roland, 284 Barr, James, 129–137 Barnett, Paul, 122, 124, 360 Barrett, CK 110, 176, 190, 202, 203, 266, 277, 280, 355, 352 Barth, Gerhard, 31, 169, 172 Barth, Marcus, 333, 336, 337, 340 Barth, Karl, 32, 38, 50, 232, 309 Barton, Carlin, 405 Baumgartner, W, 134 Bayer, Oswald, 89, 90 Beare, FW, 167, 169, 172, 173, 184 Beker, Christopher, 358

Beleville, LL, 368 Bengel, Johann A, 8, 385, 405 Bennett, Dennis, 116 Bertram, G, 30, 302 Best, Ernest, 421 Betz, HD, 333 Billerbeck, Paul, 170, 178, 459 Black, Matthew, 253 Blatty, William, 119 Bligh, John, 495 Boman, Thorleif, 129, 323 Bornkamm, Günther, 31, 173 Bousset, Wilhelm, 326, 363 Brady, Veronica, 359 Brändl, M, 383, 384, 385, 395, 396, 397, 405 Braswell, MC, 379 Braun, Herbert, 68–70 Broneer, Oscar, 387, 395, 405 Brown, Raymond E, 235, 236, 249, 259, 261, 267, 268, 276 Brown, Schuyler, 189 Bruce, FF, 187, 199, 204, 210, 269, 322, 324 Bruner, Frederick D, 123, 187, 217, 360, 371 Brunner, Emil, 128 Brunner, Peter, 465 Büchsel, F, 170

555

556

Early Christian Witnesses

Bultmann, Rudolf, 30, 32–37, 47, 67, 70, 143, 145, 267, 268, 269, 276, 302, 320, 386, 401, 405 Burkert, Walter, 349, 355 Buttrick, David, 483, 495

C Cadbury, HJ, 210 Calvin, John, 57 Campbell, Douglas A, 401, 405 Campenhausen, H von, 211, 227, 499 Carrington, Ph, 340 Christenson, Larry, 116 Chyträus, David, 234 Congar, Yves M-J, 413 Conzelmann, Hans, 31, 67, 175, 176, 178, 179, 188, 189, 207, 219, 331, 332, 348, 352, 355, 387, 405 Cosby, Michael R, 484, 495 Couratin, AHG, 159 Croy, N Clayton, 387, 399, 405, 491 Cullmann, Oscar, 75, 281, 319, 327 Culpepper, RA, 281, 319, 324, 325

D Dabney, D Lyle, 358 Dahl, NS, 326 Danker, Frederick, 343, 355 Davies, WD, 323, 324, 328 De Vries, Carl E, 387, 405 Deissmann, Adolf, 178, 185, 363 Delling, G, 176 Derrida, Jacques, 56 Dibelius, Martin, 30, 179, 202, 320, 506 Doberstein, John W, 57 Dodd, CH, 143, 212, 340, 440 Duff, PB, 400, 405

Dungan, David L, 328 Dunn, James DG, 187, 217, 360, 363, 366, 368 Dutch, Robert S, 390, 405

E Eastwood, Cyril, 417, 427 Ebeling, Gerhard, 27f, 35, 36, 37, 69, 85, 287, 290, 295 Edwards, Bill, 358 Eidem, Erling, 385, 405 Elliott, John H, 416, 417–421, 494, 495 Ellis, E Earl, 189, 225, 227, 446 Engberg–Pederson, T, 391, 405 Esler, Philip F, 389, 390, 395, 405

F Fascher, E, 30 Fee, Gordon D, 349, 355, 359, 360, 362, 363, 366, 369–371, 387, 405 Filson, Floyd V, 167 Finley, MI, 387, 388, 405 Fisher, Richard, 377 Flender, H, 211 Fortna, RT, 269 Fredriksen, P, 383, 384 Freyne, S, 386, 387, 406 Friedrich, Gerhard, 30 Froer, Kurt, 38, 42 Fuchs, Ernst, 36, 69 Fuller, RH, 269 Funke, H, 386 Furnish, Victor P, 368, 370

G Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 56, 394 Gardiner, EN, 387, 388, 406

Index of Names

Gawlick, G, 127 Gerhardsson, Birger, 322, 323 Gogarten, Friedrich, 32 Goodspeed, EJ, 171 Goppelt, Leonhard, 143–145 Goulder, MD, 175, 202 Grant, FC, 30 Gudorf, Michael D, 382, 306 Gundry, RH, 167, 169, 184 Gunkel, Hermann, 363, 364, 370 Guttmann, Alan, 383

H Haenchen, Ernst, 187, 199, 200, 210 Hamilton, NQ, 363 Harnack, Adolf von, 78 Harris, HH, 383, 384, 395, 406 Harrison, James, 390, 399, 403, 406 Harrisville, Roy A, 348, 355 Hebart, Siegfried P, 319 Held, Heinz J, 31 Hengel, Martin, 324, 353, 356 Hering, Jean, 178 Hermann, Ingo, 363 Higgs, RJ, 379 Hill, David, 130, 131, 132 Hofius, Otfried, 148, 149, 151, 155 Hofmann, CF, 385 Hohmeier, F, 37 Holl, Karl, 285, 498, 500, 509 Holmberg, Bengt, 495 Hoppin, Ruth, 495 Hordern, William E, 371 Horn, FW, 360 Hoskyns, EC, 269 Houston, Jean, 119 Howson, JS, 385 Hull, JHE, 199, 214 Hullinger, Jerry M, 386, 406 Hulme, William E, 417

557

I Jensen, Peter, 122, 124, 360 Jeremias, Joachim, 167, 168, 320, 321, 330 Jervell, Jacob, 201, 220, 227 Jüngel, Eberhard, 394

K Kähler, Martin, 32 Kamlah, E, 334 Käsemann, Ernst, 70, 71, 72, 76, 177, 184, 304, 321, 424, 433, 434, 494, 495 Keck, LE, 188 Keener, Craig, 458, 459 Kennedy, GA, 484, 495 Kenny, Anthony, 495 Kinder, Ernst, 431 Kirk, J Andrew, 205, 208 Kittel, Gerhard, 30 Klein, G, 226 Kleinknecht, K Th, 396, 406 Kloha, Jeffrey J, 47 Koch, Alois, 397, 406 Koch, Klaus, 137 Koehler, Ludwig, 134 Kossoff, David, 8 Kraemer, Hendrik, 413, 414 Kraus, HJ, 139 Krentz, Edgar, 382, 384, 406 Kümmel, Werner G, 33, 42, 202

L Lake, K, 210 Lietzmann, Hans, 176 Lindars, Barnabas, 253, 272, 492, 493, 495 Lockwood, Peter, 91

558

Early Christian Witnesses

Loewenich, Walther von, 286 Lohmeyer, Ernst, 304, 350, 356, 512 Lohse, Bernhard, 430 Lohse, Eduard, 417, 508 Luck, Ulrich, 39 Luther, Martin, 29, 49–57, 65, 81–95, 99, 283–297, 414–416

M Mack, Burton L, 484, 492, 495 Malina, Bruce J, 455 Manson, TW, 321 Marcion, 66 Marsh, John, 267 Marshall, Peter, 343, 356 Martin, RP, 304 Martyn, JL, 188 Marxsen, Willi, 31, 70, 71, 72 Masters, REL, 119 Mayer, Günter, 406 McNeile, AH, 167, 172 Meeks, Wayne A, 356 Merton, Thomas, 247 Metzner, Rainer, 387, 406 Meyer, HAW, 179 Meyer, Marvin W, 349, 355 Michie, Donald, 10 Moffatt, J, 176, 180 Morris, Leon, 227, 269, 301, 417, 427 Moule, CFD, 190, 191 Mounce, WD, 404, 406 Müller, Th, 68 Murphy–O’Connor, Jerome 343, 356, 388, 395, 406

Nichoff, J, 399, 406 Niles, D Preman, 345, 356 Nötscher, F, 334

O Oberman, Heiko A, 84 Orr, WF, 175, 178, 179 Osborne, Grant R, 270, 271, 277

P Panagopoulos, J, 211, 212, 440 Papathomas, A, 388, 406 Pelikan, Jaroslav, 285, 294 Perrin, Norman, 320 Pesch, R, 269 Pfitzner, John C, 359 Pfitzner, Victor C, 48, 157, 217, 356, 360, 364, 383, 385, 386, 397, 398, 400, 404, 406, 407, 475, 502 Piper, Otto, 141 Plank, KA, 400, 406 Pleket, HW, 387, 388, 405 Pless, John T, 94 Plummer, A, 172, 176, 349, 356 Poliakoff, M, 383, 388, 399, 400, 406 Poplutz, Uta, 385, 394, 395, 401 Prenter, Regin, 416, 417, 431 Pritchard, James B, 356

Q Quell, Gottfried, 133

N

R

Navone, J, 219 Neal, W, 379 Newsome, Carol A, 152 Nguyen, VT, 381

Rad, Gerhard von, 30 Redlich, Basil E, 30 Reid, Duncan, 476 Reitzenstein, Richard, 333, 349, 356

Index of Names

Rengstorf, Karl-Heinz, 39, 41, 205–207, 210–212, 217, 224, 228, 320, 330 Resch, Arnold, 328 Reumann, John HP, 454, 485, 495 Rhoads, David, 10 Richardson, Alan, 67 Ricoeur, Paul, 56, 394 Riesenfeld, Harold, 321–323 Robertson, A, 176, 349w56 Roetzel, CJ, 175, 176

S Sasse, Hermann, 97, 111, 185, 285 Satake, A, 208 Schlatter, Adolf, 39, 170, 176, 184, 309 Schlier, Heinrich, 142 Schmid, Lydia, 387, 407 Schmidt, Karl L, 30 Schmithals, W, 206, 307, 332, 343, 356, 446 Schneider, J, 303 Schniewind, Julius, 167, 170 Schrage W, 176, 331, 340, 341 Schwankl, O, 389, 407 Schweitzer, Albert, 47 Schweizer, Eduard, 167, 168, 173, 183, 363, 369, 371, 418, 422, 423, 433 Seeberg, Alfred, 328, 329, 340 Seesengood, Robert P, 382, 391– 393, 397, 402, 407 Selwyn, E, 340 Smalley, Stephen S, 212, 271, 272, 275 Smith, M, 323 Smith, Ralph P, 464, 465, 478 Smith, Robert H, 29 Soden, H von, 169 Stählin, G, 194

559

Stange, Carl, 286 Stanley, DM, 332 Stauffer, Ethelbert, 67, 70, 387, 407 Stendahl, Krister, 319, 321 Stowers, Stanley K, 381 Strack, H, 170, 178 Straub, W, 407 Strecker, G, 172, 173 Strelan, John G, 147, 159, 457

T Talbot, CH, 202, 203 Tanner, Mary, 469 Taylor, Vincent, 30 Theissen, Gerd, 356, 457 Thistleton, AC, 181 Thomas, WH Griffith, 214, 440 Thornton, TCG, 179 Thu, En Yu, 45 Thurneysen, Eduard, 32 Torrance, TF, 130, 416 Trites, A, 499

U Unnik, WC van, 334, 383

V Vajta, V, 427 Vanhoye, Albert, 495 Vermes, Geza, 152, 153 Victorin–Vangerud Nancy M 360 Vielhauer, Ph, 188

W Waldon, Graham, 475 Walther, JA, 175, 178, 179 Weinfeld, M, 151

560

Early Christian Witnesses

Wibbing, S, 334 Wilkens, U, 307 Williams, David J, 388, 407 Williamson, Raymond K, 474 Wilson, SG, 192, 227 Wire, Antoinette Clark, 156 Witherington III, Ben, 391, 403, 407

Y Yeago, David S, 464 Yinger, Kent L, 403, 407

This book of essays by Dr Victor Pfitzner, pastor and lecturer for thirty-six years from 1968–2004 in New Testament Studies, Homiletics and Christian Spirituality at the Lutheran Seminary, now the Australian Lutheran College in Adelaide: Serving as Academic Dean, vice Principal and Principal of the College. The book evinces at once an author with complete mastery of the subjects he addresses, New Testament studies and its multifarious dimensions, ranging from detailed and critical discussion of hermeneutics, the themes of the principal Gospel writers, the nuances of Luther’s exegesis, the practical work of pastoral ministry, conflicts in the church relative to its theology and polity, such as the ordination of women to the office of Pastor and ecumenical encounter reflecting differences in theology concerning the meaning and purpose of the church’s ministry and mission. These all find their place here in an ordered array of profound learning and skilled presentation. It is uncommon to find a book that is historically rigorous, theologically rich, lucidly written and at the same time directed toward the communication of the essence of the Christian tradition. This book is a mine of sanctified learning that will enrich readers from students to scholars of both theology and the New Testament from a variety of Christian traditions. Dr W Gordon Watson Sometime Head of Systematic Theology, Trinity College Brisbane and Visiting Fellow in Humanities at Griffith University, Brisbane, Queensland.

Dr Vic Pfitzner is a retired pastor of the Lutheran Church of Australia and New Zealand. He gained his doctorate at Münster University in Germany in 1964 and has spent most of his ministry teaching New Testament to future pastors at Australian Lutheran College in Adelaide, South Australia, where he was principal for nine years. Some of his many books have been translated into Finnish, German, Indonesian, Japanese and Mandarin, including commentaries on John, First and Second Corinthians, and Hebrews. He has lectured extensively overseas, with a special interest in the churches of Southeast Asia.

Early Christian Witnesses: Biblical and Theological Explorations Victor C Pfitzner

The articles and talks included in this collection cover fifty years of theological engagement, the primary focus being on education for ministry in Australia and abroad. Despite the diversity of topics, such as hermeneutics, New Testament theology, preaching, ecumenical relations, and early church history, there is a connecting concern to listen to the unique voices of early Christian witnesses as foundational for the faith and the apostolic claims of the church in its present-day witness. The publication of these essays has been suggested for some time. Despite my reluctance to reissue articles written over a period of more than five decades, I have relented in the hope that there will be enough to engage the interest of a variety of readers, and not only former students in seminaries and theological colleges in Australia and various places overseas. Included here are mainly articles written specifically for publication in journals, but also lectures and talks to various groups of clergy, lay people, and theological students. Of prime concern has always been the explication of the Christian faith according to its earliest witnesses in the early church of apostles and martyrs. Faith remains attested and lived, approved not proven.  From the introducation by Victor Pfitzner.

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Early Christian Witnesses Biblical and Theological Explorations

Selected Essays of Victor C Pfitzner