A faith starved of wonder becomes thin religion. My review of Unseen Existences explores how Brian Zahnd calls us back to beauty, mystery, and the nearness of heaven in Christ. If you’re weary of shallow Christianity, this may be the book you need right now.
Unseen Existences
Of Heaven, Earth, and the Divine Mystery in All Things
In Unseen Existences, Brian Zahnd offers what may be one of his most luminous and mature theological works to date. Written with the cadence of a poet, the instincts of a pastor, and the depth of a seasoned theologian, Zahnd invites readers to recover a sacramental imagination in an age flattened by materialism and utility. If many contemporary Christian books seek to make faith practical, Zahnd seeks something more urgent: to make faith beautiful again.
The central burden of the volume is clear from its opening pages. Zahnd contends that modern Western consciousness has become spiritually disenchanted, unable to perceive the invisible realities that earlier Christian generations assumed as basic to existence. In response, he calls readers back into a world where heaven is not merely a postmortem destination but an ever-present dimension of divine reality enfolded within creation.¹ This is not escapism, but retrieval. Zahnd’s project stands in continuity with the patristic and medieval tradition, where heaven and earth were understood as interpenetrating spheres rather than isolated realms.²
One of the great strengths of the book is Zahnd’s prose. Few contemporary theological writers combine accessibility and elegance so effectively. His sentences often read like homiletical meditations, yet beneath the warmth lies substantial intellectual architecture. Zahnd draws freely from Gregory of Nazianzus, Augustine of Hippo, Pope Benedict XVI, C. S. Lewis, Hans Boersma, and Rudolf Otto, weaving them into a coherent spiritual vision rather than deploying them as decorative citations.³ His use of these voices demonstrates that Christian reflection on transcendence is not nostalgic fantasy but part of the church’s deepest inheritance.⁴
Particularly compelling is Zahnd’s treatment of wonder. He argues that wonder is not childish naivete but a mode of spiritual perception, one dulled by modern reductionism. In a culture trained to explain everything and adore nothing, Zahnd insists that mystery is not the enemy of truth but one of its necessary companions.⁵ His reflections on beauty, mountains, liturgy, and incarnation become a sustained apologetic for reverence. Readers formed by mechanistic religion or sterile skepticism will find these chapters deeply refreshing.
Equally noteworthy is Zahnd’s Christological center. Though the book explores angels, heaven, mystery, pilgrimage, and unseen realities, it never dissolves into vague spirituality. Again and again, Zahnd returns to the incarnation: “the Word became flesh” as the supreme wonder through which all lesser wonders are interpreted.⁶ This grounding in Christ prevents the book from drifting into speculative mysticism. Heaven is meaningful because Christ has come from heaven and unites heaven and earth in himself.⁷
Zahnd also offers an implicit critique of both progressive secularism and reactionary fundamentalism. He challenges materialist assumptions on one side while exposing the shallow pragmatism of modern church culture on the other. His criticism of utilitarian sermons, politicized Christianity, and proof-text apologetics is incisive and timely.⁸ In this respect, Unseen Existences functions not only as spiritual theology but as cultural diagnosis.
If there is any limitation, it is one common to Zahnd’s corpus: his style often privileges evocative synthesis over rigorous analytical distinction. Readers seeking detailed metaphysical argumentation or sustained exegetical engagement with contested texts may desire more formal development. Yet this critique must be measured carefully. Zahnd is not writing scholastic manuals; he is attempting to awaken imagination and devotion. Judged by that aim, the book succeeds brilliantly.⁹
Indeed, what makes Unseen Existences so valuable is that it addresses a crisis many feel but cannot name. Contemporary people often possess information without wisdom, connectivity without communion, distraction without delight. Zahnd names this as disenchantment and responds with a distinctly Christian re-enchantment rooted in worship, wonder, sacrament, and the lordship of Christ.¹⁰
In the final analysis, Unseen Existences is one of Brian Zahnd’s finest achievements. It is pastoral without sentimentality, intellectual without pretension, mystical without vagueness, and prophetic without shrillness. Zahnd has written a book that reminds readers that the Christian faith is not merely about surviving the world, but learning to see it rightly. For those weary of thin religion and hungry for transcendence, this work will feel like water in a dry land.¹¹
It deserves a wide readership among pastors, students, and thoughtful laypersons alike. In an age that has forgotten heaven, Brian Zahnd teaches us again to look up.¹²
Some books inform the mind. Others steady the soul. And the Sea Was No More explores how Scripture speaks into chaos, suffering, and the deep waters of life with uncommon beauty and hope. If you’ve walked through storms, this book may help you see God there.
And the Sea Was No More: Reading the Bible in the Deep
Dave Nienhuis’s And the Sea Was No More is a rare achievement: a work at once academically responsible, pastorally luminous, autobiographically vulnerable, and canonically ambitious. In an age where many books choose between scholarly rigor and existential relevance, Nienhuis refuses the dichotomy. He writes as a trained biblical scholar, yet also as one acquainted with panic, trauma, spiritual disorientation, and the long interior work of healing. The result is a volume that reads not merely as exegesis, nor merely as memoir, but as theological testimony shaped by the scriptural imagination.¹
The controlling metaphor of the book is “the Deep”—the sea as symbol of chaos, overwhelm, terror, death, and creaturely vulnerability. This motif is traced from Genesis through Revelation, culminating in the eschatological promise that “the sea was no more” (Rev 21:1).² Nienhuis’s central claim is not simplistic allegory. Rather, he argues that Scripture itself repeatedly uses waters, depths, floods, storms, and abyssal imagery as theological grammar through which suffering humanity may interpret existence.³ This insight is both exegetically persuasive and pastorally potent.
Canonical Symbolism and the Waters of Chaos
Nienhuis’s use of the sea motif stands firmly within established biblical scholarship. The primordial waters of Genesis 1, the Leviathan traditions of Job and Psalms, the Red Sea deliverance narrative, Jonah’s descent, the storm narratives of the Gospels, and Revelation’s sea-beast imagery all contribute to a rich symbolic network.⁴ John Walton and others have shown that ancient Near Eastern cosmologies often used watery chaos as shorthand for forces hostile to ordered life.⁵ Israel’s Scriptures do not simply mimic these traditions but radically subordinate chaos to the sovereignty of YHWH. Nienhuis draws fruitfully from this symbolic inheritance.
Yet one of the strengths of the volume is that the author never allows symbol to remain abstract. The “Deep” becomes a category for panic attacks, emotional collapse, shame, alienation, bodily dysregulation, and the sensation of drowning psychologically while remaining outwardly functional.⁶ This move places Nienhuis in fruitful conversation with trauma theologians such as Shelly Rambo, who argue that Christian theology must learn to speak meaningfully from within unresolved suffering rather than only after it.⁷
Memoir as Hermeneutical Method
The autobiographical material is not ornamental; it is hermeneutically generative. Nienhuis’s recollections of church life, fear-laden religious imagery, and later emotional breakdowns are woven into the interpretive process itself. For example, his chapter “This Do in Remembrance of Me” recounts a childhood encounter with sacred distance, ecclesial awe, and punitive fear before later re-reading sacrament and embodiment through grace.⁸ Such passages could have devolved into sentimentality. Instead, they function more like Augustine’s Confessions or Thomas Merton’s memoir-theology: personal history becomes a site where doctrinal language is tested.⁹ This methodological move is commendable. Too much academic theology speaks as if no body suffers, no memory trembles, and no child misheard the gospel. Nienhuis reminds readers that interpretation always happens in lived space.
Pauline Theology Reframed Through Descent and Participation
The most theologically generative portions of the work are arguably those engaging Paul. He highlights multiple Pauline images: ransom, gift, sacrifice, baptismal union, cruciform imitation, weakness, and participatory embodiment.¹⁰ In his chapter “At-One-Ment,” he argues that later atonement debates often isolate Pauline metaphors from their larger tapestry.¹¹ This is an important corrective. Here Nienhuis stands near scholars such as Michael Gorman, who has persuasively argued that Paul’s gospel is fundamentally participatory and cruciform.¹² The author’s treatment of Philippians 2 and Philippians 3 is particularly strong. Rather than reading resurrection power as triumphal ascent, he interprets Paul as calling believers downward into self-emptying love, where exaltation is God’s gift rather than human acquisition.¹³ His social reading of boasting, honor, and status in Roman culture is equally compelling.¹⁴ This aligns with work by Bruce Winter, David deSilva, and John Barclay regarding honor economies, patronage, and status negotiation in Pauline communities.¹⁵ Nienhuis perceptively shows that much modern religiosity still operates through curated success, image management, and spiritual boasting. The diagnosis is incisive.
Baptism, Embodiment, and the Dying Life
Several of the most memorable pages concern baptism and embodiment. Nienhuis reads Romans 6 not simply as doctrinal symbol but as the enactment of a recurring biblical pattern: descent preceding life, burial preceding rising, surrender preceding communion.¹⁶ Baptism becomes not only initiation but pedagogy—a lifelong pattern of dying and rising. Likewise, his reflections on bodily life as “living sacrifice” (Rom 12:1) are excellent.¹⁷ He rightly notes the paradox: sacrifice in Christian terms is not annihilation but animated self-offering. This echoes patristic and Pauline traditions in which holiness is not escape from embodiment but transformed bodily participation.¹⁸ Such themes are pastorally urgent. Many Christians have inherited dualisms in which the body is either idolized or ignored. Nienhuis offers a better path: embodiment as the place where grace is practiced, trauma is carried, breath is restored, and communion is learned.
Pneumatology and Cooperative Grace
One of the more refreshing dimensions of the book is its treatment of the Holy Spirit. Nienhuis rejects notions of divine possession or coercive spirituality. Instead, he describes the Spirit’s work as cooperative, relational, and interiorly strengthening.¹⁹ God acts for us in Christ and in us / with us by the Spirit. This is elegant theology. His exposition of Romans 8—Spirit-bearing witness, helping weakness, interceding with groans—is pastorally rich and exegetically grounded.²⁰ In many traditions the Spirit is reduced either to ecstatic spectacle or vague sentiment. Nienhuis recovers a Pauline pneumatology of companionship amid frailty.
Style and Literary Achievement
Stylistically, the prose is frequently beautiful. Nienhuis writes with a cadence uncommon in modern academic religion. Sentences are memorable without becoming ornamental. Images linger. The chapters often begin with conceptual clarity and end in contemplative resonance. This literary quality matters. Theology should not only be correct; it should be fittingly spoken. The structure also serves the argument well. Short titled chapters—“Weakness,” “Breathing,” “Baptism,” “Embodiment,” “Completing What Is Lacking”—allow readers to move through the work meditatively while still sensing cumulative coherence.²¹
Constructive Questions
No serious review should omit areas for further discussion. Specialists may desire more explicit engagement with contemporary trauma psychology in places where experiential claims are made. Others may wish for a more robust treatment of lament psalms or a fuller interaction with apocalyptic literature beyond Revelation 21. Some readers from confessional traditions may also want clearer ecclesiological implications: How should congregations concretely embody this theology of the Deep? Yet these are not defects so much as invitations. The book succeeds precisely because it opens further avenues of reflection.
Final Assessment
And the Sea Was No More is one of those uncommon works that scholars can respect and wounded readers can inhabit. It offers neither cheap optimism nor sterile technique. Instead, Nienhuis gives readers a scripturally saturated vision in which God meets human beings not only on mountaintops but in depths. He reminds the church that the Bible’s waters of chaos are not relics of ancient cosmology; they are mirrors of panic, grief, oppression, shame, and mortality. More importantly, he proclaims that the God who hovered over the waters, parted the sea, walked upon the waves, entered death, and raised Jesus from the abyss has not abandoned those who drown now. We warmly commend the volume to pastors, counselors, seminary students, spiritual directors, and all readers who suspect that faith must be able to breathe underwater before it deserves to be called hope.²²
Notes
Dave Nienhuis, And the Sea Was No More (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2026), 239.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 129.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 119.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 126.
John H. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2018), 179.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 119.
Shelly Rambo, Spirit and Trauma (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2010), 3.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 113.
Augustine, Confessions, trans. Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 39.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 239.
Ibid., 239.
Michael J. Gorman, Apostle of the Crucified Lord (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 19.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 250.
Ibid., 252–54.
David A. deSilva, Honor, Patronage, Kinship & Purity (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2000), 23–95; John M. G. Barclay, Paul and the Gift (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 563.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 250.
Ibid., 244.
Irenaeus, Against Heresies 5.2.2.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 266.
Ibid., 266.
Nienhuis, Sea Was No More, 256.
Cf. Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1993), 204.
And the Sea Was No More: Reading the Bible in the Deep
Election, Covenant Identity, and the Fulfillment of Israel’s Calling in Christ
Few theological questions in modern Christianity generate more confusion than whether ethnic Israel remains “God’s chosen people” in an exclusive covenantal sense. The discussion is often driven less by close exegesis and more by inherited systems, political assumptions, end-times speculation, or reactionary responses to those systems. Some approach the issue through modern nationalism, others through replacement theology, while still others through popular prophecy models that flatten the complexity of Scripture into a rigid timeline. Yet the biblical question is far richer than any of those categories allow.
The central problem is that many readers assume the phrase chosen people carries the same meaning in every era of redemptive history. In practice, Scripture uses election language in multiple ways: for vocation, covenant privilege, priestly service, historical purpose, remnant faithfulness, messianic fulfillment, and eschatological inheritance. If those categories are collapsed into one simplistic definition, the discussion becomes distorted from the outset. Israel was indeed chosen by God, but the nature of that election must be defined by Scripture itself rather than by later theological slogans.
When the biblical canon is read carefully, a clear movement emerges. Israel is elected through Abrahamic promise, formed as a covenant nation, judged through prophetic critique, restored through messianic hope, and ultimately reconstituted around Jesus the Messiah. The New Testament does not discard Israel, nor does it preserve covenant identity as though Christ changed nothing. Rather, it presents Jesus as the faithful Israelite who fulfills Israel’s vocation and gathers Jews and Gentiles alike into one renewed people of God.¹
Election in the Hebrew Bible Was Primarily Vocational
The first major texts concerning Israel’s chosenness reveal that election was never rooted in ethnic superiority. Deuteronomy 7:6–8 declares that Israel was chosen not because of size, power, or merit, but because Yahweh loved them and remained faithful to the oath sworn to their fathers. The initiative is entirely divine. Israel is not selected because she is impressive, but because God is gracious and covenantally faithful.² Exodus 19:5–6 clarifies the purpose of this election. Israel is called Yahweh’s treasured possession and “a kingdom of priests and a holy nation.” This priestly language is crucial. Priests do not exist for themselves. They mediate sacred presence, preserve holiness, instruct others, and stand representatively between God and humanity. Israel’s election, therefore, is not narcissistic privilege but priestly vocation. They are chosen for service, witness, and mediation among the nations.³ This priestly framework is inseparable from the Abrahamic promise in Genesis 12:3, where Abraham is blessed so that all the families of the earth may be blessed through him. Israel’s election is thus outward-facing from the beginning. Christopher Wright rightly observes that the election of Abraham and Israel is the chosen means through which God intends universal blessing, not an end in itself.⁴ In Ancient Near Eastern context, nations commonly linked themselves to territorial deities who functioned as patrons of a particular land or people group. Israel’s Scriptures are distinctive because Yahweh chooses one nation while simultaneously claiming sovereignty over all nations. Israel’s role is not to monopolize God, but to reveal Him.⁵ This distinction matters profoundly. Election is missional before it is political.
Israel’s Calling Included Temple and Adamic Dimensions
Israel’s vocation also carries temple imagery and echoes humanity’s original calling in Eden. A growing number of scholars have recognized that Eden is portrayed in priestly and sanctuary terms, with Adam functioning as a guardian-servant in sacred space.⁶ If Adam represents humanity’s primal vocation to image God within creation, Israel may be viewed corporately as a renewed Adamic people placed in covenant land to display divine kingship before the nations. The land promise itself should therefore be understood theologically, not merely geographically. Land in the Old Testament signifies ordered space where covenant life flourishes under God’s rule. Sabbath, justice, mercy, worship, and holiness are meant to characterize life there. Exile, then, is not simply displacement from property. It is the loss of sacred order, vocation, and covenant nearness.⁷ This perspective guards against reducing chosenness to ethnicity or territory. Israel’s identity was always tied to covenant fidelity, worship, justice, and witness. Possessing land without embodying the covenant never fulfilled the purpose of election.
The Prophets Rejected Any Notion of Automatic Privilege
The prophets consistently dismantled the assumption that chosenness guaranteed divine favor irrespective of obedience. Amos 3:2 offers perhaps the clearest summary: “You only have I known of all the families of the earth; therefore I will punish you for all your iniquities.” Election increases accountability. Covenant intimacy heightens responsibility.⁸ Jeremiah rebukes those who chant “the temple of the LORD” as though sacred structures could shield covenant rebellion. Isaiah denounces worship divorced from justice and mercy. Ezekiel portrays exile as the inevitable result of defiling sanctuary and profaning God’s name among the nations. Hosea uses marital imagery to reveal relational betrayal. The prophetic witness is remarkably unified on this point: election without faithfulness invites judgment rather than security.⁹ This matters for modern debates. If chosenness meant permanent covenant standing regardless of response, the exile would be inexplicable. Instead, the Old Testament itself teaches that covenant privilege can be forfeited historically through persistent unbelief and rebellion. Yet the prophets also proclaim hope. They speak of circumcised hearts, Spirit renewal, a new covenant, a faithful servant, and a restored people transformed from within. The future of Israel is never merely political recovery. It is covenant renewal through divine intervention.¹⁰
Jesus as the Faithful Israelite
The New Testament announces that this prophetic hope finds fulfillment in Jesus. He is not simply an Israelite within Israel. He is the representative Israelite who embodies Israel’s calling and succeeds where the nation failed. Matthew’s Gospel deliberately narrates Jesus through Israel’s story. He comes out of Egypt, passes through water, enters the wilderness, and is tested before ascending a mountain to teach covenant righteousness. These are not random parallels. They are theological claims. Where Israel grumbled in the wilderness, Jesus remains obedient. Where Adam succumbed to temptation, Jesus resists.¹¹ Jesus also assumes symbolic roles once associated with Israel. He is the true vine in contrast to the failed vineyard imagery of Isaiah 5. He identifies himself as the true temple, the locus of divine presence. He is the Davidic king, the servant of the Lord, and the beloved Son. N. T. Wright has argued persuasively that Jesus saw himself as summing up Israel’s destiny in his own vocation.¹² This means that election becomes concentrated in the Messiah. To belong to the chosen one is to share in the blessings and inheritance attached to him.
The People of God Reconstituted Around Christ
Because Jesus fulfills Israel’s vocation, the New Testament speaks of a renewed covenant people defined by union with him rather than by genealogy alone. This is why Peter can apply Sinai language to believers and call them a chosen race, royal priesthood, and holy nation. He is not stealing Israel’s story. He is declaring that Israel’s priestly purpose has reached fulfillment in the Messiah and now embraces all who belong to him.¹³ Paul develops the same reality in Ephesians 2. Gentiles who were once far off are brought near through Christ. Hostility is broken down. One new humanity is formed. Temple language then reappears as believers together become a dwelling place for God by the Spirit. The old dividing lines no longer define covenant membership. This is neither simplistic replacement theology nor a denial of Israel’s historical role. It is fulfillment theology. What began in Abraham expands through the Messiah into a multinational family.
Paul’s Argument in Romans and Galatians
Paul’s statements are decisive for the present question. Romans 9:6 says, “For not all those from Israel are Israel.” This distinction between ethnic Israel and covenant Israel did not begin with Paul. It runs through the Old Testament itself in the language of remnant, promise, and faithful seed. Isaac rather than Ishmael, Jacob rather than Esau, the faithful minority rather than the rebellious majority. Genealogy alone never exhausted covenant identity.¹⁴ Romans 2:28–29 presses further by describing true Jewishness in terms of inward transformation by the Spirit rather than merely outward markers. Paul is not erasing ethnicity. He is insisting that covenant membership cannot be reduced to fleshly descent. Galatians 3 reaches its climax when Paul says that those who belong to Christ are Abraham’s seed and heirs according to promise. This would have been astonishing in the first-century world. Gentiles inherit Abrahamic blessing not by becoming ethnic Jews, but by union with the Messiah who is himself the promised seed.¹⁵
Romans 11 and the Future of Israel
Romans 11 must also be read carefully. Paul uses the image of one olive tree. Some natural branches are broken off through unbelief. Wild branches are grafted in through faith. Natural branches may be grafted in again if they do not remain in unbelief. The imagery is singular. There are not two covenant trees with parallel destinies. There is one people rooted in patriarchal promise and sustained through faith.¹⁶ When Paul says “all Israel will be saved,” interpreters differ on the precise referent. Some see a future large-scale turning of Jewish people to Christ. Others understand the phrase corporately of the full people of God. Others emphasize the total redeemed remnant across history. Yet whatever interpretive option one prefers, Paul nowhere imagines salvation apart from Christ. Romans 10 has already centered salvation in confession of Jesus as Lord. Romans 11 must be read in continuity with that gospel logic, not against it.¹⁷ A wise conclusion is that Paul expects ongoing divine mercy toward Jewish people and perhaps future widespread turning, but always through the same Messiah in whom Gentiles also stand.
The Modern State of Israel and Biblical Israel Are Not Identical Categories
One of the most common interpretive errors today is the direct equation of biblical Israel with the modern nation-state established in 1948. These categories overlap historically but are not theologically identical. Biblical Israel was a covenant people ordered around Torah, temple, sacrifice, priesthood, and prophetic vocation. The modern state is a contemporary political nation functioning within secular international frameworks and containing wide internal diversity of belief and practice.¹⁸ Christians may care deeply about Jewish security, oppose antisemitism, seek justice for Palestinians, and pray for peace in the land without granting automatic theological legitimacy to every state policy. Scripture requires more nuance than partisan slogans.
So Is Israel Still God’s Chosen People?
The answer depends entirely on how the phrase is defined. If one means that Israel was historically elected as the people through whom came covenant, Torah, prophets, and Messiah, the answer is certainly yes. Paul explicitly affirms these privileges in Romans 9:4–5. If one means that every ethnic descendant possesses covenant standing irrespective of response to Christ, the New Testament answer is no. If one means that God’s mercy and redemptive concern for Jewish people remains active, the answer is yes. If one means that one ethnic nation now exists as the exclusive people of God over against the multinational body of Christ, the answer is no. The deepest Christian answer is that Jesus is the chosen one, faithful Israel in person, and all who belong to him share in that election.
Conclusion
When all of Scripture is allowed to speak in its fullness, the question is not whether God discarded Israel or whether one modern nation now carries automatic covenant status. The deeper question is how the faithfulness of God reaches its intended goal. The biblical answer is that God has always been faithful to His promises, and those promises find their yes and amen in Jesus Christ. The Lord did not abandon His covenant purposes. He brought them to maturity. Israel’s story matters because it is our story of grace. Through Israel came the patriarchs, the prophets, the Scriptures, the temple patterns, the covenants, and ultimately the Messiah himself. The church must never treat Israel with arrogance, mockery, or triumphalism. Paul warns Gentile believers in Romans 11 not to boast against the natural branches. We stand by mercy, not superiority. Every Christian should carry humility when speaking of Israel, because salvation history was carried forward through a people chosen to bear the weight of promise until Christ appeared. Yet the New Testament also refuses to let us place our confidence in ancestry, ethnicity, politics, or geography. The temptation in every generation is to trust visible markers. Some trusted circumcision. Some trusted the temple. Some trusted the land. Some trusted national identity. We are no different. Many today trust denominational labels, political movements, church brands, charismatic personalities, or cultural Christianity. But the gospel continually calls us back to the same truth: covenant life is found primarily in Christ.
This means the modern church must hear the prophetic warning as much as ancient Israel did. It is possible to carry sacred language while neglecting sacred obedience. It is possible to defend biblical symbols while lacking biblical love. It is possible to speak of chosenness while living without holiness.
Israel’s failures are preserved in Scripture not to shame them, but to disciple us.
Their story warns every congregation that privilege without faithfulness leads to dryness, pride, and judgment. At the same time, Israel’s story also gives hope to every weary believer. God is patient with stumbling people. He restores the broken. He keeps covenant when humans fail covenant. He brings life out of exile, resurrection out of graves, and mercy out of rebellion. The same God who remained faithful through centuries of Israel’s weakness remains faithful to His church today. If He did not abandon them in their discipline, He will not abandon us in ours. The church therefore should not ask, “Which nation is most favored?” but “Are we abiding in the Messiah?” The New Testament redirects our attention from territorial obsession to spiritual formation, from speculation to discipleship, from charts to character, from political fear to kingdom witness. Jesus did not commission the church to decode headlines. He commissioned the church to make disciples, love enemies, preach repentance, care for the poor, embody holiness, and announce the reign of God.
This also reshapes how we view the people around us. Jew and Gentile, rich and poor, insider and outsider, religious and skeptical alike are all invited into the same covenant mercy through Christ. The dividing walls humanity builds are torn down at the cross. The church dishonors the gospel whenever it rebuilds walls Jesus died to remove. Our calling is not to compete over status, but to become one new humanity marked by reconciliation. For the modern church, perhaps the most urgent lesson is this: being near sacred things is not the same as being surrendered to God. One may attend church weekly, know Christian vocabulary, defend doctrines online, and still remain spiritually distant. Ancient Israel often possessed the symbols while neglecting the substance. The church can do the same. We can have platforms without prayer, worship services without wonder, sermons without repentance, and activity without abiding life. The call of Christ is deeper. He desires a people whose hearts are circumcised by the Spirit, whose love is genuine, whose holiness is joyful, and whose witness is radiant. So is Israel still God’s chosen people? In one sense, Israel remains forever honored in the story of redemption. In another sense, the chosen people of God are now (and always have been) those who belong to Yahweh and are fulfilled in Christ. The family has widened. The invitation has gone global. The promises have flowered beyond their earlier borders. What began in Abraham now reaches to every tribe and tongue through Jesus Christ. That has always been the plan, to reconcile the lost world back to Yahweh.
Therefore let the church walk humbly, love deeply, and remain rooted in grace. Let us bless the Jewish people, reject every form of antisemitism, pray for peace in the land, and long for all peoples to know their Messiah. Let us also examine ourselves, lest we celebrate biblical history while neglecting present obedience. In the end, the greatest question is not whether Israel was chosen. The greatest question is whether we ourselves are living as a chosen people now: holy, compassionate, faithful, priestly, and fully surrendered to the Lord who gathers the nations into one family.
Endnotes
G. K. Beale, A New Testament Biblical Theology (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2011), 657–63.
J. Gordon McConville, Deuteronomy (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2002), 156–59.
Peter C. Craigie, The Book of Deuteronomy (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1976), 168–70.
Christopher J. H. Wright, The Mission of God (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2006), 201–7.
John H. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 289–94.
G. K. Beale, The Temple and the Church’s Mission (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2004), 66–80.
T. Desmond Alexander, From Eden to the New Jerusalem (Grand Rapids: Kregel, 2008), 34–49.
Francis I. Andersen and David Noel Freedman, Amos (New York: Doubleday, 1989), 338–40.
Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), 736–45.
Walter C. Kaiser Jr., The Promise-Plan of God (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2008), 227–39.
R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 74–92.
N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 390–404.
Karen H. Jobes, 1 Peter (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2005), 154–61.
Douglas J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 560–69.
Thomas R. Schreiner, Galatians (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2010), 245–52.
Thomas R. Schreiner, Romans (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 1998), 613–26.
Ben Witherington III, Paul’s Letter to the Romans (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2004), 274–82.
Gary M. Burge, Whose Land? Whose Promise? (Cleveland: Pilgrim Press, 2003), 35–67.
Matthew 21:33–46 stands within the charged temple-confrontation sequence of Matthew 21–23, where Jesus addresses the chief priests and elders after his entry into Jerusalem, his symbolic action in the temple, and the challenge to his authority in 21:23–27.[1] In Matthew, the parable is not an isolated moral tale about generic wickedness but a concentrated act of prophetic indictment. Its narrative force depends on at least four converging horizons: the Isaianic vineyard tradition, the Psalm 118 stone text, the political-religious location of the chief priests, and Matthew’s own editorial shaping of inherited Synoptic tradition. Read this way, the parable is less about “replacement” in any crude sense than about the transfer of entrusted stewardship from corrupt leadership to a people who will render the fruit appropriate to the reign of God.[2] Matthew’s version is especially important because it sharpens the temple setting, heightens the issue of fruit, and adds the climactic declaration that “the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people producing its fruits” (21:43), a sentence without exact parallel in Mark and one that reveals Matthew’s theological agenda with unusual clarity.[3]
The immediate addressees in Matthew are not “the Jews” as a monolithic category but the chief priests and elders in the temple precincts, those already exposed in the preceding dispute as unwilling to answer honestly regarding John’s authority (21:23–27). Matthew 21:45 then narrows the hearers further: “when the chief priests and the Pharisees heard his parables, they knew that he was speaking about them.” This narrative framing matters. Matthew’s rhetoric is intra-Jewish before it is anything else. The Gospel itself is deeply Jewish in texture, saturated with scriptural citation and temple controversy, and many interpreters from major academic publishers continue to describe Matthew as a Gospel written for a first-century Christian audience negotiating its identity in relation to other Jewish groups and leaders.[4] The parable therefore belongs to a family quarrel within late Second Temple Judaism, though Matthew’s perspective also gives the scene retrospective weight as an explanation of judgment upon Jerusalem and its leadership.[5]
Matthew’s opening line is already theologically suggestive: Anthrōpos ēn oikodespotēs—“there was a man, a landowner/householder” (21:33). The noun οἰκοδεσπότης does more than identify an owner of property. In Matthew it regularly carries the sense of a master of a household whose authority extends over servants, goods, and ordered administration (cf. 10:25; 13:27, 52; 20:1; 24:43).[6] Matthew could have used a simpler term of possession, but οἰκοδεσπότης foregrounds ordered lordship, managerial legitimacy, and delegated responsibility. This lexical choice also resonates with Matthew’s repeated use of household imagery for the reign of heaven. Here the vineyard is not a detached asset but part of a larger household economy under rightful rule. Accordingly, the tenants are not independent farmers but stewards under an owner whose claim remains intact. Matthew’s term therefore intensifies the offense: the tenants do not merely behave badly; they revolt against a legitimate master and attempt to convert stewardship into ownership.[7]
The verb ἐφύτευσεν (“he planted”) likewise deserves more than passing notice. φυτεύω is a verb of intentional establishment, not mere possession.[8] The vineyard exists because the landowner brought it into being through purposeful labor. In the scriptural background, that matters enormously. Isaiah 5 already portrays Israel as Yahweh’s carefully planted vineyard, and the point of the image is divine initiative followed by covenantal expectation. Matthew’s diction preserves that same theological movement: God’s people are not self-generated; they are planted, prepared, and expected to yield.[9] This is why the parable cannot be reduced to a dispute over ownership alone. The one who planted has the right to expect fruit because the vineyard itself is the product of his prior care. Matthew’s Jesus thus places the religious leadership inside a story of gift before demand, privilege before judgment, and divine initiative before human accountability.[10]
The phrase φραγμὸν αὐτῷ περιέθηκεν, “he put a fence/wall around it,” extends the Isaianic echo. φραγμός can denote a fence, hedge, or protective barrier.[11] In Isaiah 5 the enclosure marks election, protection, and separation; the vineyard is not simply planted, it is secured. Matthew’s wording therefore suggests more than agriculture. It evokes a sacredly bounded sphere. That is one reason many interpreters have argued that the vineyard tradition in this context shades toward temple symbolism as well as Israel symbolism.[12] The point is not that “vineyard” and “temple” collapse into a single flat symbol, but that the Matthean scene takes place in the temple and concerns those responsible for Israel’s worshiping life. The boundary imagery thus implies entrusted sacred space. The leaders are not condemned because the vineyard lacked every provision. On the contrary, the fence testifies that what was entrusted to them was protected, structured, and ordered by the owner from the beginning.[13]
The next phrase, ὤρυξεν ἐν αὐτῷ ληνόν, “he dug in it a wine press,” is especially significant. ληνός refers to the winepress or vat associated with the crushing of grapes and the production of wine.[14] Theologically, this detail indicates that the owner has not only planted for beauty but prepared for yield. A vineyard with a winepress is a vineyard built for harvestable fruitfulness. Matthew therefore intensifies the absurdity of the tenants’ rebellion: they inhabit an estate already provisioned for productive return. The winepress is a sign that the owner’s claim on the fruit is neither arbitrary nor delayed beyond reason; the infrastructure of accountability is present from the start. Intertextually, it also ties the parable more closely to the Isaianic vineyard song, where the vineyard’s failure is scandalous precisely because every necessary provision has been made.[15] Matthew’s parable moves the source of the failure away from the vineyard itself and onto the tenants. The issue in Isaiah 5 is bad grapes; in Matthew 21, the issue is corrupt custodians of a vineyard whose structures imply that fruit should indeed have been forthcoming.[16]
Matthew continues with ἐξέδετο αὐτὸν γεωργοῖς, “he rented/leased it to tenant farmers.” The verb ἐκδίδωμι in the middle voice can mean to let out for one’s own advantage, to lease, to farm out.[17] This word is central to the social texture of the parable. It marks an economic arrangement, not abandonment. The owner remains owner; the tenants receive delegated use under obligation. Here a first-century audience would have recognized a familiar arrangement in large-estate agriculture, including the social tensions that such structures could generate under absentee ownership.[18] Yet Matthew is not romanticizing peasant resistance. The leasing arrangement is narrated as legitimate, and the tenants’ violence is narrated as lawless seizure. Their cry, “this is the heir; come, let us kill him and seize his inheritance” (21:38), reveals the moral logic of rebellion: stewardship has metastasized into possessiveness.[19] Matthew’s theological burden is therefore not anti-landlord populism but anti-usurpation. Those entrusted with God’s vineyard have mistaken delegated responsibility for autonomous possession.
The final verb of verse 33, ἀπεδήμησεν, “he went away” or “went on a journey,” does not imply indifference. ἀποδημέω denotes being away from one’s home or going abroad.[20] In parabolic discourse, such absence creates the space in which stewardship is tested. Theologically, the landowner’s departure is not divine remoteness in an ontological sense but the narrative condition under which covenant fidelity can be manifested. The owner’s absence does not cancel his rights; it exposes the tenants’ hearts. Matthew uses similar master/absence imagery elsewhere to underscore accountability in the time before reckoning (cf. 24:45–51; 25:14–30). Here the “journey” functions as an eschatological delay motif: divine patience should have yielded fruit, but it instead becomes the occasion for rebellion.[21]
When the season of fruit approaches, the owner sends τοὺς δούλους αὐτοῦ, his “slaves/servants,” to receive his produce (21:34). The noun δοῦλος in ordinary usage denotes a slave or bondservant, one under the authority of another.[22] In this context, the term is important precisely because Matthew does not choose a softer word. The emissaries are not neighbors or contractors; they bear the authority of the master. Their mistreatment thus amounts to the rejection of the owner himself. Within the parable’s allegorical horizon, these δοῦλοι correspond naturally to the prophets and other emissaries sent to Israel.[23] Matthew’s sequence—beating one, killing another, stoning another—compresses a long scriptural history of resisted prophetic speech into a stylized pattern of escalating violence. The sending of “other slaves, more than the first” (21:36) emphasizes divine persistence, while the same response exposes a settled posture of recalcitrance rather than a single rash act. Divine patience, in Matthew’s rendering, does not abolish judgment; it establishes its justice.[24]
The owner’s claim is expressed through καρπός, “fruit,” in 21:34 and then climactically in 21:43, where Matthew alone speaks of a people “producing its fruits.” καρπός can denote fruit, crop, produce, and by extension conduct or moral result.[25] This semantic range is crucial for Matthew. Throughout the Gospel, fruit is an ethical and covenantal category: trees are known by fruit (7:16–20), repentance must bear fruit (3:8, 10), and now the kingdom is given to a people doing the fruit of the kingdom. Weren rightly observes that Matthew’s phraseology here reflects his characteristic idiom of “doing fruit” and develops Isaiah 5 beyond what he received from Mark.[26] Thus the parable is not primarily about ethnicity but productivity in relation to God’s reign. The κρίσις falls not because Israel as such is rejected, but because leaders entrusted with Israel’s vocation have failed to render the justice, righteousness, and obedience God sought from the vineyard.[27]
Matthew’s differences from the parallels are therefore theologically decisive. First, unlike Mark 12:9, Matthew lets Jesus’ interlocutors pronounce the judgment upon themselves more fully in 21:41: “he will put those wretches to a miserable death and lease the vineyard to other tenants.” The verbal play κακοὺς κακῶς ἀπολέσει may itself echo the wordplay texture of Isaiah 5 more strongly than Mark does.[28] Second, Matthew alone adds 21:43, the kingdom-transfer saying, thereby moving the parable from mere prediction of judgment to explicit ecclesiological reconfiguration.[29] Third, Matthew’s placement is sharper than Luke’s because the parable stands as the second in a triad of vineyard/son parables (21:28–32; 21:33–46; 22:1–14) directed against the leadership in Jerusalem.[30] Fourth, Matthew’s diction often presses the text toward fruit-bearing and accountability, not simply toward rejection and reversal. In short, Matthew is not satisfied to reproduce a passion-prediction allegory; he recasts the tradition so that failed stewardship, temple leadership, and kingdom-fruit come into a single focus.[31]
The citation of Psalm 118:22–23 in 21:42 seals the argument: “The stone that the builders rejected, this has become the cornerstone; this was from the Lord, and it is marvelous in our eyes.” In its psalmic context, the rejected stone is bound up with Yahweh’s vindication of the one rejected by hostile powers. Lanier’s analysis is especially helpful here: the original context of Psalm 118 points toward the vindication of the Davidic king, and the “builders” become those who should have recognized but instead rejected the chosen figure.[32] In the immediate Matthean setting, this is explosive. The tenants who reject the son are also the builders who reject the stone. Matthew thereby overlays vineyard and temple imagery: those responsible for the vineyard are also those who are supposed to build rightly. The move from agricultural to architectural imagery is not a clumsy shift but a scripturally natural one, because Psalm 118 already joins kingship, temple, and festive procession, and because Isaiah itself can move from vineyard to built structure without embarrassment.[33] The LXX matters here as well. Matthew’s wording follows the familiar Greek form of Psalm 117:22–23 (LXX numbering), which had already become fertile for messianic interpretation in early Jewish and Christian circles.[34] The citation thus does not merely decorate the parable; it interprets the son’s rejection as the paradoxical means of his enthronement and the leaders’ failure as both moral and hermeneutical.
The chief priests, then, are not incidental villains. In Matthew’s narrative world they are the custodians of the temple, the overseers of sacrificial and worshiping life, and, from Matthew’s perspective, leaders who have turned priestly responsibility into self-protective power.[35] Dorothy Jean Weaver’s work is illuminating here: Matthew portrays the chief priests as those charged with guarding God’s house as a house of prayer, yet in practice aligned with political expediency, conspiratorial counsel, and finally the destruction of Jesus, the very one whose ministry fulfills what their office had failed to embody.[36] Read back into 21:33–46, this means the parable is not only about generic unbelief. It is an accusation that temple leadership has attempted to seize what belongs to God and has therefore forfeited its role as steward of sacred space. That Matthew’s audience, living after the destruction of the temple, would hear this parable with intensified historical resonance is almost certain.[37] Yet even here Matthew’s argument is not nihilistic. The vineyard remains the owner’s vineyard. Judgment falls on murderous tenants, not on the owner’s purpose. The kingdom is not abolished; it is re-entrusted to a people who will bear its fruit.[38]
Matthew 21:33–46 is therefore best read as a densely layered prophetic judgment speech embedded in parabolic form. Its Greek diction is not ornamental but strategic. οἰκοδεσπότης emphasizes rightful lordship; ἐφύτευσεν underscores divine initiative; φραγμός and ληνός testify that the vineyard was fully provisioned; ἐξέδετο defines leadership as tenancy rather than ownership; ἀπεδήμησεν creates the temporal field of stewardship; δοῦλοι identify the rejected emissaries of the owner; and καρπός establishes the criterion of judgment as covenantal productivity. Matthew’s redaction of the Synoptic tradition sharpens all of this by directing the parable squarely at the chief priests and Pharisees, adding the kingdom-transfer saying, and merging Isaianic vineyard theology with Psalmic stone theology. The result is a profoundly Matthean vision of judgment: God’s gifts do not nullify responsibility, sacred office does not secure immunity, and the Son rejected by the builders becomes the cornerstone of the renewed people of God.[39]
PASTORAL INTERPRETATION IN LAYMANS TERMS:
In the end, Matthew 21:33–46 is not merely a story about bad men long ago; it is a living warning to every generation entrusted with the things of God. The landowner reminds us that the church belongs to the Lord, not to pastors, boards, denominations, or personalities. He planted the vineyard, built the wall, prepared the winepress, and expects fruit because everything we have first came from his care and grace. The tenants warn us how easily stewardship can become ownership, ministry can become control, and sacred trust can become self-interest. The servants remind us that God repeatedly sends truth, correction, and prophetic voices, yet leaders often resist the very voices meant to heal them. The Son reveals the deepest tragedy: humanity can become so protective of power that it rejects the rightful heir standing in front of them. Yet the rejected stone becoming the cornerstone means that Christ still builds even where human leadership fails. For the modern church, this parable calls pastors and people alike to humility, repentance, and fruitfulness. We are tenants, not owners. We are stewards, not kings. Our task is not to preserve our platforms but to honor the Son, receive his authority, and cultivate a vineyard marked by justice, mercy, truth, holiness, and love. Wherever churches become protective of image, money, influence, or tradition at the expense of Christlike fruit, this parable speaks again. But wherever leaders kneel before the Son and remember whose vineyard it is, the church can once more become a place of harvest, healing, and joy.
Endnotes
[1] Donald A. Hagner, Matthew 14–28, Word Biblical Commentary 33B (Dallas: Word, 1995), 617.
[2] R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew, NICNT (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 808–12.
[3] Wim J. C. Weren, “The Use of Isaiah 5,1–7 in the Parable of the Tenants (Mark 12,1–12; Matthew 21,33–46),” Biblica 79 (1998): 19.
[4] Craig S. Keener, A Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1999), 45–51.
[5] Dorothy Jean Weaver, “‘What Is That to Us? See to It Yourself’ (Mt 27:4): Making Atonement and the Matthean Portrait of the Jewish Chief Priests,” HTS Teologiese Studies / Theological Studies 70, no. 1 (2014): art. #2703, 7–8.
[6] Walter T. Wilson, The Gospel of Matthew, Vol. 2: Matthew 14–28, ECC (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2023), 280–83.
[7] Bill Mounce, “οἰκοδεσπότης,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[8] Bill Mounce, “φυτεύω,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[9] Weren, “Use of Isaiah 5,1–7,” 1–3, 19.
[10] Craig S. Keener, The IVP Bible Background Commentary: New Testament, 2nd ed. (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2014), 124–25.
[11] Bill Mounce, “φραγμός,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[12] Weren, “Use of Isaiah 5,1–7,” 19.
[13] Ben Witherington III, Matthew, Smyth & Helwys Bible Commentary (Macon, GA: Smyth & Helwys, 2006), 398–401.
[14] Bill Mounce, “ληνός,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[15] Weren, “Use of Isaiah 5,1–7,” 1–3.
[16] Klyne Snodgrass, Stories with Intent: A Comprehensive Guide to the Parables of Jesus, 2nd ed. (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2018), 287–90.
[17] Bill Mounce, “ἐκδίδωμι,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[18] John S. Kloppenborg, The Tenants in the Vineyard: Ideology, Economics, and Agrarian Conflict in Jewish Palestine (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2006), 33–61.
[19] David L. Turner, Matthew, BECNT (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2008), 511–14.
[20] Bill Mounce, “ἀποδημέω,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[21] France, Matthew, 810–11.
[22] Bill Mounce, “δοῦλος,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[23] Hagner, Matthew 14–28, 618–19.
[24] Snodgrass, Stories with Intent, 288–89.
[25] Bill Mounce, “καρπός,” Mounce Concise Greek-English Dictionary of the New Testament, accessed April 18, 2026.
[26] Weren, “Use of Isaiah 5,1–7,” 19.
[27] Turner, Matthew, 514–16.
[28] Weren, “Use of Isaiah 5,1–7,” 19.
[29] France, Matthew, 815–16.
[30] Hagner, Matthew 14–28, 617.
[31] Turner, Matthew, 516–18.
[32] Gregory R. Lanier, “The Rejected Stone in the Parable of the Wicked Tenants: Defending the Authenticity of Jesus’ Quotation of Ps 118:22,” Journal of the Evangelical Theological Society 56, no. 4 (2013): 745–47.
[33] Lanier, “Rejected Stone,” 744–46.
[34] Lanier, “Rejected Stone,” 746–48.
[35] Weaver, “Making Atonement,” art. #2703, 2–5.
[36] Weaver, “Making Atonement,” art. #2703, 4–8.
[37] Weaver, “Making Atonement,” art. #2703, 7–8.
[38] N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, Christian Origins and the Question of God 2 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 497–501.
Introduction: The Persistence of a Troubling Metaphor
Few critiques of Penal Substitutionary Atonement (PSA) have been as rhetorically charged as the accusation that it amounts to “cosmic child abuse.” Popularized in contemporary theological discourse, the critique is often rejected as reductionistic, emotionally manipulative, and inattentive to Trinitarian theology.¹ Yet its persistence suggests that it is not sustained merely by caricature. Rather, it functions as a theological pressure point, exposing a deeper unease regarding the coherence of PSA with the character of God revealed in Scripture.
The task, therefore, is not to accept the critique uncritically, nor to dismiss it reflexively, but to ask whether the conceptual framework of PSA, particularly its emphasis on divine wrath, penal satisfaction, and substitutionary punishment, arises from the biblical text itself or is imposed upon it. This study argues that while substitutionary language is present in Scripture as a simple metaphor, the penal structuring of that substitution is not exegetically grounded in the way often claimed (as doctrine). When elevated to a controlling paradigm, PSA not only reduces the biblical witness but risks introducing tensions that give rise to the very critique it seeks to refute.
It is also important to acknowledge that for some, this is not merely a theoretical tension. There are many who have not simply questioned the cross, but have walked away from the Christian faith altogether because they found themselves unable to reconcile a strongly penal vision of the cross with the character of a loving and merciful God. This dynamic, and the pastoral weight it carries, will be explored more fully in an appendix.
Atonement in Its Native Context: ANE Sacrifice and Israel’s Radical Departure
Any serious engagement with atonement must begin within the Ancient Near Eastern (ANE) context in which Israel’s sacrificial system emerged. In surrounding cultures, sacrifice often functioned within a framework of appeasement, where divine anger was placated through offerings, including, at times, child sacrifice.² Texts from Ugarit and Phoenicia attest to rituals in which the death of a child was understood as a means of satisfying divine demands.³ Against this backdrop, the Hebrew Scriptures present a striking polemic. The prohibition of child sacrifice is unequivocal (Lev 18:21; Deut 12:31), and prophetic literature repeatedly condemns the practice as something that “never entered the mind” of God (Jer 7:31).⁴ The implication is not merely ethical but theological: Israel’s God is fundamentally unlike the gods of the nations. This distinction is critical. If Israel’s sacrificial system is to inform our understanding of the cross, it must be interpreted within its own conceptual world, not retrofitted into ANE patterns of appeasement. The central concern of Levitical sacrifice is not the satisfaction of divine anger through punishment, but the purification of sacred space and the restoration of covenantal relationship.⁵ The term כִּפֶּר (kipper) reflects this orientation. As Milgrom demonstrates, its primary function is to purge or cleanse, particularly in relation to the sanctuary.⁶ Blood is applied to objects, not persons, indicating that the problem addressed is not primarily legal guilt but cultic defilement.⁷
Thus, the sacrificial system does not operate on penal logic. It operates on purificatory and relational logic.
Isaiah 53 and the Misinterpretation of the Servant
Isaiah 52:13–53:12 is frequently cited as the clearest Old Testament support for PSA. Yet a close reading reveals a more complex picture. The Servant is said to “bear” (נָשָׂא) and “carry” (סָבַל) the sins of many (Isa 53:4, 11–12). These terms, however, do not inherently denote penal substitution. They often signify bearing the consequences of sin within a communal or relational framework.⁸ The Servant enters into the condition of Israel’s suffering rather than stepping into a juridical exchange.
More significantly, Isaiah 53:4 introduces a hermeneutical correction: “We considered (חָשַׁב) him stricken, smitten by God…”
The assumption that the Servant is being punished by God is explicitly attributed to the observers.⁹ The text then reframes this perception, revealing that the Servant’s suffering is not the result of divine retribution but the means of healing (“by his wounds we are healed,” 53:5). The verb דָּכָא (“to crush”) in 53:10 further complicates penal readings. While it denotes severe suffering, it does not necessarily imply judicial punishment.¹⁰ Within Isaiah’s broader narrative, such language is often associated with oppression and exile rather than retributive justice. The designation of the Servant as an אָשָׁם (ʾāšām, “guilt offering”) likewise resists penal interpretation. The guilt offering functions to restore covenantal order and address breaches in relationship, not to transfer punishment.¹¹ Thus, Isaiah 53 presents a model of vicarious suffering and restorative purpose, but it does not clearly articulate penal substitution.
Paul, Wrath, and the Reconfiguration of Justice
Was God torturing Jesus? The concept of divine wrath (ὀργή or torture) plays a central role in PSA. Yet Paul’s use of the term complicates its interpretation. In Romans 1:18–32, wrath is not depicted as an active outpouring of punishment but as God “giving over” humanity to the consequences of their actions.¹² The repeated use of παρέδωκεν (“he gave them over”) suggests a form of judicial abandonment rather than retributive infliction. This pattern continues throughout Paul’s letters. Wrath is eschatological, revealing the destructive trajectory of sin rather than a mechanism requiring satisfaction.¹³
Romans 3:21–26, often cited as the cornerstone of PSA, must be read within this framework. The term ἱλαστήριον, traditionally translated “propitiation,” is better understood as a reference to the mercy seat (כַּפֹּרֶת).¹⁴ This shifts the focus from appeasement to presence: Christ is the place where God meets humanity in mercy. The phrase δικαιοσύνη θεοῦ (“righteousness of God”) further supports this reading. Rather than denoting a standard of retributive justice, it reflects God’s covenant faithfulness—His commitment to set the world right.¹⁵
Paul’s declaration that God “passed over” former sins (πάρεσις) indicates that forgiveness was already operative prior to the cross.¹⁶ The cross, therefore, is not the precondition for forgiveness but its public demonstration.
Substitution Reconsidered: Representation Rather Than Punishment
Substitutionary language in the New Testament is used as a light metaphor. Scripture is filled with metaphors that illuminate truth without exhausting it. Jesus calls Himself “the door” (John 10:9), yet no one imagines that Christ is literally a plank of wood or that salvation is a matter of passing through a physical threshold. The image communicates access, not architecture. It would be theologically careless to take that metaphor and construct a literal doctrine from it. And yet, this is often what happens with atonement language. A single metaphor—legal, sacrificial, or economic—is elevated beyond its intended function and made to carry the full weight of the cross. The problem is not the metaphor, but the moment we forget that it is one voice among many.
It is also worth noting, as will be explored in a later endnote in the appendix, that the specifically penal form of substitution is a relatively late development in the history of Christian theology, which at minimum invites careful reflection before treating it as the controlling lens of Scripture.
In this way, the nature of that substitution is often misunderstood. The preposition ὑπέρ (“for/on behalf of”) dominates Pauline usage. While it can imply substitution, its primary sense is representative.¹⁷ Christ acts on behalf of humanity, not as a third party absorbing punishment, but as the true human who embodies and restores the human vocation. This is evident in 2 Corinthians 5:21, where Christ is said to be “made sin” (ἁμαρτία). The term likely carries sacrificial connotations, referring to a sin offering rather than a literal transfer of guilt.¹⁸ The result is participatory: “that we might become the righteousness of God.”
Similarly, Galatians 3:13 speaks of Christ becoming a “curse” (κατάρα). The curse, drawn from Deuteronomy, refers to covenantal exile and death, not a metaphysical transfer of punishment.¹⁹ Christ enters into Israel’s cursed condition in order to redeem it from within.
Theological Implications: Divine Character and Trinitarian Unity
The cumulative effect of these exegetical observations raises significant theological questions. First, the insistence that God must punish in order to forgive risks subordinating divine freedom to an external principle of justice. Scripture consistently portrays God as free to forgive (Exod 34:6–7; Mic 7:18), suggesting that forgiveness is an expression of divine character rather than a response to satisfied demands.²⁰ Second, PSA introduces tension within Trinitarian theology. While defenders affirm the unity of will between Father and Son, the logic of punishment can suggest a division that must be carefully managed.²¹ Third, the ethical implications are difficult to ignore. The punishment of an innocent person is consistently condemned in Scripture (Deut 24:16; Ezek 18:20). To frame the cross in such terms requires a significant reconfiguration of biblical justice.
Revisiting the “Cosmic Child Abuse” Critique
The charge that Penal Substitutionary Atonement amounts to “cosmic child abuse” did not arise in a vacuum. It is not merely the product of rhetorical excess or theological immaturity, as it is often dismissed, but rather the convergence of modern moral intuition and perceived theological inconsistency.²² At its most basic level, the critique argues that if the Father inflicts punishment upon the Son in order to satisfy divine wrath, then the cross begins to mirror patterns of abusive violence rather than reveal divine love.
In its most vulgar form, the argument is intentionally provocative. God is imagined as directing anger toward His Son, punishing Him in place of others. That picture is clearly distorted. It fails to account for the unity of the Trinity, the voluntary obedience of the Son (Phil 2:6–8), and the New Testament’s insistence that “God was in Christ” (2 Cor 5:19).²³ But dismissing the critique at that level is too easy, because it avoids the deeper question—why does this description feel intuitively plausible to so many who encounter PSA?
The plausibility is not accidental. It emerges from the internal logic of certain PSA formulations themselves. If divine justice is defined as the necessary punishment of sin, and if Christ is said to bear that punishment in the place of humanity, then the cross is structurally framed as punitive action directed toward an innocent substitute.²⁴ Even when carefully qualified within Trinitarian theology, this structure creates tension. Scripture consistently resists the punishment of the innocent as a violation of justice (Deut 24:16; Ezek 18:20), and yet PSA appears to affirm precisely that dynamic at the center of the gospel.²⁵
That tension becomes even more pronounced when read against the broader biblical narrative, especially the prophetic critique of sacrificial violence. The Hebrew Scriptures repeatedly reject the idea that God desires or is appeased by destructive offerings—particularly those involving human life. “They built the high places of Baal…to burn their sons and daughters in the fire—which I did not command, nor did it enter my mind” (Jer 7:31).²⁶ This is not simply a prohibition; it is a revelation of God’s character. The God of Israel does not operate according to the sacrificial logic of the surrounding nations.
When this prophetic witness is placed alongside certain PSA articulations, the dissonance becomes difficult to ignore. In the Ancient Near Eastern world, sacrifice often functioned as a means of appeasing divine anger, sometimes even through the offering of human life.²⁷ Israel’s sacrificial system, however, was structured to resist that pattern, emphasizing purification, covenant restoration, and the preservation of life.²⁸ To reintroduce a framework in which divine wrath is satisfied through the death of a representative figure risks collapsing the very distinction Scripture works so hard to maintain between Israel’s God and the gods of the nations.
This helps explain why the “cosmic child abuse” critique resonates so strongly in a modern context. In a culture deeply sensitive to the dynamics of power, violence, and abuse, any theological model that appears to legitimize the punishment of the innocent will immediately raise suspicion.²⁹ And while cultural sensitivity alone cannot determine theological truth, it is worth noting that these ethical instincts often echo the moral trajectory already present within Scripture itself.
At the same time, the critique must be carefully qualified. It becomes theologically inaccurate when it isolates the Father as the agent of violence and the Son as its passive recipient. The New Testament presents the cross as a unified divine act: the Son gives Himself (Gal 2:20), the Father sends the Son in love (Rom 5:8), and the Spirit participates in the offering (Heb 9:14).³⁰ The cross is not an event in which God acts against God, but one in which God acts through Himself for the sake of the world.
Even so, that clarification does not fully resolve the tension. The deeper question remains whether the category of penal satisfaction itself (even when framed within Trinitarian unity) accurately reflects the biblical portrayal of God’s justice. If the structure of the model requires that punishment be inflicted in order for forgiveness to occur, then the underlying logic remains vulnerable to the critique.
This is where the issue becomes decisively exegetical. Nowhere does Scripture explicitly state that God must punish sin in order to forgive it. On the contrary, the biblical narrative consistently presents forgiveness as an expression of divine freedom and mercy (Exod 34:6–7; Mic 7:18–19).³¹ Jesus forgives sins without reference to satisfaction (Mark 2:5), and the apostolic proclamation centers on reconciliation initiated by God, not secured through the prior appeasement of divine wrath (2 Cor 5:18–19).³²
The issue, then, is not whether the “cosmic child abuse” critique is rhetorically excessive (it often is) but whether it exposes a genuine tension within the conceptual framework of PSA. When stripped of exaggeration, the critique presses a necessary question: does the logic of penal substitution truly align with the character of God revealed in Christ, or does it impose a structure upon the text that generates unintended theological consequences?
If the cross is the definitive revelation of God’s nature, then any model of atonement must not only explain what happens there, but also cohere with the God who is revealed there. Where that coherence begins to strain, the problem may not lie with the critique, but with the framework itself.
Conclusion
Penal Substitutionary Atonement, while containing elements of biblical truth, cannot be sustained as the controlling framework for understanding the cross (or perhaps even be understood within any viable manner theologically). Its reliance on retributive categories, its tension with the sacrificial logic of the Hebrew Scriptures, and its implications for the character of God all suggest that it represents a theological development rather than a conclusion that arises organically from the text itself. When pressed exegetically, the model repeatedly depends upon importing categories that Scripture does not clearly prioritize and, at times, appears to resist.
This becomes most evident when viewed through the lens of the “cosmic child abuse” critique. While that language is often exaggerated and at points theologically imprecise, it persists because it names a real tension. When the cross is framed primarily as the moment in which divine wrath is satisfied through the punishment of an innocent substitute, the resulting picture of God risks drifting toward the very sacrificial logic the prophets rejected and the biblical narrative works to overturn. The critique gains traction not because it is entirely correct, but because it exposes a dissonance between certain articulations of PSA and the moral and theological contours of Scripture itself.
At the same time, the solution is not to abandon sacrifice, or the seriousness of sin. Scripture does not permit such a move. The cross remains the decisive act through which God deals with sin, death, and the fractured condition of creation.
What emerges from a sustained exegetical reading is not the elimination of metaphorical substitution, but its reconfiguration. The language of “for us” (ὑπέρ) consistently carries the weight of representation, participation, and covenantal solidarity rather than strictly penal exchange. Christ does not stand over against humanity as a third party absorbing punishment, but as the true human who enters fully into our condition—into our sin, our exile, our death—in order to heal it from within. In this sense, the cross is not the site where God’s disposition toward humanity is changed, but where God, in Christ, acts decisively to overcome everything that has stood in the way of communion.
This reframing also allows the biblical witness concerning sacrifice to stand on its own terms. The Levitical system is not primarily concerned with the transfer of punishment, but with purification, restoration, and the maintenance of sacred space. The Servant of Isaiah does not simply endure divine retribution, but bears the weight of human violence and suffering in a way that exposes, absorbs, and ultimately transforms it. Paul’s language of righteousness, reconciliation, and participation similarly resists reduction to a purely forensic framework, pointing instead to a vision of salvation that is relational, transformative, and cosmic in scope.
Within this broader vision, divine justice is not diminished but clarified. Justice is not revealed as a necessity that binds God to a system of retribution, but as the faithful expression of God’s own character—His commitment to set the world right, to heal what has been corrupted, and to restore what has been lost. The cross, therefore, is not the moment where justice is satisfied through violence, but where justice is enacted through self-giving love.
It is here that the pastoral significance of this discussion comes into view. How we understand the cross inevitably shapes how we understand God. If the cross is interpreted primarily through the lens of retributive necessity, it can subtly form a vision of God marked by distance, tension, or even fear. But when the cross is read within the full narrative of Scripture—as the act in which God Himself enters into human brokenness in order to redeem it—the result is not fear, but trust; not distance, but communion.
PSA tends to compress the richness of the biblical witness and, in doing so, risks obscuring the very character of God it intends to defend.
The task before the church, then, is not to discard the cross, but to see it more clearly. This requires returning to Scripture with fresh attentiveness, allowing its language, categories, and narrative to shape our theology rather than forcing them into predetermined frameworks. It calls for a recovery of the multifaceted witness of the early church, where the cross was proclaimed not as a singular mechanism, but as the decisive act of God’s victory, reconciliation, and restoration.
In the end, the cross is not less than what has often been proclaimed—it is far more. It is the place where sin is truly dealt with, where death is defeated, where the powers are disarmed, and where humanity is brought back into communion with God. But it is all of this not because God required violence in order to forgive, but because God, in Christ, was willing to go to the furthest depths of human brokenness to heal it.
And that is a vision of the cross that not only withstands critique, but more faithfully reflects the God revealed in Jesus Christ.
References
Steve Chalke and Alan Mann, The Lost Message of Jesus (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2003), 182–84.
John Day, Molech: A God of Human Sacrifice in the Old Testament (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 45–52.
Mark S. Smith, The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 135–138.
Christopher J. H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics for the People of God (Downers Grove: IVP, 2004), 198–200.
Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16: A New Translation with Introduction and Commentary (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1991), 253–255.
Ibid., 1029–1035.
Baruch A. Levine, Leviticus (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 1989), 113–115.
John Goldingay, The Theology of the Book of Isaiah (Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2014), 104–106.
Brevard S. Childs, Isaiah (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2001), 412–414.
Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, rev. ed. (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 223–224.
Gordon J. Wenham, The Book of Leviticus (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1979), 107–109.
Douglas J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 103–105.
N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2013), 799–802.
C. E. B. Cranfield, A Critical and Exegetical Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, Vol. 1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1975), 209–211.
N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 801.
Douglas J. Moo, Romans, 232–235.
Richard B. Hays, The Faith of Jesus Christ (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2002), 156–160.
David M. Moffitt, Atonement and the Logic of Resurrection in the Epistle to the Hebrews (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 87–92.
James D. G. Dunn, The Epistle to the Galatians (Peabody: Hendrickson, 1993), 180–183.
Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics, Vol. IV/1 (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1956), 253–255.
Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), 242–244.
Steve Chalke and Alan Mann, The Lost Message of Jesus, 182–84.
Thomas F. Torrance, The Mediation of Christ (Colorado Springs: Helmers & Howard, 1992), 83–85.
John Stott, The Cross of Christ (Downers Grove: IVP, 1986), 159–161.
Christopher J. H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics for the People of God, 312–315.
Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1997), 704–706.
Mark S. Smith, The Early History of God, 135–138.
Jacob Milgrom, Leviticus 1–16, 253–255.
Miroslav Volf, Exclusion and Embrace (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), 265–267.
Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God, 242–244.
Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics IV/1, 253–255.
Murray J. Harris, The Second Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2005), 442–444.
APPENDIX
NOTE ON THE HISTORY OF PSA
Penal Substitutionary Atonement is often treated in modern evangelical discourse as though it were the historic Christian explanation of the cross. The historical record is more complicated. The earliest centuries of the church tended to emphasize themes such as Christ’s victory over death and the powers, recapitulation, liberation, and participation in restored life rather than a fully developed doctrine of penal satisfaction.¹ A significant shift occurs with Anselm, whose satisfaction model reframed the problem in terms of divine honor and debt, though not yet in the stricter penal sense later associated with Protestant orthodoxy.² The specifically penal and juridical form of substitution (where Christ bears the punishment due to sinners under divine judgment) comes into much sharper focus in the Reformation, especially in Calvin and in later Reformed development.³ This does not, by itself, make PSA false. Doctrine can develop over time, and lateness alone is not a refutation. But it should at least raise a legitimate caution when a comparatively later formulation is treated as though it were the obvious, universal, or controlling lens of Scripture and the church.⁴ At minimum, the relative historical newness of PSA in its mature form invites humility, careful exegetical testing, and a renewed willingness to let the wider biblical and patristic witness speak with its full range rather than being collapsed into a single model.⁵
Citations
Gustaf Aulén, Christus Victor: An Historical Study of the Three Main Types of the Idea of Atonement (Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2003), 4–5, 16–20.
Anselm of Canterbury, Cur Deus Homo, 1.11–15.
John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2.16.5–10.
N. T. Wright, The Day the Revolution Began (New York: HarperOne, 2016), 275–80.
Oliver D. Crisp, Participation and Atonement: An Analytic and Constructive Account (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2022), 10–12, 130–42.
On Pastoral Experience, Deconversion, and the Perception of God in PSA Frameworks
In both pastoral conversations and what we’re seeing more broadly, a pattern keeps showing up that we can’t ignore. Many people aren’t walking away from the idea of God altogether—they’re walking away from a version of God they’ve been given that they simply cannot reconcile with love, mercy, and goodness.¹ And more often than we might want to admit, that version of God has been shaped—at least in part—by strongly penal ways of talking about the cross, especially when those ideas are paired with doctrines like eternal conscious torment.² (I personally can’t reconcile that doctrine to the character and nature of God either and find conditionalism to be a more exegetical framework.)
For many, the issue isn’t whether God judges sin. Most people instinctively understand that justice matters. The struggle comes when God’s justice is framed primarily in terms of punishing an innocent substitute or expressed through forms of judgment that feel excessive, unending, or disconnected from the character of Jesus.³ At that point, the tension becomes more than intellectual—it becomes deeply personal, and for some, it becomes irreconcilable.
Some have tried to resolve this tension by holding on to Jesus while distancing themselves from God, embracing Christ as loving while rejecting the Father as wrathful – but such a move ultimately collapses under the weight of Scripture’s unified witness, where the fullness of God’s character is revealed in Christ, not set against Him. PSA struggles to reconcile this tension.
This doesn’t mean PSA is the only reason people walk away, and it doesn’t settle the doctrine on sociological grounds alone. But it should at least give us pause. When PSA is presented as the only faithful or truly biblical way to understand the cross, it can create a real stumbling block for those trying to hold together the goodness of God with the story of Scripture as a whole.⁴ In many cases, what people end up rejecting isn’t the gospel itself, but a particular lens through which the gospel was taught to them.⁵
That’s not something to weaponize or use as a cheap critique. But it is something to take seriously. If the way we are framing the cross consistently produces confusion, moral dissonance, or even distance from God, then we have to be willing to ask hard questions—not about whether God is just, but whether our way of describing that justice actually reflects the God we see revealed in Christ.
Citations
James K. A. Smith, How (Not) to Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2014), 109–112.
David Bentley Hart, That All Shall Be Saved: Heaven, Hell, and Universal Salvation (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2019), 1–5, 43–48.
Bradley Jersak, A More Christlike God: A More Beautiful Gospel (Pasadena: Plain Truth Ministries, 2015), 13–18.
Joshua Ryan Butler, The Skeletons in God’s Closet: The Mercy of Hell, the Surprise of Judgment, the Hope of Holy War (Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2014), 52–56.
Sarah E. Lane, Theological Worlds: Understanding the Alternative Spiritual Lives of Americans (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 87–92.
There are moments when something feels off, even if everything looks right. The lights are good, the systems are clean, the structure is efficient—but underneath it all, there’s a quiet unease. You hear language that sounds more like strategy than shepherding. You notice transactions happening where you expected prayer or discipleship. And somewhere in the back of your mind, the image surfaces: Jesus turning over tables. That instinct shouldn’t be dismissed too quickly. It may be closer to the prophetic instinct than we are comfortable admitting. At the same time, it should not be weaponized into a simplistic critique, because Scripture itself forces us to sit in the tension rather than resolve it prematurely. The question is not whether churches should handle money or organize resources, but whether something deeper has shifted in orientation. And increasingly, in many modern contexts, it has.
Torah, Worship, and the Reality of Provision
If we return to the Torah, we are immediately confronted with a framework that refuses to separate worship from material reality. Israel’s sacrificial system required tangible elements—animals, grain, oil—and participation demanded accessibility. The law itself provides a mechanism for this, allowing worshipers to convert offerings into money, travel, and then purchase what is necessary upon arrival.¹ This is not concession but intentional design. Worship is embodied, and provision is part of covenant life.
By the Second Temple period, this developed into structured systems of exchange: animals available for sacrifice and currency exchange for the temple tax.² These were not inherently corrupt. Properly ordered, they were acts of inclusion. They allowed the distant, the traveler, and the outsider to participate in the life of worship.³ In other words, economic activity, when rightly oriented, can serve the purposes of God. But that qualifier—when rightly oriented—is everything. Because Scripture consistently shows how quickly provision can become distortion when its telos shifts.
Jesus and the Collapse of a Corrupted System
When Jesus enters the temple and overturns the tables, He is not reacting to the mere presence of commerce. He is issuing a prophetic judgment. By invoking Isaiah 56 and Jeremiah 7 together, He identifies a system that has not only drifted but has fundamentally betrayed its purpose.⁴ What was meant to be a house of prayer for all nations had become a place where economic practices obscured access to God.
Historical and textual considerations suggest that this activity had overtaken the Court of the Gentiles, displacing the very space intended for the nations.⁵ The implications are profound. The inclusion of the outsider had been replaced with obstruction. What once facilitated worship had begun to control it. Economic systems, likely marked by inflated pricing and exploitative exchange practices, had created a structure in which access to worship was entangled with financial burden.⁶ This is why Jesus’ response is not mild correction but disruptive confrontation. He is not fine-tuning a system; He is exposing it as misaligned at its core.
At this point, a stronger word is necessary. The issue is not simply that the system was imperfect. It had become predatory. It leveraged the sacred for gain. It functioned in a way that mirrored the very economic injustices the prophets had long condemned.⁷ Jesus’ actions must be read in continuity with that prophetic tradition. He is not introducing a new critique; He is embodying an old one with unmistakable clarity. And that same critique might be more real of our churches than ever before.
The Real Question: What Is the Church Becoming?
This brings us directly into the present. The issue is not whether a church rents space, sells resources, or organizes financially. The issue is what kind of people those practices are forming and what kind of witness they are projecting. Scripture presses us to evaluate not only actions but trajectories. Money is never merely functional—it is formative. It reveals what we trust, what we prioritize, and ultimately what we worship.⁸
If we are honest, many modern church contexts have not simply adopted neutral structures but have absorbed the logic of the marketplace itself (that Jesus directly engaged). The language of branding, scaling, growth metrics, and customer experience has quietly replaced the language of formation, sacrifice, and shared life. This is not a minor shift. It is a reorientation of identity. And it should be named plainly: when the church begins to think like a business, it risks becoming something other than the body of Christ.
A clear diagnostic remains helpful here:
When a church begins drifting toward marketplace distortion:
Access to belonging or formation becomes subtly conditioned by financial capacity
The environment prioritizes curated experience over embodied participation
Language reflects branding, scalability, and optimization rather than shepherding
Leadership decisions are governed by sustainability metrics rather than faithfulness
The poor and marginalized are functionally sidelined
When a church is stewarding resources faithfully:
Finances are transparently directed toward discipleship, care, and mission
Generosity is tangible and outward-facing
Leadership operates with accountability and humility
The community functions as a participatory body rather than a consumable experience
Resources are held with looseness, not as identity or security
This is not theoretical. These patterns are observable. And they reveal far more than spreadsheets ever could.
The Subtle Drift Toward Market Logic
The most dangerous shifts are rarely abrupt. They are incremental. A church begins by seeking to reach more people, then to sustain growth, then to manage complexity, and eventually to preserve what has been built. Each step seems reasonable. Each decision appears justifiable. But over time, the framework changes. People become metrics. Gatherings become products. Success becomes measurable in ways that Scripture never prioritizes.
The book of Revelation offers a piercing critique of economic systems that shape allegiance and identity, portraying entire structures of commerce as complicit in spiritual compromise.⁹ The warning is not against trade itself but against systems that form people into participants of empire rather than citizens of the kingdom. When the church begins to mirror those systems—when it adopts their language, their priorities, and their measures of success—it risks losing its distinctiveness altogether.
Jesus as the Reorienting Center
Jesus’ actions in the temple are not simply corrective; they are revelatory. He exposes what has been normalized and calls it what it is. He reclaims sacred space as a place of prayer, presence, and access, particularly for those who had been excluded.¹⁰ That reorientation is not optional for the church—it is foundational. And here is where the tension sharpens. We must ask, without deflection, whether there are patterns within modern church life that Jesus Himself would confront. Not critique from a distance, but actively disrupt. That question requires courage, because it moves us beyond abstract theology into lived practice.
Studying the Text
There is a deeply Hebraic way to frame what is at stake here, and it presses beyond systems into the level of the heart. The biblical language of worship is not built on transaction but on orientation. The Hebrew word ʿābad (עָבַד) carries the dual sense of “to serve” and “to worship,” reminding us that worship is not something offered at a distance but embodied in lived allegiance.¹² Likewise, šāḥâ (שָׁחָה), often translated “to worship,” literally means to bow down, to orient oneself in submission before a king.¹³ When these are paired with qōdeš (קֹדֶשׁ)—that which is set apart, wholly other—we begin to see that sacred space is not defined by activity but by alignment.¹⁴ Even the language of redemption, gāʾal (גָּאַל), evokes not a commercial exchange but a relational act of covenantal restoration carried out by a kinsman-redeemer.¹⁵ In this light, the danger of a marketplace mentality is not merely that money is present, but that it subtly reshapes worship into something the Hebrew Scriptures never envisioned: a negotiable interaction rather than a surrendered life. When worship becomes something we manage, structure, and transact, it drifts from ʿābad into something closer to control, and from šāḥâ into something that no longer bows. The question, then, is not simply what we are doing in our spaces, but whether we are still a people rightly oriented—bowed, serving, and set apart—or whether we have unconsciously redefined worship in the image of the systems we inhabit in actions of control.
Conclusion
The discomfort many feel is not something to be dismissed. It may be an echo of the prophetic voice that runs from the Torah through the prophets and into the ministry of Jesus. At the same time, wisdom requires that we do not collapse into reactionary conclusions. The presence of structure or financial systems is not inherently unfaithful. The Torah affirms provision. The early church managed resources and shared them generously.¹¹
But neither should we soften the warning. When money begins to shape identity, when access becomes entangled with transaction, and when the church begins to resemble the marketplace more than the kingdom, something has gone wrong. And it is precisely in that space that the image of overturned tables must be allowed to confront us again.
The church was never meant to be a place that sells access to God. It was meant to be a people who embody His presence freely. When money serves that reality, it becomes a tool of life. When it begins to redefine that reality, it becomes an idol. And idols, in the biblical story, are never reformed. They are overturned.
Notes
Deut 14:24–26.
E. P. Sanders, Judaism: Practice and Belief 63 BCE–66 CE (Philadelphia: Trinity Press, 1992), 69–71.
John H. Walton, Ancient Near Eastern Thought and the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2006), 305–307.
Isa 56:7; Jer 7:11.
Craig A. Evans, Mark 8:27–16:20 (WBC 34B; Nashville: Thomas Nelson, 2001), 186–188.
N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1996), 417–419.
Amos 5:21–24; cf. Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament (San Francisco: HarperOne, 1996), 200–203.
Prov 11:4; Matt 6:21; Tremper Longman III, How to Read Proverbs (Downers Grove: IVP, 2002), 168–170.
Rev 18:11–13; Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 74–77.
Luke 19:45–46; Scot McKnight, The King Jesus Gospel (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2011), 152–154.
Acts 2:44–45; 4:32–35; Michael J. Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly (Eugene: Cascade, 2011), 103–105.
Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner, The Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament, vol. 2 (Leiden: Brill, 2001), 773–75.
William L. Holladay, A Concise Hebrew and Aramaic Lexicon of the Old Testament (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1971), 367.
R. Laird Harris, Gleason L. Archer Jr., and Bruce K. Waltke, Theological Wordbook of the Old Testament, vol. 2 (Chicago: Moody, 1980), 787–88.
Helmer Ringgren, “גאל,” in Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, vol. 2 (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1975), 350–55.
Recent political rhetoric warning that an entire civilization could be destroyed presses Christians into a moment that is not merely political but profoundly theological. The question before the church is not whether nations possess military power, but whether such language—and the imagination behind it—aligns with the witness of Scripture. A biblically formed response must move beyond partisan reflex and instead engage the deeper currents of creation theology, prophetic critique, and the cruciform revelation of God in Christ.
The Imago Dei and the Non-Disposable Human
Any discussion of the destruction of a people must begin with the doctrine of the image of God. Genesis presents humanity not as a geopolitical abstraction but as a sacred reality bearing divine likeness.¹ The biblical narrative consistently resists reducing nations to expendable units; even when judgment is pronounced, it is framed within divine grief and moral seriousness.² The book of Jonah offers perhaps the most striking counterpoint to nationalistic indifference, where God’s concern extends even to a foreign and morally compromised city.³ The prophetic tradition does not celebrate destruction; it laments it.⁴
The Limits of Political Authority
Romans 13 has often been invoked to sanctify state power, yet the text itself defines authority as accountable to God’s justice.⁵ The governing authority is called a servant for good, not a wielder of unchecked violence.⁶ When rulers deviate from this vocation, Scripture does not hesitate to critique them.⁷ The Old Testament repeatedly condemns kings who shed innocent blood or legislate injustice, framing such acts not as necessary evils but as covenantal violations.⁸ The New Testament continues this trajectory, presenting empire not as morally neutral but as capable of becoming beastly when it demands ultimate allegiance.⁹
Apocalyptic Language and Its Misuse
The language of civilizational annihilation echoes apocalyptic tones, yet it must be distinguished from biblical apocalyptic. Scripture employs cosmic imagery not to incite fear for political leverage but to unveil spiritual realities and expose unjust systems.¹⁰ Apocalyptic literature calls the people of God to faithful endurance, not to participate in escalating cycles of violence.¹¹ When political rhetoric adopts similar language, it often functions not as revelation but as coercion. The difference is not merely stylistic but theological.
Christ and the Rejection of Violent Dominion
The life and teaching of Jesus provide the clearest lens through which to evaluate such rhetoric. Jesus rejects the logic of retaliatory violence, insisting that those who take the sword will perish by it.¹² He rebukes even His own disciples when they imagine divine judgment as immediate destruction.¹³ The kingdom He inaugurates advances not through domination but through self-giving love, enemy-love, and faithful witness.¹⁴ The cross stands as the decisive revelation that God’s victory is not achieved through the annihilation of enemies but through their reconciliation.¹⁵
The Nations in God’s Redemptive Purpose
The biblical story does not abandon the nations to destruction but situates them within God’s ongoing redemptive intent. Deuteronomy 32 portrays the nations as dispersed yet still under divine oversight.¹⁶ The New Testament affirms that God orders history so that nations might seek Him.¹⁷ Even in judgment, the prophetic vision anticipates restoration and inclusion.¹⁸ This theological frame resists any rhetoric that treats entire civilizations as disposable rather than redeemable.
The Prophetic Task of the Church
The church’s role in moments like this is not silence but faithful witness. The prophets consistently addressed kings and rulers, calling them back to justice and humility.¹⁹ This was not political activism in a modern sense but covenantal faithfulness. The church must resist the temptation to baptize destructive language simply because it comes from familiar power structures. Instead, it must speak with clarity, reminding all authority that it is accountable to God.
Pastoral Posture in a Time of Tension
A faithful Christian response is marked by sobriety rather than alarmism, lament rather than celebration, and prayer rather than hostility. The call to pray for leaders is inseparable from the call to seek peace for all people.²⁰ The church must maintain its primary allegiance to the kingdom of God, recognizing that its identity is not rooted in national power but in the reign of Christ.²¹
Conclusion
When political leaders speak of the potential destruction of entire civilizations, the church must return to its theological center. Scripture does not permit casual language about mass death, nor does it affirm visions of victory grounded in violence. The cross stands as the contradiction of such logic. In Christ, God confronts violence not by amplifying it but by absorbing and overcoming it. The church, therefore, bears witness to a different kingdom—one in which enemies are not erased but reconciled, and where the final word over the nations is not destruction but restoration.
Footnotes
John H. Walton, Genesis 1 as Ancient Cosmology (Winona Lake: Eisenbrauns, 2011), 212–15.
Terence E. Fretheim, The Suffering of God (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1984), 120–23.
Jack M. Sasson, Jonah (AB 24B; New York: Doubleday, 1990), 337–40.
Abraham J. Heschel, The Prophets (New York: Harper & Row, 1962), 1:16–20.
N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2013), 1307–12.
Douglas J. Moo, The Epistle to the Romans (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996), 802–5.
Christopher J. H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics for the People of God (Downers Grove: IVP, 2004), 263–68.
Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 23–27.
Michael J. Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly (Eugene: Cascade, 2011), 83–87.
Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 7–10.
Craig R. Koester, Revelation (AB 38A; New Haven: Yale University Press, 2014), 120–25.
Dale C. Allison Jr., The Sermon on the Mount (New York: Crossroad, 1999), 45–48.
Joel B. Green, The Gospel of Luke (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1997), 402–5.
Scot McKnight, Sermon on the Mount (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2013), 189–93.
Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2001), 34–38.
Michael S. Heiser, The Unseen Realm (Bellingham: Lexham, 2015), 113–18.
F. F. Bruce, The Book of Acts (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 334–36.
N. T. Wright, Surprised by Hope (New York: HarperOne, 2008), 104–8.
Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1997), 733–36.
Philip H. Towner, The Letters to Timothy and Titus (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2006), 171–74.
Gordon D. Fee, Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (NICNT; Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1995), 372–75.
Few theological questions emerge from a purely academic place. The question of suicide and salvation almost never does. It is asked in hospital rooms, at funerals, in quiet moments of fear, and sometimes in the hidden corners of one’s own heart. The task before us is not merely to analyze texts, but to listen carefully to the voice of Scripture while remaining attentive to the weight of human suffering. The Bible does not give us a systematic doctrine of suicide. What it gives us is narrative, lament, theology, and above all, a vision of God’s character. Our work, then, is to read faithfully, to resist overstatement, and to allow the whole counsel of Scripture to shape our conclusions.
The Biblical Witness: Narratives Without Systematic Explanation
The primary data we possess comes from narrative texts. The deaths of Saul, Ahithophel, Zimri, Samson, and Judas Iscariot are recorded with striking brevity. These accounts are descriptive rather than didactic. The biblical authors do not pause to construct a theology of suicide. They simply tell the story. Saul’s death occurs within the chaos of battle and defeat. The narrative frames his life theologically, emphasizing disobedience and covenantal failure, yet his suicide itself is not singled out as the decisive factor in his downfall. Ahithophel’s death emerges from political humiliation and rejected counsel. Zimri’s act is bound up with royal collapse and judgment. Judas’ suicide follows remorse but is embedded within a larger narrative of betrayal and spiritual darkness. Samson’s case remains uniquely complex, functioning simultaneously as judgment upon the Philistines and as an act intertwined with his own death. The silence of the text is instructive. Scripture resists reducing these moments into universal principles. As Walter Brueggemann notes, the Old Testament often “refuses the kind of moral closure that later theological systems seek to impose.”¹ John Walton similarly emphasizes that narrative material must be read within its literary function, which is not primarily to legislate but to reveal God’s interaction with human history.² This restraint should shape our own. Where Scripture is quiet, we must be cautious.
The Moral Framework: Life as Gift and Vocation
While Scripture does not explicitly prohibit suicide in a direct command, it does provide a robust theological framework for understanding human life. The command in Exodus 20:13 prohibits unlawful killing, and while the immediate context concerns interpersonal violence, the broader canonical trajectory has historically extended this to include self-directed violence.³ The Hebrew term carries covenantal weight, emphasizing the sanctity of life within God’s ordered world.⁴ More fundamentally, human life is grounded in the imago Dei. Humanity is portrayed not as self-originating or self-owning, but as bearing divine image and entrusted with vocation.⁵ Life is therefore not merely biological existence but participation in God’s purposes. Christopher Wright argues that Old Testament ethics consistently roots moral reasoning in the reality that life belongs to God and is to be lived in relationship to Him.⁶ N. T. Wright develops this further, describing human existence as vocation rather than possession, meaning that life is something we are called into, not something we control absolutely.⁷ This framework does not produce a simplistic rule, but it does shape a moral vision. Suicide stands in tension with the biblical understanding of life as gift, calling, and participation in God’s purposes.
The Absence of Explicit Condemnation: A Theological Tension
One of the most important observations is also one of the most uncomfortable. Scripture nowhere explicitly states that those who die by suicide are eternally condemned. This absence has often been filled by theological deduction. Figures such as Augustine of Hippo and Thomas Aquinas argued that suicide is uniquely problematic because it removes the opportunity for repentance.⁸ Their conclusions shaped much of Western Christian thought. Yet these conclusions go beyond what the biblical text explicitly affirms. The New Testament consistently grounds salvation in union with Christ, not in the moral status of one’s final act.⁹ Paul’s sweeping declaration in Romans 8 emphasizes that nothing in creation can separate believers from the love of God in Christ.¹⁰ Douglas Moo notes that Paul’s language is intentionally comprehensive, designed to eliminate precisely the kind of fear that salvation can be undone by circumstance or failure.¹¹ This creates a theological tension. On one hand, suicide is not presented as morally insignificant. On the other, it is not singled out as uniquely damning. The text leaves space, and that space must be handled with humility.
Human Weakness and the Language of Despair
Scripture’s portrayal of human suffering complicates any attempt to treat suicide purely as a rational moral decision. The Bible gives voice to profound despair. The prophet Elijah asks God to take his life in the wilderness. Job curses the day of his birth. The Psalms are filled with cries that border on the desire for death. These are not marginal texts. They are central to the spiritual vocabulary of Scripture. What is striking is how God responds. Elijah is not rebuked. He is given rest, food, and presence. Job is not condemned for his lament, even as his understanding is corrected. The Psalms preserve the language of anguish as legitimate prayer. Tremper Longman observes that the lament tradition functions as a divinely sanctioned space for expressing the full range of human emotion, including despair.¹² John Goldingay similarly notes that such texts demonstrate that faith does not eliminate anguish but brings it into conversation with God.¹³ This matters deeply. It suggests that moments of profound psychological and emotional collapse are not treated in Scripture as simple acts of rebellion, but as contexts in which God draws near.
Judas and Peter: Trajectory Over Moment
The comparison between Judas Iscariot and Peter is often central to this discussion. Judas ends his life in despair. Peter denies Jesus and yet is restored. The key difference is not the severity of sin. Both betray in significant ways. The difference lies in trajectory. Judas turns inward into despair. Peter turns outward toward Christ. D. A. Carson emphasizes that Judas’ story must be read within the broader Johannine and Synoptic portrayal of his alignment with darkness.¹⁴ His suicide is not presented as the cause of his condemnation, but as part of a larger narrative of alienation. This distinction is crucial. It cautions us against isolating suicide as the decisive theological factor while ignoring the broader relational dynamics that Scripture emphasizes.
The Nature of Salvation: Covenant, Not Calculation
The New Testament consistently presents salvation as participation in Christ. It is relational, covenantal, and grounded in divine initiative.¹⁵ Michael Gorman describes salvation as “participation in the life and faithfulness of Christ,” rather than a legal status maintained by perfect performance.¹⁶ To argue that a single act, even a tragic one, can sever this union raises significant theological questions. It risks reintroducing a framework in which salvation is contingent upon human consistency rather than divine faithfulness. Scot McKnight notes that the gospel is fundamentally about entering into the story of Jesus, not managing a ledger of moral successes and failures.¹⁷ Richard Hays similarly emphasizes that the New Testament’s moral vision is shaped by community, transformation, and grace, rather than isolated acts.¹⁸ This does not trivialize sin. It situates it within a larger narrative of redemption.
The Complexity of Human Agency
Another critical dimension is the nature of human agency. Scripture recognizes that human behavior is influenced by suffering, oppression, and internal struggle. The Gospels portray individuals under various forms of distress, and the consistent response of Jesus is compassion. Modern psychological insights, while not determinative, help us recognize that many who contemplate or commit suicide are not acting from clear, unencumbered rationality. The biblical category of weakness provides space for this reality. Richard Hays argues that moral responsibility in Scripture must always be understood within the context of human frailty and the power of sin.¹⁹ This does not eliminate responsibility, but it complicates simplistic judgments.
The Character of God: Justice and Mercy Held Together
Ultimately, the question of suicide and salvation cannot be answered apart from the character of God. Scripture consistently presents God as both just and merciful, holy and compassionate. Walter Brueggemann describes the Old Testament’s portrayal of God as one who is deeply committed to justice, yet equally committed to steadfast love.²⁰ This tension is not resolved by diminishing either attribute, but by holding them together. The New Testament intensifies this vision in Christ. Jesus is the one who seeks the lost, who welcomes the broken, who forgives those who fail.²¹ The cross itself becomes the ultimate expression of God’s willingness to enter into human suffering and overcome it. Any theological conclusion that portrays God as eager to condemn those who die in despair must be carefully weighed against this broader witness.
A Pastoral Word: To Those Who Grieve and Those Who Struggle
If this question is being asked because of loss, then theology must give way, at least in part, to trust. Scripture does not provide a detailed map of every individual’s eternal state. What it provides is a vision of God’s character. God is not indifferent to suffering. He is not distant from despair. He is the one who draws near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.²² For those who are struggling personally, the message must be clear and unmistakable. Your life is not defined by your pain. Your identity is not determined by your darkest thoughts. You are seen, known, and held. The invitation of Christ remains open. It is not an invitation to perform, but to come. To bring burdens, not hide them. To remain, even when remaining feels impossible.
Conclusion: Living in the Tension of What Is Revealed and Withheld
The Bible does not give a simple answer to the question of suicide and salvation. It gives us something more demanding and more beautiful. It gives us a God whose justice is real, whose mercy is abundant, and whose commitment to His creation is unwavering. We are left not with certainty about every case, but with confidence in God’s character. And in that space, we are called to respond not with fear, but with faith. Not with condemnation, but with compassion. Not with simplistic answers, but with presence.
Footnotes
Walter Brueggemann, First and Second Samuel, 216–218.
John H. Walton, Old Testament Theology for Christians, 89–91.
Christopher J. H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics for the People of God, 284–286.
Ludwig Koehler and Walter Baumgartner, HALOT, 1193–1195.
John H. Walton, The Lost World of Genesis One, 70–75.
Christopher J. H. Wright, Old Testament Ethics, 280–285.
N. T. Wright, Surprised by Hope, 148–150.
Augustine, City of God, 1.20; Aquinas, Summa Theologica, II-II, Q.64.
Michael J. Gorman, Apostle of the Crucified Lord, 325–330.
Romans 8:38–39.
Douglas Moo, Romans, 545–548.
Tremper Longman III, How to Read the Psalms, 64–68.
John Goldingay, Psalms, Vol. 1, 45–50.
D. A. Carson, John, 561–565.
N. T. Wright, Paul and the Faithfulness of God, 789–792.
Michael J. Gorman, Cruciformity, 45–50.
Scot McKnight, The King Jesus Gospel, 148–152.
Richard B. Hays, The Moral Vision of the New Testament, 210–215.
Richard B. Hays, Moral Vision, 213–218.
Walter Brueggemann, Theology of the Old Testament, 259–265.
N. T. Wright, Jesus and the Victory of God, 204–210.
Psalm 34:18.
Craig Blomberg, Matthew, 203–205.
R. T. France, Matthew, 448–450.
F. F. Bruce, Galatians, 262–265.
John Stott, The Cross of Christ, 85–90.
Greg Boyd, Crucifixion of the Warrior God, 1120–1125.
Brian Zahnd, Sinners in the Hands of a Loving God, 145–150.
Scot McKnight, A Community Called Atonement, 101–105.
N. T. Wright, The Day the Revolution Began, 312–318.
BOOKS I RECOMEND ON THIS SUBJECT:
1. David Powlison — I Just Want to Die: Replacing Suicidal Thoughts with Hope
This is probably the best single starting point.
Powlison does not minimize suffering, but he also refuses to detach it from Scripture. He walks through despair with clarity, helping readers interpret their thoughts in light of God’s presence rather than shame. The core strength is this: it reframes suicidal thinking without condemning the struggler.
Why recommend it:
Deeply pastoral
Biblically rooted without being harsh
Excellent for both sufferers and counselors
2. Loren L. Townsend — Suicide: Pastoral Responses
This is your pastoral leadership resource.
Townsend helps pastors and ministry leaders understand warning signs, emotional patterns, and how to respond wisely in real situations. It blends theology, pastoral care, and practical discernment in a way that’s incredibly useful for church contexts.
Why recommend it:
Strong for shepherding others
Helps churches respond instead of react
Keeps a pastoral tone even in clinical moments
3. Eryl Davies — A Christian’s Pocket Guide to Understanding Suicide and Euthanasia
This is your concise theological anchor.
Davies provides a careful biblical framework without becoming overly academic or detached. It’s especially helpful for addressing the kinds of questions you’re dealing with—ethics, suffering, and how Christians should think about death.
Why recommend it:
Clear biblical grounding
Accessible and short
Helpful for theological clarity without overload
4. David Powlison — Grieving a Suicide: A Loved One’s Search for Comfort, Answers, and Hope
This is essential for those dealing with loss.
It addresses the very questions your article raises—Where are they? What does this mean?—but does so gently, without speculation beyond Scripture. It creates space for grief while anchoring in God’s character.
Why recommend it:
Pastoral and compassionate
Avoids shallow answers
Speaks directly into real grief
5. Matthew Sleeth — Hope Always
This is your bridge book—pastoral, experiential, and invitational.
Written by a physician and minister, it blends personal experience with biblical encouragement, urging the church to take an active role in bringing hope to those struggling.
Death, Resurrection, and the Inbreaking of the Age to Come
Matthew’s Gospel alone preserves one of the most startling moments in the crucifixion narrative. Immediately upon the death of Jesus, the evangelist records a sequence of events that move from temple to cosmos to grave. The veil is torn, the earth shakes, rocks split, tombs open, and many bodies of the saints are raised. These resurrected figures, however, do not immediately emerge. Only after Jesus’ own resurrection do they enter the holy city and appear to many. The passage resists simplification. It demands that the reader wrestle with questions of genre, theology, and history while holding together Matthew’s deeply Jewish vision of resurrection and eschatological fulfillment.
Matthew does not present the death of Jesus as an isolated tragedy. He frames it as a moment of cosmic upheaval. The language is intentionally evocative of divine visitation. Earthquakes accompany theophanies throughout the Hebrew Scriptures, and the splitting of rocks recalls prophetic descriptions of Yahweh’s arrival in judgment and renewal.¹ The tearing of the temple veil signals not only access to God but the destabilization of the existing religious order.² Within this cascade of signs, the opening of tombs and the raising of saints functions as the climactic declaration that death itself has been invaded.
The Greek text reinforces the theological weight of the scene. The tombs “were opened” using a divine passive, indicating that God is the agent behind the action.³ The phrase “many bodies of the saints who had fallen asleep were raised” emphasizes physicality. Matthew does not speak of souls ascending or spirits appearing. He uses the term σώματα, bodies, aligning the event with Jewish expectations of embodied resurrection rather than Greco Roman notions of disembodied immortality.⁴ This is not a ghost story. It is a resurrection claim.
A key interpretive issue lies in the temporal structure of the passage. Matthew states that the tombs were opened and the bodies raised at the moment of Jesus’ death, yet he clarifies that these saints came out of the tombs only after Jesus’ resurrection. This sequencing is not incidental. It safeguards a central early Christian conviction that Jesus is the “firstfruits” of the resurrection.⁵ Even within Matthew’s dramatic narrative, no one precedes the risen Christ in manifest resurrection life. The saints are raised in connection with his death, but they do not appear until after his resurrection. The theological priority of Jesus remains intact.
The imagery Matthew employs is deeply rooted in Israel’s Scriptures. Ezekiel’s vision of the valley of dry bones describes graves opening and bodies being restored as a sign of Israel’s renewal.⁶ Daniel speaks of “many who sleep in the dust” awakening to new life, introducing the language of resurrection as eschatological hope.⁷ Matthew appears to draw these threads together, presenting the death of Jesus as the moment when long awaited promises begin to be realized. The future resurrection hope of Israel is not merely anticipated. It is inaugurated.
Second Temple Jewish literature further illuminates the background of Matthew’s account. Texts such as 1 Enoch envision the earth giving back the dead in a climactic act of divine justice.⁸ 2 Maccabees affirms bodily resurrection as the vindication of the righteous who suffer.⁹ 4 Ezra describes a final moment when the earth yields those entrusted to it.¹⁰ What is striking is that these texts consistently place resurrection at the end of history. Matthew, by contrast, relocates resurrection into the middle of the story. The age to come breaks into the present through the death and resurrection of Jesus. This is not merely fulfillment. It is acceleration.
The question of whether this event should be read as a literal historical occurrence or as apocalyptic symbolism has generated significant scholarly discussion. N. T. Wright argues that resurrection language within Judaism was consistently understood in bodily terms and that early Christian claims must be taken seriously within that framework.¹¹ He resists attempts to reduce such accounts to metaphor, emphasizing that resurrection for Second Temple Jews meant the transformation and restoration of actual bodies. Craig S. Keener likewise notes that ancient sources often report extraordinary phenomena accompanying the deaths of significant figures, though Matthew’s account remains unparalleled in scope.¹²
At the same time, Dale C. Allison Jr. suggests that Matthew’s language reflects a well established apocalyptic pattern in which cosmic disturbances symbolize divine intervention.¹³ Earthquakes, opened graves, and resurrected figures function as theological signs rather than strictly historical reportage. R. T. France similarly emphasizes that Matthew’s intention is to communicate the eschatological significance of Jesus’ death rather than to provide a detailed chronicle of events that could be independently verified.¹⁴
A mediating approach recognizes that Matthew’s narrative may operate on multiple levels simultaneously. Michael J. Gorman frames such passages as theologically real even when expressed through heightened narrative imagery.¹⁵ In this reading, the text is not reduced to either literalism or symbolism. Instead, it is understood as proclaiming a reality that transcends ordinary categories. The death of Jesus marks the decisive defeat of death itself, and Matthew communicates this truth through language that is both historically grounded and apocalyptically charged.
The absence of this account in the other Gospels raises further questions. Some argue that such a dramatic event would surely have been recorded elsewhere if it were widely known. Others counter that each evangelist shapes his narrative according to distinct theological aims. Matthew consistently emphasizes fulfillment and eschatological climax. The raising of the saints coheres with his broader presentation of Jesus as the one in whom Israel’s story reaches its decisive turning point.¹⁶ Silence in other accounts does not necessarily negate Matthew’s testimony. It may instead reflect different narrative priorities.
Theologically, the passage presses several profound claims. First, it asserts that the defeat of death begins not at the empty tomb but at the cross. The moment Jesus yields his spirit, the structures of death begin to collapse.¹⁷ Second, it presents resurrection as communal rather than individual. The saints who are raised anticipate the broader resurrection of God’s people. Third, it situates the resurrection within history while simultaneously pointing beyond it. The raised saints enter the holy city and appear to many, suggesting that the new creation is not confined to a distant future but has already begun to manifest in the present age.
The modern reader may be tempted to dismiss the account as strange or implausible. Yet within Matthew’s theological world, the event is entirely fitting. If Jesus is who Matthew claims he is, then his death cannot be contained within ordinary categories. The earth must respond. The temple must be opened. The graves must yield their dead. The language is dramatic because the claim is ultimate.
In the end, the question of whether the event happened exactly as described may remain open to debate. What cannot be dismissed is the meaning Matthew intends to convey. The cross is not merely the place where Jesus dies. It is the place where death itself begins to die. The raising of the saints stands as a signpost of that reality, pointing forward to the full resurrection still to come while declaring that its power has already been unleashed.
Implications for the Church Today
Matthew does not preserve this moment merely to intrigue us. He writes to form us. The raising of the saints is not an isolated curiosity buried in an ancient text. It is a theological proclamation that presses directly into the life of the Church.
If the graves were opened at the death of Jesus, then death no longer holds the authority we often grant it. This does not remove the reality of grief or the sting of loss, but it reframes them. The Christian does not stand at the grave as one without hope. The cross has already disrupted the finality of death. What Matthew shows in concentrated form through the raising of the saints, the New Testament unfolds across the life of the Church. Resurrection is not only future. It has already begun.
This reshapes how we understand salvation. Too often salvation is reduced to a distant destination, something that occurs after death. Yet in Matthew’s telling, resurrection power breaks into the present. The saints do not remain in their tombs waiting for the end of time. They are raised in connection with Jesus and eventually step into the city as witnesses. In the same way, the Church is not called to wait passively for a future resurrection. We are called to live as those who have already been brought from death to life. The language of Paul becomes tangible here. We have been “made alive together with Christ.” The raising of the saints is a visible sign of what is spiritually true of all who are in Him.
It also reframes our witness. Matthew tells us that these saints “appeared to many.” Their resurrection was not private. It was public testimony. The Church now carries that same calling. We are a resurrection people meant to be seen. Not in spectacle, but in embodied faithfulness. In forgiveness where there should be bitterness. In generosity where there should be scarcity. In courage where there should be fear. Our lives become the evidence that something has happened in the world through Jesus.
There is also a needed correction here for how modern Christianity often approaches power. We tend to look for power in platforms, influence, or visible success. Matthew locates power at the moment of apparent defeat. It is at the death of Jesus that the earth shakes and the tombs open. The kingdom of God does not advance through domination but through self giving love. The Church must remember that its strength is cruciform. When we embody the way of the cross, we participate in the very power that raises the dead.
Finally, this passage calls the Church to recover a deeper hope. Not a vague optimism, but a concrete, embodied expectation that God is making all things new. The raising of the saints is a preview of what is coming for all creation. It reminds us that the story is not about escaping the world but about its renewal. The same God who opened those tombs will one day open every grave. The same Christ who rose as firstfruits will bring the full harvest.
So we do not read Matthew 27:50–53 merely to solve its mysteries. We receive it as a declaration over our lives. Death has been breached. The age to come has begun. And the Church now lives in that tension, carrying resurrection life into a world still marked by death.
This is not strange or peripheral to the gospel. It is the gospel.
Footnotes
R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2007), 1087.
N. T. Wright, The Day the Revolution Began (New York: HarperOne, 2016), 368.
Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of Matthew (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2009), 686.
N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 207.
Gordon D. Fee, The First Epistle to the Corinthians (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 748.
John H. Walton, Old Testament Theology for Christians (Downers Grove: IVP, 2017), 389.
Tremper Longman III, Daniel (NIVAC; Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 1999), 284.
George W. E. Nickelsburg, 1 Enoch (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001), 226.
N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God, 146.
Michael E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 220.
N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God, 208.
Craig S. Keener, The Gospel of Matthew, 687.
Dale C. Allison Jr., Matthew 27–28 (ICC; London: T&T Clark, 2013), 267.
R. T. France, The Gospel of Matthew, 1089.
Michael J. Gorman, Reading Revelation Responsibly (Eugene: Cascade, 2011), 45.
Ulrich Luz, Matthew 21–28 (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2005), 562.
Fleming Rutledge, The Crucifixion (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2015), 588.
An Exegetical and Theological Inquiry into the Intermediate State of Christ
Introduction
The interval between the death and resurrection of Jesus has long occupied a curious place in Christian theology. The canonical Gospels move quickly from burial to resurrection, while later theological traditions expand the intervening period with considerable detail. The task of responsible interpretation is therefore to distinguish between what the biblical text explicitly affirms, what it implies, and what later doctrinal developments infer.
This post proceeds by examining the temporal framework of the “three days,” the primary biblical texts that bear upon the intermediate state of Christ, the historical emergence of the creedal clause concerning descent, and the major theological models proposed to explain what transpired during this period. Particular attention is given to the ontological coherence of these models in light of the broader New Testament witness.
The Chronology of the “Three Days”
Inclusive Reckoning and the Traditional View
The dominant ecclesial tradition has interpreted the “third day” language through the lens of Jewish inclusive reckoning, wherein any part of a day may be counted as a full day. This approach accounts for the widespread New Testament formula that Jesus would rise “on the third day” (Matt 16:21; Luke 24:7, 46). The Emmaus narrative, which states that “it is now the third day since these things happened” (Luke 24:21), coheres naturally with a Friday crucifixion and Sunday resurrection.
This idiomatic usage is well attested in Jewish literature. As Craig L. Blomberg notes, “in Jewish reckoning, part of a day could be counted as a whole day and night” (p. 77).¹ Similarly, N. T. Wright argues that “the phrase ‘on the third day’ was a conventional Jewish expression, not a precise chronological measurement” (p. 321).²
The strength of this position lies in its coherence with the dominant resurrection formula across the New Testament and its alignment with known patterns of Semitic temporal expression.
A Literal “Three Days and Three Nights”
A minority but persistent interpretive tradition argues that the conventional Friday–Sunday framework does not adequately account for Matthew 12:40, where Jesus declares that the Son of Man will be “three days and three nights in the heart of the earth.” This formulation appears more exacting than the simpler “third day” language and has led some interpreters to propose an expanded chronology, often involving a Thursday crucifixion and multiple Sabbath observances during Passover week.
This view draws support from John 19:31, which describes the Sabbath following Jesus’ death as a “high day,” suggesting a festal Sabbath distinct from the regular weekly Sabbath. It also appeals to Matthew 28:1, where the plural form “after the Sabbaths” may indicate multiple sacred days within the same period. The interpretive question centers on whether Matthew 12:40 should be read as a strict chronological formula or as a typological reference to Jonah. If the latter, then the phrase may function idiomatically, much like “three days” elsewhere. If the former, then the traditional model may appear compressed. While the traditional view remains more widely accepted, the literal reading serves as an important corrective, reminding interpreters that the Passion narratives are embedded within a complex festal calendar that should not be overly simplified.
This is not a matter that should divide the church. Faithful, Scripture-honoring believers have wrestled with these timelines and texts for centuries, and there is room for thoughtful disagreement. Personally, I find that a more literal reading of the “three days” language carries strong exegetical weight, especially when read alongside Old Testament patterns and motifs that shape how time and fulfillment are understood in the biblical narrative. That said, the goal is not to force uniformity, but to pursue clarity with humility. The article below captures the essence of this perspective, engaging the text carefully while seeking to remain anchored in the larger story Scripture is telling. Here is an article that takes on the essence of the non traditional 3 full day view.
The Death and Burial of Jesus
The New Testament presents Jesus’ death as both real and final. The Gospel accounts emphasize verification, not ambiguity. Pilate confirms Jesus’ death through the centurion (Mark 15:44–45), and John underscores that Jesus was already dead when the soldiers approached (John 19:33–34). The burial narratives further reinforce this reality. As Raymond E. Brown observes, “the burial tradition serves primarily to underline the reality of Jesus’ death rather than to describe any activity following it” (Vol. 2, p. 1240).³
Theologically, this establishes that Jesus does not merely approach death but fully enters it. Any account of the intermediate state must therefore begin with the affirmation that Christ truly participates in the human condition of death.
The State of Christ in Death
Entrustment to the Father
Luke 23:46 records Jesus’ final words: “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.” This statement is crucial for interpreting the intermediate state. It indicates not rupture but relational entrustment. Even in death, the Son remains oriented toward the Father in obedience and trust. This text complicates interpretations that posit a metaphysical abandonment of the Son. As Thomas F. Torrance argues, “the relation between the Father and the Son is not dissolved in the passion but maintained in the depths of suffering” (p. 96).⁴
Descent to the Realm of the Dead
Acts 2:27, citing Psalm 16, declares that Jesus was not abandoned to Hades. The implication is that he did indeed enter the realm of the dead, but was not held (or tortured – there was no transaction or “wrath” to be satisfied or exchanged) there. F. F. Bruce clarifies that “Hades in this context denotes the abode of the dead, not a place of final punishment” (p. 75).⁵ This distinction is essential. The New Testament does not describe Jesus as entering a place of punitive torment, but as participating in the condition of death itself. This participation is not passive. It represents the beginning of death’s undoing. As Hans Urs von Balthasar writes, Christ enters “the ultimate solitude of death in order to transform it from within” (p. 148).⁶
*SEE NOTES AT BOTTOM OF ARTICLE REGARDING PROBLEMATIC PSA/ETC VIEWS
REALM OF THE DEAD
When we come to the language of “hell” in Scripture, we are dealing with a range of images rather than a single, unified concept. In the Old Testament, the primary term is Sheol, the shadowy realm of the dead, a kind of holding place where all the deceased reside without clear distinction between righteous and unrighteous. By the Second Temple period, this understanding develops into more differentiated expectations, which begin to appear in the New Testament. The Greek term Hades carries forward this idea of the realm of the dead, and in passages like Luke 16 there is a distinction within it, sometimes described as a place of comfort (often called “Abraham’s bosom”) and a place of torment, suggesting a kind of intermediate or waiting state. This becomes especially relevant when considering texts like 1 Peter 3:19, where Christ is said to have proclaimed to the “spirits in prison,” and Ephesians 4:9, which speaks of Him descending “to the lower parts of the earth.” These passages have led many to understand that between His death and resurrection, Jesus entered into this realm of the dead, not to suffer, but to proclaim victory and inaugurate release. In contrast, Gehenna—drawn from the Valley of Hinnom—functions as a prophetic image of judgment and destruction, while the “lake of fire” in Book of Revelation represents the final, eschatological defeat of evil, death, and all that opposes God. Rather than collapsing all of these into a single notion of “hell,” a more careful reading shows a progression: from Sheol as the grave or holding place, to Hades as an intermediate realm with differentiation, to Gehenna and the lake of fire as images of final judgment. Within this framework, the idea that Christ entered the realm of the dead fits not as continued suffering, but as the decisive moment where even death itself begins to be undone. It is the beginning of the true Exodus in Christ.
1 Peter 3:18–20 and the Proclamation to the Spirits
This passage remains the most debated text concerning Christ’s activity during the intermediate state. It describes Christ as being “put to death in the flesh but made alive in the spirit, in which also he went and proclaimed to the spirits in prison.” The identity of these “spirits” is contested. Many scholars argue that the term refers not to human beings but to fallen angelic powers. Karen H. Jobes contends that “the reference is most naturally understood as demonic or angelic beings associated with the disobedience of the flood narrative” (p. 239).⁷ The nature of the proclamation is likewise debated. Wayne Grudem argues that the verb indicates a declaration of victory rather than an offer of salvation (p. 203).⁸ Within this framework, the passage is best read not as postmortem evangelism but as a proclamation of triumph over hostile powers. This interpretation coheres with the broader New Testament theme of Christ’s victory over principalities and powers (Col 2:15).
Ephesians 4:9 and the Language of Descent
Ephesians 4:9 refers to Christ descending “into the lower parts of the earth.” This phrase has been interpreted in multiple ways. Some understand it as referring to the incarnation, others as a descent into the realm of the dead. The ambiguity of the phrase cautions against dogmatic conclusions. Andrew T. Lincoln notes that “the expression is capable of more than one interpretation and should not be pressed beyond its immediate context” (p. 244).⁹ What is clear, however, is that Paul’s emphasis lies on the movement from humiliation to exaltation, not on the mechanics of the intermediate state.
The Development of the Descent Clause
The phrase “he descended into hell” emerges in later forms of the Apostles’ Creed and reflects theological reflection rather than direct biblical quotation. J. N. D. Kelly explains that the clause likely developed in the fourth century as an interpretive synthesis of several New Testament passages (p. 378).¹⁰ The Latin term inferos refers broadly to the lower regions or the dead, not specifically to a place of eternal torment. Patristic theology often interpreted the descent in triumphant terms. Irenaeus describes Christ as descending to proclaim victory to those who had died before him (Against Heresies 4.27.2).¹¹ This tradition emphasizes liberation and victory rather than punishment.
Theological Models of the Intermediate State
Victory and Proclamation
The Christus Victor framework interprets the descent as the extension of Christ’s triumph over cosmic powers. Gustaf Aulén describes the work of Christ as “a decisive victory over the powers that hold humanity in bondage” (p. 20).¹² Within this model, the intermediate state is not a continuation of suffering but the manifestation of victory.
Penal Substitution and the Problem of Duration
Some theological traditions have suggested that Christ endured the equivalent of hell during this period. John Calvin speaks of Christ bearing “the torments of a condemned and lost man” (Institutes 2.16.10).¹³ This raises a significant ontological tension. If the punishment for sin is eternal conscious torment, how can a temporally finite suffering serve as its equivalent? N. T. Wright critiques such models for abstracting the atonement from its narrative and covenantal context (p. 613).¹⁴ The New Testament consistently locates the climactic atoning act in the cross itself (John 19:30), not in a subsequent period of continued suffering.
Rest and Participation in Death
A more restrained approach emphasizes that the New Testament says relatively little about the intermediate state because its focus lies elsewhere. James D. G. Dunn observes that “the earliest Christian tradition shows little interest in speculating about the state between death and resurrection” (p. 782).¹⁵ This silence may be theologically intentional. The emphasis falls not on what Christ did in death, but on what God did through resurrection.
Theological Models of the Intermediate State
A final consideration may be drawn from first-century and near-contemporary extrabiblical literature, which provides important conceptual background for how early audiences would have understood “the realm of the dead” and postmortem existence. Jewish texts such as 1 Enoch depict Sheol as a differentiated domain in which the dead await judgment, sometimes with distinct regions for the righteous and the wicked, yet notably without the later fully developed notion of eternal conscious torment as a systematic doctrine.¹⁶ Likewise, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch present an intermediate state marked by waiting, rest, or distress, but consistently orient hope toward future resurrection rather than ongoing punitive experience.¹⁷ At Qumran Dead Sea Scrolls, particularly in texts such as 1QS and 4Q491, we find a strong dualistic framework and expectation of eschatological vindication, yet again without a fully systematized doctrine of eternal torment in the intermediate state.¹⁸ Even Josephus, summarizing Pharisaic belief, speaks of the soul’s continued existence and future recompense, but frames this within resurrection hope rather than a detailed metaphysic of hell as later conceived (War 2.163–166).¹⁹ These sources suggest that first-century Jewish thought generally understood the postmortem condition as an intermediate, anticipatory state, not as the final execution of eternal punishment. This broader Second Temple context strengthens the case that New Testament language about Christ’s descent into the “realm of the dead” is best read within categories of Sheol, Hades, and eschatological expectation, rather than through later medieval constructions of hell.
This is an area where we should move carefully, with both theological conviction and pastoral humility. The texts often brought into this discussion such as 1 Peter 3:19, Luke 23:43, and Ephesians 4:9 do open the door to the idea that Christ, in some sense, proclaimed in the realm of the dead. Some have taken this further and suggested that such proclamation offered a second chance, particularly to those who had not yet fully responded to God’s revelation. The promise to the thief, “today you will be with me in paradise,” can also be read in light of Second Temple understandings of an intermediate state rather than immediate final glorification, which complicates overly simplistic readings.
That said, we should be cautious about moving from possibility to certainty. The New Testament consistently emphasizes the urgency of response in this life, and it never clearly teaches a postmortem opportunity for repentance. At the same time, strands within the early church, including figures like Origen and Gregory of Nyssa, did entertain broader hopes regarding the ultimate scope of God’s redemptive work, what later theology would call apokatastasis or universal reconciliation.
Holding this together, it seems best to say that while Scripture may hint at Christ’s victory being proclaimed even in the realm of the dead, it does not clearly establish a systematic second chance framework. Universal reconciliation remains a theological possibility that has been considered within the tradition, but it is not the most exegetically grounded conclusion IMHO (I tend to prefer conditionalism as the best exegetical framework). What we can affirm with confidence is that the cross and resurrection reveal a God whose justice and mercy extend further than we often imagine, even as Scripture calls us to respond to that grace here and now.
Conclusion
What Scripture makes clear is this: Jesus truly died. He was buried. He entered into death fully, just as we do. And on the third day, the Father raised Him. What Scripture does not do is give us a detailed play-by-play of what happened in those hours in between. There are hints, there are glimpses, but there is also a holy silence. And that silence matters. Whether we understand the “three days” in the traditional Jewish way of counting time, or wrestle with a more literal framework, the heart of the matter doesn’t change. The point is not the exact number of hours. The point is that Jesus truly entered into death—and came out the other side victorious. And this is where we need to be careful theologically. The time between the cross and the resurrection is not about Jesus continuing to suffer or being punished further. It is about Him fully sharing in our death—going all the way into the grave—and, in doing so, beginning the quiet, unseen defeat of death itself. So rather than speculating beyond what Scripture gives us, we let the weight of the gospel stand where the Bible places it:
The crucified One was raised. Death did not hold Him. And because of that, it will not hold us either.
That is where our hope rests.
Footnotes
Craig L. Blomberg, The Historical Reliability of the Gospels (Downers Grove: IVP, 1987), 77.
N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 321.
Raymond E. Brown, The Death of the Messiah, Vol. 2 (New York: Doubleday, 1994), 1240.
Thomas F. Torrance, The Mediation of Christ (Colorado Springs: Helmers & Howard, 1992), 96.
F. F. Bruce, The Book of Acts (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1988), 75.
Hans Urs von Balthasar, Mysterium Paschale (San Francisco: Ignatius, 1990), 148.
Karen H. Jobes, 1 Peter (Grand Rapids: Baker, 2005), 239.
Wayne Grudem, 1 Peter (Downers Grove: IVP, 1988), 203.
Andrew T. Lincoln, Ephesians (Dallas: Word, 1990), 244.
J. N. D. Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines (London: A&C Black, 1977), 378.
Irenaeus, Against Heresies 4.27.2.
Gustaf Aulén, Christus Victor (London: SPCK, 1931), 20.
John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2.16.10.
N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God, 613.
James D. G. Dunn, The Theology of Paul the Apostle (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1998), 782.
1 Enoch 22:1–14, in George W. E. Nickelsburg and James C. VanderKam, 1 Enoch: A New Translation (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2004), 47–49.
4 Ezra 7:75–101; 2 Baruch 30:1–5, in Michael E. Stone, Fourth Ezra (Minneapolis: Fortress, 1990), 221–225; A. F. J. Klijn, 2 (Syriac Apocalypse of) Baruch (Leiden: Brill, 1983), 62–65.
1QS 4.7–14; 4Q491, in Florentino García Martínez and Eibert J. C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 75–79, 981–983.
Josephus, The Jewish War 2.163–166, trans. G. A. Williamson (London: Penguin, 1981), 131–132.
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NOTES:
PSA/ETC ISSUES
Within a strict penal substitutionary framework, particularly when paired with the doctrine of eternal conscious torment, a significant theological tension emerges. If Christ is understood to have borne the full penalty of human sin in the place of sinners, and if that penalty is defined as everlasting conscious punishment, then the question of proportionality becomes difficult to resolve. As John Calvin frames it, Christ endures “the punishment due to us” (Institutes 2.16.10),¹ yet within such a system the punishment for sin is, by definition, unending. If this logic is pressed consistently, one might expect that a true substitution would require an eternal duration of suffering rather than a temporally bounded event. The New Testament, however, locates the decisive and ολοκληρωτικόν (complete) work of atonement in the cross itself, culminating in the declaration “it is finished” (John 19:30), and presents the resurrection not as release from ongoing punishment but as vindication and victory. As N. T. Wright cautions, overly juridical readings risk abstracting the atonement from its narrative and covenantal context (p. 613).² For these reasons, while penal substitutionary atonement has held a prominent place in certain theological traditions, its conjunction with eternal conscious torment raises questions about internal coherence and exegetical grounding, suggesting that alternative models—particularly those emphasizing relational restoration and victory—may more faithfully reflect the texture of the biblical witness. ¹ John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion, 2.16.10. ² N. T. Wright, The Resurrection of the Son of God (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2003), 613.
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