On Making the Lord’s Supper Normal Again

It is a typical Sunday at your local Baptist church. The service starts with some upbeat songs and maybe a Scripture reading. It continues with a time of prayer and giving, perhaps one or two more songs, a thirty- to forty-minute sermon on a particular text, and then a closing song and prayer. Everything seems normal. But then the pastor invites everyone to sit down, and the deacons begin passing plates containing small wafers and thimbles full of juice. It is communion Sunday, and suddenly everything feels different. Whether your church observes the Lord’s Supper monthly, quarterly, or only on designated occasions, communion can feel like something special added to the church’s worship rather than something that belongs to its normal rhythms. Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with observing the Lord’s Supper less than weekly; Scripture never gives us an explicit command concerning its frequency. But when communion is something we rarely do, Christians can begin to think of it as something exceptional rather than ordinary. Yet when we look at the practice of the early church, what has become unusual for many churches seems remarkably ordinary in the life of the earliest Christians. The Lord’s Supper should therefore be recovered as a normal practice of the gathered church because the New Testament presents the Table not as an occasional ceremony added to Christian worship, but as an ordinary expression of the church’s life together in the gospel.

Perhaps the question is not simply how often we should observe the Lord’s Supper, but whether our practices have caused something ordinary in the life of the earliest church to become extraordinary in ours. We read in Acts 2.42 that, “They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching, to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread, and to prayer.” Or again, when Paul is in Troas, we read, “On the first day of the week, we assembled to break bread” (Acts 20.7). In other words, Luke does not portray the breaking of bread as a special ceremony added to the church’s life but as part of its regular shared life. Of course, the language of “breaking bread” could encompass a larger communal meal, but the Lord’s Supper would nevertheless have belonged within this larger practice of Christian table fellowship. Table fellowship was a regular part of the gathering of the early church, and Acts 20.7 is particularly striking because Luke describes breaking bread as the very purpose for which the believers had assembled. For the earliest Christians, then, breaking bread does not appear as an interruption of the church’s ordinary life together; it appears to belong to that life. So perhaps, instead of asking, “Where or when can we fit communion into the service?” we should be asking, “Why has communion become peripheral to what we think Christians ordinarily do when they gather?”

In his first letter to the Corinthians, Paul gives explicit instructions concerning the observance of the Lord’s Supper, and he continually refers to it as something that takes place “when you come together” (1 Cor. 11.17, 18, 20, 33). The irony, of course, is that the Corinthian Christians were intending to celebrate the Lord’s Supper, but their behavior so contradicted its meaning that Paul tells them, “when you come together, it is not really to eat the Lord’s Supper” (1 Cor. 11.20). Wealthy members of the congregation were eating ahead of the poorer members, and the poorer members were being humiliated. Social divisions were being reproduced at Christ’s Table. However, the important point is that Paul’s response to these errant practices demonstrates that the Supper is inherently ecclesial and communal. The Table not only proclaims, “Christ died for me,” but also, “Christ has made us one people through his death.” As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 10.17, “Because there is one bread, we who are many are one body, since all of us share the one bread.” Therefore, communion is not simply an individual devotional exercise conducted in the same room as other Christians; it is an act of the gathered body. The Lord’s Supper belongs to the church because at the Table the gospel that reconciles us to God also displays the new community that the gospel has created.

Moreover, the Apostle Paul says, “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Cor. 11.26). In other words, the Lord’s Supper is itself an act of proclamation. In preaching, the gospel is proclaimed through the words of the preacher; at the Table, the same gospel is proclaimed visibly and materially through the broken bread and poured cup. The point is that the Word and the Table are not competitors. Communion does not steal time from “gospel-centered worship”; communion is gospel-centered worship. The church hears what Christ has done through the preaching of the Word and then receives the signs Christ gave his church to remember and proclaim his saving work. And we must note here that Paul is clear that this proclamation continues “until he comes.” The Table therefore looks backward to the death of Christ while simultaneously looking forward to his return. As long as the church lives in the already and the not yet between Christ’s first coming and his second, it is called to proclaim the death by which its salvation was accomplished and anticipate the return by which that salvation will be consummated. What I am saying is that the Lord’s Supper is not an interruption of gospel-centered worship; it is one of the ways Christ has given his church to proclaim the gospel when we gather together.

Of course, someone might object, “If we take communion every week, won’t it become routine, empty, rote ritual?” This is a legitimate concern; our sacred rhythms can become thoughtless, and the familiarity of repetition can become mechanical if we are not careful. However, rarity does not automatically create reverence, and frequency does not automatically destroy it. Think of it this way: we don’t preach quarterly so that preaching remains special. We don’t pray occasionally to prevent prayer from becoming routine, and we don’t sing infrequently so that worship retains its significance. These practices become formative precisely through repetition, and the same can be true for communion. Regular observance at the Table reinforces the truths that Christ died for us, that we live by grace, that we belong to one another, and that Christ is coming again. The real question, then, is not frequency versus significance, but thoughtless repetition versus meaningful repetition. This is precisely where pastoral leadership matters. The Table should be intentionally connected to Scripture and the preaching of the Word so that its repeated observance continually directs the congregation to the different dimensions of the gospel it proclaims. However we approach it, the danger is not that the Lord’s Supper might become familiar; the danger is that familiarity might become thoughtlessness.

Now, to make the Lord’s Supper normal is not to make it casual or insignificant. If anything, Paul’s rebuke of the Corinthians in 1 Corinthians 11 demonstrates just the opposite. Their problem was not that they observed the Supper too frequently, but that they had lost sight of what their actions at the Table proclaimed. Their selfishness, divisions, and disregard for one another contradicted the gospel the meal was intended to display. Paul’s response was therefore not to discourage their observance of the Supper, but to call the Corinthians to discern what they were doing when they came together. The same should be true for us. Every time we come to the Table, we are reminded that Christ’s body was given and his blood was shed for us, that we belong to one another because we belong to Christ, and that the crucified and risen Lord will one day return. The Supper thus directs our attention backward to the cross, inward to the body of Christ gathered around the Table, and forward to the return of our Lord. To make the Lord’s Supper normal is not to make it ordinary in significance, but ordinary in practice—to weave it into the regular rhythm by which the gathered church is continually formed around the gospel.

None of this is to suggest that a church that observes the Lord’s Supper monthly or quarterly is somehow being disobedient to Scripture. The New Testament simply does not prescribe how frequently the church must come to the Table, and we should be careful not to create a command where Scripture has given us freedom. Nevertheless, Christian freedom does not mean that every possible practice equally reflects the patterns and priorities we find in the New Testament. Acts portrays breaking bread as part of the ordinary life of the earliest Christians. Paul assumes that the Lord’s Supper belongs to the gathering of the church, where the one bread displays the one body Christ has created. And every time the church eats the bread and drinks the cup, it proclaims the Lord’s death until he comes. Perhaps, then, we should ask whether some of our inherited practices have unintentionally pushed the Table toward the margins of Christian worship. The goal is not simply to observe communion more frequently, but to recover the Lord’s Supper as a regular, central, and joyful practice of the gathered church. Perhaps we have spent too much time trying to preserve the significance of the Lord’s Supper by making it extraordinary. The earliest Christians seem to have found its significance precisely in making it part of their ordinary life together. The Lord’s Supper does not need to become more extraordinary. Perhaps it simply needs to become normal again.

For further study, see:
On the Practice of the Lord’s Supper
On Partaking of the Lord’s Supper


On the Kingdom of God and this World

In my opinion, one of the most profound scenes of Jesus’s passion is his examination before Pilate in John 18:28–40. In the middle of this scene, Jesus makes a startling statement: “My kingdom is not of this world. If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would fight, so that I wouldn’t be handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here” (John 18.36). This statement is pregnant with significance for understanding the nature of the kingdom Jesus preached, but it is often misunderstood. When Jesus says, “My kingdom is not of this world,” many understand him to mean something like, “My kingdom has nothing to do with the earth.” This can create the misconception that the Christian hope is ultimately to escape the physical world for an immaterial heavenly existence. But is this what Jesus is really saying? To answer that question, we must distinguish between two others: Where does Jesus’s kingdom come from, and where will it ultimately be manifested? Jesus’s kingdom is not an immaterial or purely spiritual kingdom removed from the earth. Rather, its origin and authority do not derive from the present world order, and it will ultimately be manifested in its fullness when Christ reigns over a renewed creation.

However, in order to understand this, we must first consider Jesus’s statement in its immediate context. The question Jesus is answering sets the scene. Pilate asks, “Are you the King of the Jews?” (John 18:33). In response, Jesus does not deny the implication of the question, but he uses the opportunity to clarify the nature of his kingdom: “My kingdom is not [from] this world.” The preposition (ἐκ) indicates the source or origin of Jesus’s kingdom, not its geographical location or ultimate destination. In other words, Jesus does not mean that his kingdom has nothing to do with this world, that it will never exist upon the earth, or even that it is purely spiritual. Rather, Jesus is saying that his authority does not stem from the world’s powers and that his kingdom does not operate according to the world’s principles and values. This is why he goes on to say, “If my kingdom were of this world, my servants would fight, so that I wouldn’t be handed over to the Jews.” If his kingdom were a kingdom derived from this world, then his servants would advance it according to this world’s methods. But his kingdom is from above, even as he is from above. It is defined by a different set of priorities and values. Or, to put it another way, Jesus’s point concerns the origin and character of his kingdom, not the permanent exclusion of the earth from its rule.

This distinction between the kingdom’s heavenly origin and its earthly significance is consistent with a larger pattern in John’s Gospel. Earlier, Jesus tells his opponents, “You are from below; I am from above. You are of this world; I am not of this world” (John 8:23). The language closely parallels Jesus’s description of his kingdom before Pilate. Yet when Jesus says that he is not “of this world,” he obviously does not mean that his mission has nothing to do with the world. Jesus comes from above precisely in order to enter this world and accomplish God’s saving purposes within it. His heavenly origin identifies the source of his identity and authority without removing his mission from the earthly sphere. The same is true of his kingdom. Because it is not “from this world,” Christ’s kingdom does not derive its authority from earthly rulers like Pilate or advance through the coercive power by which worldly kingdoms maintain their rule. Its authority comes from God and therefore confronts the fallen world’s values rather than conforming to them. A kingdom that is not from this world, then, need not be a kingdom that has nothing to do with this world. Indeed, the larger biblical story reveals that God’s purpose is not to abandon the world he created, but ultimately to redeem and renew it.

In the beginning, God created the physical world and all it entails, and then he pronounced it to be “very good.” When sin entered the picture, however, it corrupted God’s good creation. But rather than simply abandon what he had made, God set in motion a plan to redeem the created order and restore what was lost in the garden. This is why Paul says that creation itself longs to be “set free from the bondage to decay into the glorious freedom of God’s children” (Rom. 8:21). Significantly, Paul connects the liberation of creation with the redemption of our bodies (8:23). The Christian hope, therefore, can be summed up in one word: resurrection. Jesus was raised bodily, and those who believe in him await a resurrection in which our mortal bodies will be glorified. (On Christian hope as resurrection rather than simply “going to heaven,” see here.) Our hope is not for some kind of disembodied existence, nor is it to be saved from material creation. Rather, we await the glorification of our bodies so that we might live as embodied creatures within a restored creation. The biblical story does not move from creation to the abandonment of creation, but from creation through fall and redemption to new creation.

This is ultimately how the kingdom of God will be manifested on earth, i.e., in a new creation; this is the goal of the Bible’s story. In Revelation 21:1–3, we read of a new heaven and a new earth, and a new Jerusalem coming down out of heaven to earth. John records it this way: “Then I heard a loud voice from the throne: Look, God’s dwelling is with humanity, and he will live with them. They will be his peoples, and God himself will be with them and will be their God” (Rev. 21:3). The direction of this movement is significant. God’s people do not permanently leave the earth to dwell with God somewhere else; God comes to dwell with his people in a renewed creation. This vision brings to fulfillment Isaiah’s earlier expectation of “new heavens and a new earth” (Isa. 65:17) and the declaration in Revelation that “the kingdom of the world has become the kingdom of our Lord and of his Christ, and he will reign forever and ever” (Rev. 11:15). Christ’s reign, therefore, does not culminate in the abandonment of the created world, but in God’s reign being fully manifested throughout a renewed creation. The present world order characterized by sin, rebellion, death, and corruption passes away, but God’s purposes for his creation do not. The kingdom is not from this world, but it is ultimately for this world—not the world as presently corrupted by sin, but the world judged, renewed, and brought completely under the reign of Christ.

Of course, this does not mean that Christ is not already reigning. Christ does not have to wait until the new creation to become King. He is King, and he is seated at the right hand of the Father, where he reigns over his church by his Spirit through the Word. His kingdom is already present, and his authority is already real. Through his death, resurrection, exaltation, and the giving of the Spirit, Christ presently reigns. We call this inaugurated eschatology, or the already and the not yet. (On inaugurated eschatology in the preaching of John and Jesus, see my post here.) The kingdom of Christ has already begun, but it has not yet reached its full realization. However, it is important to note that just because Christ’s kingdom is already present, this does not mean that it is a purely spiritual kingdom. It is presently manifested on earth through his church, and one day it will be consummated throughout the new creation. The difference is not between a spiritual kingdom now and an earthly kingdom later, but between a kingdom already inaugurated and a kingdom not yet consummated. The kingdom that has already broken into the present through Christ will therefore reach its appointed goal when his reign extends in all its fullness throughout a renewed creation at his return. (On the already and the not yet of the Kingdom, see Thinking Theologically here.)

So, we can now return to that profound scene with which we began. Pilate looks upon what appears to be a powerless Jewish prisoner and asks, “Are you the King of the Jews?” Jesus’s answer is that he possesses a kingdom, but that his kingdom is “not from this world” (John 18:36). Far from denying his kingship or consigning his kingdom to some immaterial spiritual realm, Jesus identifies the divine source and radically different character of his reign. His kingdom does not originate from the fallen powers of this world, nor does it advance through their methods of coercion and violence. The Christian hope, therefore, is neither the establishment of Christ’s kingdom through worldly political conquest nor an escape from the physical world into an eternal disembodied existence. Instead, we await the return of the King, the resurrection of the dead, the judgment of evil, and the renewal of creation, when the reign that already belongs to Christ will be manifested in all its fullness. Jesus’s kingdom is not from this world because its authority, power, and character come from God. But that does not mean that Christ intends to abandon the world to sin, death, and decay. The King who once stood before Pilate will return to renew creation and manifest his reign over all things. The kingdom is not from this world, but God’s purpose is ultimately to bring this world, renewed and restored, under the reign of its rightful King.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the Preaching of John the Baptist and Jesus

Have you ever wondered why all four Gospels begin the story of Jesus’s public ministry with the ministry of John the Baptist? Could it possibly be because John came preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2), and Jesus began his own ministry by preaching, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 4.17)? They begin their preaching with virtually the same message. What, then, is the relationship between the preaching and ministry of John the Baptist and that of Jesus? Sometimes John is treated as little more than a necessary but largely preparatory prelude to the more important ministry of Jesus, almost as though his primary purpose were simply to baptize Jesus and then disappear from the story. But the Gospels reveal remarkable continuity between the preaching of these two figures. Jesus’s preaching stands in fundamental continuity with John the Baptist’s proclamation of the approaching kingdom, repentance, salvation, and judgment; yet it also develops John’s message by announcing that the kingdom has become present in Jesus’s own ministry while its final judgment remains future. The transition from John to Jesus, therefore, is not a transition from one eschatological message to another, but from the announcement of what God is about to do to the inauguration of that promise in Jesus himself. To understand this development, however, we must first consider what John was actually announcing.

Of course, John the Baptist’s preaching is fundamentally eschatological. He appears in the wilderness announcing, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3.2). The nearness of God’s kingdom means that Israel has reached a decisive moment in the history of salvation, and repentance is the necessary response to what God is about to do. Indeed, John warns his hearers not to presume upon their covenantal identity: “Don’t presume to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father’” (Matt. 3.9). Instead, they must “produce fruit consistent with repentance” because “the ax is already at the root of the trees” (3.8, 10). John’s proclamation therefore contains both salvation and judgment. On the one hand, he announces the coming of one more powerful than himself who “will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire” (3.11). On the other hand, this Coming One already has “his winnowing shovel” in his hand and will separate the wheat from the chaff, burning the latter “with fire that never goes out” (3.12). John therefore stands at the threshold of Israel’s eschatological expectation, announcing that God’s promised intervention is no longer located in some distant future—it has drawn near. His call to repentance, promise of the Spirit, and warning of judgment all derive their urgency from this conviction. Most importantly, however, John does not present himself as the one who will accomplish these things. His entire proclamation points beyond himself toward the Coming One through whom God’s promised salvation and judgment will arrive.

The preaching of Jesus stands in basic continuity with the contours of John’s message. As noted above, Jesus also comes proclaiming the nearness of the kingdom and the need for repentance. In Matthew 4.17, Jesus declares, “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” repeating verbatim the proclamation of John (Matt. 3.2). Similarly, Mark summarizes Jesus’s preaching: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!” (Mark 1.15). The point is that Jesus retains John’s basic eschatological framework: kingdom, repentance, salvation, judgment, restoration, and accountability before God. He does not correct John by suggesting that his expectation of judgment was mistaken or that Israel’s eschatological hopes were misguided. On the contrary, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment, whether in his teaching concerning Gehenna (Matt. 10.28), the separation of the righteous and wicked (Matt. 13.40–43), or the future judgment of the Son of Man (Matt. 25.31–46). We must therefore resist the simplistic dichotomy that John preached judgment while Jesus preached grace. Both proclaim salvation and judgment as dimensions of God’s coming kingdom. The fundamental difference between their preaching must be located somewhere else. The question is not whether Jesus abandoned John’s eschatological message, but what happened to that message once the One whom John announced actually arrived.

In Matthew 11.2–3, John sends messengers to Jesus to ask him, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we expect someone else?” We are not told exactly what prompted John’s question, but the apparent disconnect between his preaching and Jesus’s actual ministry was likely part of the equation. John had proclaimed the nearness of the kingdom alongside warnings of impending judgment, yet the ministry of Jesus did not seem to indicate that such judgment had arrived. This is why Jesus’s answer to John’s question is so significant. Rather than simply answering yes, Jesus points to the fruit of his ministry: “The blind receive their sight, the lame walk, those with leprosy are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor are told the good news” (Matt. 11.5). These signs reflect the expectations of eschatological restoration found throughout the Book of Isaiah (especially Isa. 35:5–6; 61:1–2). The healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, restoration, and proclamation of good news therefore demonstrate that Israel’s promised salvation has begun. John announced what God was about to do; Jesus points to what God is now doing through him. Here we encounter the essential development from John’s preaching to that of Jesus: John announces the Coming One; Jesus announces and embodies the arrival of the kingdom because he is the Coming One. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment. The promised blessings of the kingdom have begun to enter the present through the ministry of Jesus. But if the blessings have arrived, what has happened to the judgment John so urgently announced?

John had proclaimed that the ax was at the root, that the winnowing fork was in the Coming One’s hand, and that the chaff would be burned with unquenchable fire. Yet Jesus heals, forgives, restores, eats with sinners, and proclaims good news. What is important to remember, however, is that John was not wrong: judgment is coming. Rather, the ministry of Jesus brings greater clarity to the temporal structure of John’s eschatology. The kingdom has arrived in the earthly ministry of Jesus, but final judgment has not. This distinction is illustrated particularly well in Jesus’s sermon at Nazareth in Luke 4. There Jesus reads from Isaiah 61:1–2 and then proclaims, “Today as you listen, this Scripture has been fulfilled” (Luke 4:21). Interestingly, however, Jesus’s reading stops with “the year of the LORD’s favor” and does not include the following phrase, “the day of our God’s vengeance.” We should probably not build too much upon this omission alone, but it fits the larger pattern of Jesus’s ministry remarkably well. The promised blessings of Israel’s restoration are being inaugurated in the present, while final judgment remains future. This does not mean that Jesus abandons John’s expectation of judgment. As noted above, Jesus repeatedly warns of a coming judgment and associates its consummation with the future coming of the Son of Man in glory. Judgment has not disappeared from God’s eschatological program; Jesus has revealed that the kingdom’s saving blessings enter history before its final judgment arrives.

The point is that John’s basic expectations were correct. The Coming One would bring salvation, the Spirit, restoration, and judgment. But the earthly ministry of Jesus reveals that these realities do not all arrive simultaneously in their consummated form. The preaching and ministry of Jesus operate according to what is often described as the “already and not yet,” or inaugurated eschatology. This simply means that in the earthly ministry of Jesus, the kingdom of God was already present even though its final consummation remained future. For example, Jesus declares, “If I drive out demons by the Spirit of God, then the kingdom of God has come upon you” (Matt. 12:28). His ministry of healing, exorcism, forgiveness, and restoration therefore demonstrates that God’s saving reign had already broken into history. Yet Jesus continues to speak of realities that remain future: the resurrection of the dead, the return of the Son of Man, final judgment, and the consummation of God’s kingdom. The kingdom is therefore genuinely present without yet being present in its fullness. Salvation has been inaugurated, while final judgment and consummation remain future. This is not a rejection of John’s preaching but its clarification and fulfillment. The Coming One has arrived, just as John announced, but Jesus reveals something John did not fully articulate: his first advent inaugurates the promised salvation of the kingdom before his return brings that kingdom to its consummation in final judgment.

In the final analysis, the preaching of Jesus neither abandons nor merely repeats the preaching of John the Baptist. Both proclaim the nearness of God’s kingdom, call Israel to repentance, announce the arrival of eschatological salvation, and warn of coming judgment. This is why Matthew can summarize their preaching with precisely the same words: “Repent, because the kingdom of heaven has come near!” (Matt. 3:2; 4:17). Yet those words take on a new significance when spoken by Jesus. John stands at the threshold of fulfillment, announcing that the kingdom is near and pointing forward to the Coming One who will bring it. Jesus is that Coming One, and through his preaching, healings, exorcisms, forgiveness, and restoration, the saving power of the kingdom begins to enter the present. The transition from John to Jesus is therefore the transition from eschatological expectation to eschatological fulfillment—not yet fulfillment in all its fullness, but fulfillment genuinely inaugurated in history. John announces that God’s kingdom has drawn near; Jesus announces and demonstrates that in him its saving power has begun to arrive. Salvation has entered the present, while final judgment remains ahead, awaiting the return of the King who first came proclaiming good news.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the Pericope Adulterae (John 7.53-8.11)

It is a familiar scene. The Jewish religious leaders bring a woman who has been caught in adultery before Jesus, seeking to trap him with the requirements of the Mosaic Law. Yet rather than immediately condemning her, Jesus responds, “The one without sin among you should be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8.7). With their scheme exposed, the accusers depart one by one until only Jesus and the woman remain. He then tells her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin anymore” (8.11). It is a beautiful picture of the compassion and grace of Jesus toward a guilty sinner. There is only one problem: a footnote in virtually every modern English translation informs us that “the earliest manuscripts do not include John 7.53–8.11.” Whether through brackets, footnotes, or some other notation, all modern translations alert readers that there is considerable doubt about whether this beloved story originally belonged to the Gospel of John. What, then, should Christians who believe in the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture do with this passage? How should we think about a story about Jesus that may be historically ancient but was probably not written by John? In what follows, I would like to consider these questions by arguing that although the manuscript, internal, and patristic evidence strongly suggests that the Pericope Adulterae was not originally part of the Gospel of John, its textual status need not threaten Christian confidence in Scripture. Rather, the passage provides an important opportunity to distinguish between the possible historical authenticity of an ancient tradition about Jesus and the canonical authority of the inspired text.

Of course, our English Bibles are based upon a manuscript tradition that stretches back nearly two thousand years. Although we no longer possess the autographs—the original documents actually written by the New Testament authors—we have thousands of Greek manuscripts and manuscript fragments dating from the second century through the invention of the printing press in the fifteenth century. Through the process known as textual criticism, scholars compare these manuscripts with one another, alongside evidence from ancient translations, lectionaries, and quotations preserved in the church fathers in an effort to determine the earliest recoverable form of the text and, ultimately, reconstruct the original words of the inspired authors. (On the process of textual criticism, see my post here.) Importantly, however, textual criticism is not simply a matter of counting manuscripts. The evidence must be weighed according to such factors as age, provenance, textual relationships, and the character of the individual readings. A thousand late manuscripts containing a particular reading do not necessarily outweigh a handful of significantly earlier witnesses. This brings us to the problem of the Pericope Adulterae: the earliest and strongest manuscript evidence does not include the story at John 7.53–8.11. For this reason, most modern translations bracket the passage, place it in a footnote, or otherwise alert readers that its originality to the Gospel of John is seriously disputed.

The earliest extant Greek manuscript to include the story is Codex Bezae (D), a fifth-century diglot containing the text in both Greek and Latin. This is significant because the early textual reception of the passage appears to have been particularly strong in the Western church, where Latin increasingly became the primary ecclesiastical language. Moreover, although the story eventually appears in the majority of manuscripts from the medieval period, there is considerable discrepancy over where it should be located. It can be found in its familiar location after John 7.52, but in other manuscripts it appears after John 7.36, 7.44, or 21.25, while another textual tradition places it after Luke 21.38. In other words, this looks like a story looking for a home, so to speak. The early patristic evidence is similarly complicated. The Greek Fathers generally do not comment upon the passage, while in the West it appears in writers such as Ambrose of Milan, Augustine, and Jerome, all from the fourth century. Significantly, these Western witnesses themselves reflect awareness that the passage was absent from some manuscripts. Jerome nevertheless included it in the Latin Vulgate, after which the story became increasingly established within the Western textual and ecclesiastical tradition. However, the late appearance of the passage in extant Greek manuscripts, its unstable location within the manuscript tradition, and its uneven early reception provide substantial external evidence for concluding that it was probably not part of the original text of John’s Gospel.

There are still other reasons for doubting the story’s originality to the Gospel of John. For one, the passage contains some fourteen words that appear nowhere else in the Fourth Gospel—almost one distinctive word per verse. For example, John 8:3 is the only place in the Gospel where we encounter “the scribes” as a distinct group. John has several other ways of referring to Israel’s religious leaders, but he never refers to the scribes in this manner outside the Pericope Adulterae. Significantly, several of these words that are otherwise absent from John are quite common in the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), giving the story a linguistic character somewhat different from its surrounding Johannine context. This may also help explain why one manuscript tradition eventually placed the story after Luke 21:38. In addition to this linguistic evidence, the story appears to interrupt the natural flow of John’s narrative. At the end of chapter 7, Jesus is teaching in the temple precincts during the festival, culminating in his proclamation concerning “streams of living water.” Then, in John 8:12, Jesus continues his public teaching with the declaration, “I am the light of the world.” The Pericope Adulterae, however, interrupts this sequence with the statement that “each one went to his own house, but Jesus went to the Mount of Olives” (7:53–8:1). Read without the disputed passage, the narrative moves quite naturally from 7:52 to 8:12. When this internal evidence is considered alongside the external evidence discussed above, the cumulative case against the Pericope Adulterae being original to the Gospel of John appears very strong.

However, the textual question is quite separate from the historical question. It is entirely possible that this is an authentic story about Jesus that was passed down orally and only later written down and incorporated into the manuscript tradition. After all, the characterization of Jesus and the religious leaders is consistent with what we see elsewhere in the Gospel traditions, and the themes and principles of the story are consistent with what we know of Jesus’s teaching from the rest of the New Testament. In his A Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament, Bruce Metzger concludes that “the story has all the earmarks of historical veracity.” In other words, even though the story may be textually secondary, this does not mean that it is historically late or fictitious. It is entirely possible that the Pericope Adulterae preserves an authentic tradition about the historical Jesus that circulated independently before eventually finding its way into copies of the Gospels. Nevertheless, we must carefully distinguish between saying, “Jesus may actually have done this,” and saying, “John wrote this under the inspiration of the Holy Spirit.” Historical authenticity does not by itself establish canonical authority. The early church undoubtedly preserved many true memories and traditions concerning Jesus that were never included in the canonical Gospels; indeed, John himself acknowledges that Jesus did “many other things” that were not written in his Gospel (John 21:25). The question of canonicity, therefore, is not merely whether an event actually happened, but whether the account of that event belongs to the text given through the inspired biblical authors. And that distinction has important implications for how Christians should read, teach, and preach the Pericope Adulterae.

Our doctrines of inspiration and inerrancy are specifically tied to the autographic text, that is to say, the documents that the biblical authors actually wrote are the locus of biblical authority. This is the text that we preach; this is the text that holds authority for our theology and doctrine. Therefore, if the Pericope Adulterae was not part of that original text, then we should not base any doctrinal claims upon it or preach it as though we know it possesses canonical authority. We can certainly discuss it as a potentially authentic tradition about the historical Jesus; we can also demonstrate how its principles and themes are consistent with what canonical Scripture teaches elsewhere. But we should be careful about preaching it as Holy Scripture. After all, consistency with Scripture does not make something Scripture. Many statements found in the writings of the early church fathers are thoroughly consistent with biblical teaching, but we do not therefore regard them as divinely inspired or canonically authoritative. The same distinction should guide our treatment of the Pericope Adulterae. Nothing essential to Christian doctrine is lost by recognizing its uncertain textual status: the grace and compassion of Jesus toward sinners, the universal reality of human sinfulness, the necessity of repentance, and the call to holiness are all abundantly taught in undisputed passages of the New Testament. We therefore lose nothing by allowing the textual evidence to determine the passage’s canonical status rather than our affection for the story. Indeed, a high view of Scripture requires us not merely to defend the Bible we have received, but to seek as carefully as possible the text that the inspired authors actually wrote.

In the final analysis, the textual questions surrounding the Pericope Adulterae should not weaken our confidence in Scripture. If anything, they demonstrate why the discipline of textual criticism is so important. Modern translations do not place brackets or footnotes around John 7.53–8.11 because translators have decided to remove an inconvenient passage from the Bible; they do so because they are attempting to be transparent about the manuscript evidence and recover as faithfully as possible the text that John actually wrote. The remarkable number of surviving New Testament manuscripts allows scholars to identify places where later additions, omissions, or other textual variations entered the tradition and to evaluate them openly. The Pericope Adulterae may preserve an ancient and even authentic memory of Jesus, and its beautiful portrayal of his grace toward sinners explains why Christians have cherished it for centuries. Yet our confidence in Scripture must rest not upon our attachment to a particular story, but upon the God who inspired his Word and has providentially preserved it through the manuscript tradition. Christians committed to the inspiration and inerrancy of Scripture should therefore have nothing to fear from textual criticism. Our desire should simply be to know, preserve, proclaim, and obey as faithfully as possible the words God actually inspired his servants to write.

See also:
On the Ending(s) of the Gospel of Mark


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


On the New Testament Use of the Old Testament

One of the most fascinating areas of biblical scholarship concerns the New Testament’s use of the Old Testament. Anyone who has spent much time reading the New Testament has eventually encountered an Old Testament quotation whose interpretive logic does not seem immediately obvious. We turn back to the original passage, read it within its context, and find ourselves asking, “How did the New Testament author get that from this Old Testament passage?” Some quotations and allusions seem relatively straightforward, while others, such as Matthew’s appeal to Hosea 11:1, initially appear somewhat disconnected from their original contexts. This raises an important hermeneutical question: If Scripture is inspired and authorial intent matters, are the apostles sometimes interpreting Scripture in ways that disregard what the Old Testament authors actually meant? Two possible answers present themselves. On the one hand, we might conclude that the apostles were not constrained by original meaning and therefore neither should we be. On the other hand, we might insist that every New Testament application must have been completely explicit within the conscious intention of the Old Testament author. Yet neither extreme adequately explains the phenomenon, because both fail to reckon with the way Scripture develops across redemptive history. Therefore, it is the thesis of this post that the New Testament authors do not abandon the original meaning of the Old Testament when they interpret it in light of Christ; rather, they read individual texts within their historical contexts and within the larger, progressively unfolding story of redemption that reaches its culmination in Christ.

Of course, before considering how the apostles read the Old Testament Christologically, we must first affirm that the original meaning of the Old Testament text actually matters. This is a fundamental principle of faithful biblical hermeneutics. The biblical authors used particular words within particular literary contexts, during particular historical circumstances, and for particular audiences. Therefore, interpretation must begin by asking what the inspired human author intended to communicate. This being the case, whatever Christological interpretation might subsequently emerge cannot be built upon the abandonment of authorial intent. However, it is also true that a text’s original meaning does not necessarily exhaust its canonical significance. An Old Testament author can communicate something real and intelligible within his own historical setting while his words simultaneously occupy a place within a larger story whose full significance unfolds over time. This is possible because the biblical authors do not write in isolation; each writes at a particular point within the progressively unfolding history of God’s redemptive purposes. Later revelation can therefore develop the implications of earlier revelation without contradicting what the earlier author actually meant. Or, to put it somewhat differently, the original meaning of a text establishes the necessary foundation for its canonical development, but it does not necessarily exhaust the significance that text possesses within the completed story of Scripture.

The reason this distinction is so important is that the Bible is not merely a collection of independent books; it tells one progressively unfolding redemptive story, i.e. creation, fall, redemption, and consummation. This is the metanarrative of Scripture. Throughout that narrative, several important themes and patterns rise to the surface—seed, covenant, exodus, sacrifice, temple, Davidic kingship, servant, restoration, kingdom, and new creation. These themes do not remain static but develop and become increasingly clear as God’s purposes unfold across redemptive history. The promise of the seed develops into the expectation of a coming Messiah; the Davidic covenant generates hope for an everlasting king; exile gives rise to the expectation of restoration; and the prophetic hope ultimately looks toward the renewal of creation itself. The New Testament authors inherit all of this as part of their own theological and canonical heritage. Therefore, although every Old Testament passage possesses an immediate historical-literary context, it also occupies a position within an unfolding redemptive-historical context. We call this progressive revelation, or the idea that God’s revelation of himself and of his plan to redeem humanity becomes increasingly clear as the story progresses. Later revelation clarifies and develops earlier revelation without contradicting it. Consequently, later biblical writers can recognize relationships, patterns, and implications that become clearer as God’s plan unfolds. In other words, the coming of Christ does not change the Old Testament’s story; it reveals where that story was ultimately going. And this is precisely how Jesus himself teaches his disciples to understand Israel’s Scriptures.

In Luke 24.44, Jesus tells his disciples that “everything written about me in the Law of Moses, the Prophets, and the Psalms must be fulfilled” (cf. Luke 24.26–27). In other words, Jesus teaches his disciples to interpret the Old Testament in light of his suffering, resurrection, and the proclamation of repentance to the nations. This does not necessarily mean that every individual passage of the Old Testament is a direct prediction concerning Jesus. Rather, the persons, promises, patterns, institutions, offices, expectations, and trajectories that develop throughout Israel’s Scriptures ultimately find their fulfillment in him. The hope for a Davidic king is fulfilled in Christ. The prophetic expectation of the servant of the Lord reaches its culmination in Christ. The Old Testament sacrificial system anticipates the sacrifice of Christ. The hope for Israel’s restoration reaches its fulfillment in and through Christ. Indeed, Jesus himself says, “Don’t think that I came to abolish the Law or the Prophets. I did not come to abolish but to fulfill” (Matt. 5:17). Fulfillment, therefore, is much broader than the correspondence between a direct prediction and a subsequent event; it encompasses the bringing of God’s entire redemptive purpose to its intended goal. The point is that Christ is not artificially inserted into Israel’s Scriptures; he stands at the culmination of the redemptive story those Scriptures themselves tell.

This is why the assumption that every New Testament quotation works in exactly the same way is problematic. The New Testament certainly employs the Old Testament through direct prediction and fulfillment, but it also utilizes typology, analogy, and broader biblical-theological patterns, often communicating these relationships through explicit quotation or more subtle allusion. For example, in Matthew 2:6, Matthew appeals to Micah 5:2 by way of direct prediction, but only a few verses later, in Matthew 2:15, he appeals to Hosea 11:1 by way of typology. Hosea speaks historically about Israel’s exodus from Egypt; Matthew recognizes that Israel’s sonship establishes a pattern that is recapitulated by Jesus, the true Son. (For more on this particular text, see my post “On Hosea, Matthew, and Authorial Intent,” here.) The same phenomenon occurs throughout the New Testament. Adam is a type of Christ; the Passover anticipates the atoning work of Christ; Davidic kingship reaches its fulfillment in Christ; and the tabernacle and temple anticipate God’s presence with his people ultimately realized in Christ. In each case, the relationship between the Old and New Testaments is real, but it does not operate according to precisely the same hermeneutical mechanism. In other words, fulfillment is a broader category than mere prediction. The New Testament does not require every Old Testament passage applied to Christ to have originally functioned as a direct messianic prophecy. Rather, Christ fulfills the persons, events, institutions, promises, and patterns that together constitute the unfolding story of redemption.

The New Testament authors can recognize a fuller significance in Old Testament passages without assigning them arbitrary meanings. Their readings are constrained by the original historical-literary context, the broader canonical context, the unfolding history of redemption, and ultimately the fulfillment of God’s purposes in Christ. They do not simply disregard the original meaning of a text and assign it an entirely new Christian meaning; neither are they limited to saying only what was already completely explicit within the conscious understanding of the Old Testament author. Rather, God’s intention as the divine author can encompass the developing significance of a text without contradicting what the human author actually communicated. The intentions of the divine and human authors must therefore be understood as complementary rather than competing. (On the question of inspiration and authorial intent, see my post here.) Whatever “fuller sense” we recognize in an Old Testament text must remain grounded in the inspired meaning communicated through the human author and develop organically from the place that text occupies within the unfolding story of redemption. This is because later revelation develops and clarifies earlier revelation; it does not overturn it. The New Testament’s Christological interpretation of the Old Testament is therefore not an alternative to grammatical-historical interpretation, but the canonical culmination of it.

So, when we encounter an Old Testament quotation in the New Testament and find ourselves asking, “How did the New Testament author get that from this Old Testament passage?” the answer is not that the apostles interpreted Scripture arbitrarily or disregarded its original historical and literary context. Neither is it that every Old Testament passage they employ was originally intended as a direct prediction of Jesus. Rather, the apostles read Israel’s Scriptures within their historical and literary contexts, while also recognizing their place within the broader canonical context and the unfolding story of redemption that has reached its culmination in Christ. Their example, therefore, does not give us permission to engage in imaginative interpretations disconnected from authorial intent. If anything, it requires us to read the Old Testament more carefully, tracing the promises, patterns, institutions, and theological trajectories that develop throughout the biblical story. The New Testament authors do not teach us to read Christ into the Old Testament where he does not belong. They teach us to read the Old Testament as Christian Scripture, recognizing that the same God who spoke through Israel’s Scriptures has brought the redemptive purposes revealed in those Scriptures to their divinely intended fulfillment in his Son. Original meaning and Christological fulfillment are not competitors; properly understood, the former provides the foundation upon which the latter is built.


On Thinking Theologically (Weekend Vlog)


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