Biblical Theology

The Relevance of the Theocracy

The Relevance of the Theocracy: The bearing of Old Testament practices on some modern problems

By Meredith Kline


(Originally posted at

More than is generally recognized, the answers to some live questions facing the Christian today depend on a right view of some “dead” Old Testament history. In recent articles, for example, two writers seeking to define the roles of family, church and state, have, in our judgment, erred in so far as they have founded their conclusions on the history of Israel, because both misconstrue the nature of Israel’s Theocracy.

Fresh from their experience of divine deliverance out of Pharaoh’s tyrant hand, Israel at Sinai entered into a covenant with the Lord. This covenant was pursuant of the earlier covenant promises made to Abraham, and in terms of it, the seed of Abraham which had meanwhile multiplied to national proportions was now organized as a nation whose king was the Lord. Directly from Him would Israel receive both Law and Land. It is to this unique arrangement that the name “Theocracy” has been given.

To what shall we compare it? Was it a state-church like the Church of England? Or were it better to call it a church-state? These answers are equally inaccurate. For when we work with the ordinary concept of church and state and family we do not have the materials out of which the Theocracy can be constructed. It is as though we tried to construct a three-dimensional object out of two-dimensional elements. The conjunction of two or three or a thousand depth-less planes will not produce a solid. So no combination of family, church and state can produce the theocracy, for they do not have their being in the same “dimensional” sphere as the Theocracy. They exist in the sphere of common grace; but the Theocracy in the sphere of Consummation. As G. Vos points out: “The significance of the unique organization of Israel can be right measured only by remembering that the theocracy typified nothing short of the perfected kingdom of God the consummate state of heaven” (Old and New Testament Biblical Theology, 1942, P. 80).

Our illustration of two and three-dimensional things will not take us all the way here. For with these dimensions the difference is simply one of addition. Even when depth is added as a third dimension, length can still be distinguished from breadth and depth as length, and breadth can still be isolated as breadth in the resultant solid. But the difference of the Theocracy and its anti-type, Heaven, from the ordinary institutions is not merely a matter of combination or addition. There is here the appearance of a new species.

For in the kingdom of glory the family cannot be isolated as family distinct from the citizenry of the kingdom. Nor is the sessional record book with its church membership roll something distinguishable from the royal archives with its register of his majesty’s subjects. Nor can it be said, “In this activity the heavenly community function as a family, and in that activity as a state.” But in the “dimension” of common grace it is essential to the nature of family, church and state that they be separately organized and perform separate functions. That is at times difficult for us without access to Urim and Thummin to determine the boundary line of the appointed territory of each institution does not blur this distinction. Since then what is essential to these institutions under common grace vanishes in the Kingdom of the Consummation, the difference must be one of [a] kind. Heaven is a brand new species.

What is true of Heaven is true of its divinely order type, the Theocracy. For though the Theocracy was in the world of common grace, as a type of heaven it transcended its environment and anticipatively shared in the world to come. Whenever we would deal with the theocracy as we behold it in the pages of the Old Testament, we should first listen attentively to the Lord as He speaks to Moses on the Mount: “Ye shall be unto me a kingdom of priests and an holy nation” (Ex. 19:6). If we do listen we will not try to segment the Theocracy into the usual three discrete institutions. We will not then say: “Here (e.g. in Aaron) is the church, and here (e.g. in Moses or David) is the state, and there the family.” Not even roughly speaking. For all that can be said accurately is, “Here are theocratic priests, here are theocratic kings, here are theocratic prophets and there are the theocratic people from whose ranks all these have come. (Cf. Ex. 28:1; Dt. 17:5; 18:5.) Over all His Old Testament house as the mediator of the covenant stands Moses, the servant of God. And behold, he directs our eyes down the ages to his antitype, Jesus, the Son of God, who is exalted ‘over his house, whose house we are, if we hold fast our boldness and the glorifying of our hope firm to the end (Heb. 3:6).'”

In illustration of the relevance of this thesis to the solution of some current problems of the church, state and family relationships, we turn to the articles mentioned earlier. One of the writers leans heavily on an argument from theocratic arrangements to support his theory that the Christian religion should be officially recognized by the civil government. (Rev. M.R. Mackay, “Is ‘Equality of all religions before the Law’ Scriptural?” Part IV. The Contender. July, 1952.) Having indicated the positive roles played by David and Solomon in the establishment of Israel’s center of worship at Jerusalem, the opposition of various godly kings to Baalism, and similar data, the writer suggests that those who do not accept his view of the relation of church and state are confronted with a dilemma. Their only alternative to capitulating to his position is, he thinks, to contradict the Bible’s approbation of the conduct of David, et al., by judging that these kings transgressed the limits of their authority in interfering in religious affairs.

That the horns of the dilemma are vaporous is evident, for the argument rests on an utterly false equation of the theocratic monarchy with the ordinary state. As observed above, neither church nor state is isolable within the Theocracy. It is therefore impossible to identify one theocratic institution such as the kingship with the ordinary concept of the state. From this it follows that one cannot determine the relationship which should obtain between, e.g., the United States of America and the Christian religion, by a study of the relationship of godly theocratic kings to the worship of the Lord in their day. What we do see in the activity of these theocratic kings is a typical portrayal of the kingly office of the Christ of God, exercised in behalf of His Body, the Church, in a reign which now is and is to come in the glory of the Consummation Kingdom. For that Kingdom will be the anti-type of the theocratic kingdom ruled over by David’s dynasty of old.

To cite another example of the misuse of theocratic history, we turn to an article by the Rev. J. M. Kik in the December, 1952, issue of The Presbyterian Guardian. While it is our opinion that the particular error which will be noted below is part and parcel of a failure throughout his argument to follow the most fundamental exegetical principles of the discipline of Biblical Theology, it is nevertheless by no means the intention of the present article to criticize Mr. Kik’s argument as a whole or to evaluate his theory as such.

The article in question contends, in part, that the Old Testament by precept and example gives to the Church alone the right and duty of training men for the ministry. It offers as proof of this claim: 1. the role of the Levites in the instruction of the people; 2. the training of Samuel by Eli, the high priest; 3. the training of Elisha by the prophet Elijah; 4. the divine calling and instruction of the prophets.

As matters of detail it may be noted that the first item is inaccurate (for with only one partial and inconsequential exception none of the passages offered in evidence has anything to do with the non-priestly Levites). Also item four is irrelevant (as would be the first point even if corrected). Mention may be made, too, of certain features of the calling in the theocratic teaching ministry which seem, irrespective of our main objection, to prevent close enough comparison with the teaching ministry of the new covenant to warrant one’s basing the mode of preparation of the latter on that of the former. Of the two special teaching groups in the theocracy, the priestly and the prophetic, the first calling was hereditary and the second was charismatic. It is obvious that these features would control the agency and mode of preparation, and neither of these features is characteristic of the gospel ministry today.

Our chief criticism again, in terms of the thesis of this article, is that to label the priests and/or the prophets as the church within the Theocracy is unwarranted. The priests were, indeed, the representative-mediators of the congregation in its approach to God, and the prophets declared the Word of the Lord to the congregation. But the king ruled in the congregation, and Israel was that worshiping, serving congregation. All alike who lived in the Theocracy were always engaged in specifically religious, because theocratic, business. God was in the midst of the covenant people and, therefore, all was church, as also all was family and all state – the church of God, the family of God, the Kingdom of God – all in one and one in all, and such was the Theocracy. However, if all is church and all is family and all is state, then nothing is church and nothing is family and nothing is state in the usual sense of those words. Strictly speaking all is Theocracy and nothing but Theocracy.

The one criticism presented here, it need hardly be added, does not by itself invalidate either of the theories used in the illustrations. Our present purpose is only the narrow one of defining the true nature of the Theocracy and so to clear the way that certain problems might be approached on the basis of proper Scriptural evidence. Wide enough, however, is the application of this thesis, for how many pages pro and con regarding the definition of the specific function of the major institutions have been devoted to irrelevant appeals to theocratic practice. The systematic theologian is always obliged to stop, look and listen to the voice of Biblical theology, but that is, perhaps, nowhere more apparent than when he comes in his search for proof texts to the Theocracy.


“The Word” Became Flesh

Carl Dreyer’s Ordet (1955), translated as “The Word” in English, is a Danish film adaptation of the theatrical play written by Lutheran minister Kaj Munk in 1925. The film has garnered much attention in the realm of spirituality in film, and is regarded as one of the greatest, if not the greatest, spiritually significant films. Among its honors are the 1956 Golden Globe Award for Best Foreign Language Film, the National Board of Review Award for Best Foreign Film, the Golden Lion (the highest prize of the Venice International Film Festival), the number one rank of “most spiritually significant film of all time” in 2010 by the Arts and Faith online community, and the Vatican’s one of fifteen “important films” pertaining to religion.

Munk’s Ordet is primarily the story of faith and love overcoming skepticism and doubt. On a small Danish farm in a hauntingly quiet rural setting, a dogmatic orthodox farmer’s family is torn asunder by various trials: one child believes he is Jesus the Christ himself, another is a cynical and stoic atheist, a third falls in love with a rival family’s daughter, forcing his father to face the doctrinal divide between their families, and all this comes to a climax in the death of the farm’s mother figure. All this conflict is put to the viewer as a question, asking, “Is there a place for the power of God today?” And the story unequivocally answers back, “Yes.” In the analysis that follows, we will investigate, through Robert B. Strimple’s book, “The Modern Search for the Real Jesus,” how Munk is able to say, “Yes,” and how that has significant implications for the Christian searching for Jesus today.

The foundational and epistemological assumption the viewer must be prepared to accept to understand Munk’s script is the Kantian distinction between scientific and religious knowledge. This is the fountainhead for the film’s skepticism and agnosticism, and its chilling desperation for faith. While referring most directly to an earthly father, the first word spoken in the film is, “Father?”, a demonstration of the distance felt between God above and men below. Miracles, a constant point of tension, are mentioned sixteen times in the film, representing the connection between the empirical, that which we sense here on earth, and the transcendent, that which is divine. Johannes’s atheist brother denies any spiritual presence on earth, saying, “It is all so meaningless – so meaningless.” Not only does Germany’s late nineteenth century Ritschlian Liberalism also put forth this strong and impossible Kantian division between heaven and earth, it also, along with Munk, puts forth this answer to the ineffable gap between the two: love; it is love, along with the faith of Bultmann-like existentialism, that Munk is able to provide an answer to the hopeless gap, albeit a faulty answer.

Picture of the play’s author

Faith and love work together for Munk’s depiction of the historical Jesus in Johannes; for Munk they become equivalents, as the reader will shortly understand. While Ritchlian Liberalism characterizes Munk’s value of love, the basis for love and Richtlian value is found in existentialism. This existentialism accounts for the psychological turmoil Johannes finds himself in. The film’s minister, after first meeting Johannes, who believes himself to be “Jesus of Nazareth,” was told something was wrong with Johannes. Therefore he asks Johannes’s brother Mikkel, “Was it… a love affair?” And Mikkel says, “It was Søren Kierkegaard.” Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism, produces the “leap of faith” theology necessary to embrace value judgments like love and hope. Johannes, we are told, “had a difficult time with speculation and doubts… [which] turned inward.” Strimple explains this phenomena as “[an embracing of] uncertainty as integral to being” (119). It is this blind nonsensical faith which allows for the film to communicate change and hope in the physical realm, and allows Johannes to make sense for his family the value of love.

Value judgments like love, following after this existentialism, become far more important for Munk than any historical ones. Both Munk and Albrecht Ritschl believe, as Strimple says, that “the concept of the kingdom of God… [is] interpreted solely in ethical and social terms. The kingdom comes as men unite for common moral action, motivated by love” (51). And so Mikkel’s atheism is written off by Inger, his wife, who explains that virtue, not doctrine, brings one close with God. Mikkel confesses that not only does
he not have faith, but has no “faith in faith.”

Inger replies,

But you have something else, something more important. A heart, goodness. I tell you, it is not enough to have faith if one is not a good person at the same time. And that’s what you are… [Faith] will come… Yes. And then you will see how warm you will feel, a glow inside you, and you’ll be so happy.

This faith, a faith which finds the divine, comes only through acts of love and goodness; that is, it comes through value judgments. Inger’s “I tell you” seems to be a reference to Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount when he says, “But I say to you…” This, then, is a pivotal point in the film, a point which seems to correct or re-orient the viewer’s current position with new teaching. Around this value judgment hangs the whole film.

The answer, then, to the distance between God and man becomes the act of love upheld by faith. Strimple explains how this value judgment should be interpreted:

In Ritschl’s estimation, religious affirmations – regarding God, for example – are strictly ‘value judgments.’ That qualifier, ‘value,’ cuts two ways: a value judgment is a judgment that affirms what we consider to be of value for our life; at the same time, it is a judgement that actually has value in making our life the kind of life it should be. A person can come to a sense of his or her own dignity and worth through the idea of a God who is his or her Creator, Savior, and Sustainer. But remember, Ritchl emphasized that this doctrine of a divine being is strictly a value judgment. (50)

The tension of value cutting both ways is well depicted in the conversation Mikkel and Inger have with Anders, the youngest brother. Though and unknown doctrine divides two families, the farmer’s and the tailor’s, the value judgment of love bridges this gap, too. Inger says, “Anders! You haven’t fallen in love with the tailor’s Anne?” …You know, they’ve got quite different ideas about religion.” Anders, knowing this to be the case, says, “We love each other. It doesn’t make any difference.” To which Inger says as the final thought, “Yes, that’s what we think too, Mikkel and I.” Inger again gaps the distance between belief and unbelief not only through her belief in love for Ander’s romantic situation, but between belief and unbelief in the divisive nature of dogma for herself and Mikkel. In this way love becomes the qualifier by which life not only is seen as communal, but is made communal. This type of common brotherhood, an acceptance of all of humankind under the banner of faith, hope, and love, appears as Munk’s explicit purpose for the film, and is proposed under the guise of blind faith in God, most clearly demonstrated in Johannes.

Munk’s view of Jesus, and even the historical Jesus, only now under the banner of love, becomes manifest in the person of Johannes. Under existentialism the issue of Johannes being divinity is a moot point (119): functionally Munk, like Ritschl, “emphatically repudiat[es] the orthodox doctrine of Christ’s two natures, yet he retain[es] the traditional terms, such as deity, in order to express the value, the unique value, of Jesus’ life for us” (51). Jesus, in this way, is not divinity condescending to die on the cross for the sins of his people, but Jesus is he who stands squarely and preeminently in that place of highest value, pointing us to community and life. Therefore, when Johannes performs god-like miracles, it is not simply a modern day miracle to bridge the gap between science and religion, a cheap trick or evangelistic propaganda, but a statement about the existential power of faith and love. Whether or not the film’s demonstration of miracles asserts something actually happening in reality is not important (notice how the clock is stopped by Anders), but important for Munk essential is the reality that a blind existential faith can and truly does produce manifestations of the divine presence, whether that be in the form of a prophet-like man or communal love.

The genuine Christian believer has no such existential blindness; his epistemology is not rooted in rationalism (15), or in a blind faith which makes room for love, but in the scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, which are a light to life’s path. Therefore, the revelation of God which came down, not the rationality of man which looks up, is the answer to Munk’s hopelessness. Jesus Christ is not Kierkegaard’s “Knight of Infinite Resignation,” or “Knight of [blind nonsensical] Faith”, neither is he Munk’s Johannes, or Munk’s faith, but He is God descended from heaven to earth in the flesh. He is not an idea, a myth, blind faith in the infinite gap, or an appropriated persona, but a person who lived and died for His people in the first century of our Lord. The true Christian can answer “Yes” to the question “Is there a place for the power of God today?” because the Jesus of history was incarnate of the virgin Mary, suffered, died, rose, ascended, gave his Spirit to the church, and sits at the right hand of God, ever making intercession. For this reason also, Ordet, “the word,” has meaning; otherwise, love cannot be defended as an ultimate value, but only a subjective one. But the Christian knows what love is because Christ, the Word, gave his life for sinners.

The film’s last word, “Life!”, representing the fullness of faith and love expressed in the characters, becomes Mikkel’s declaration of “It is all so meaningless” if it is taken apart from God condescending to reveal Himself to man (especially through the historical space & time Jesus). If the historical Jesus did not come and die, then what does “faith” and “life” mean? We know true life only if we know Jesus. The true Christian can look on Munk’s film only in appreciation for its question, but not for its answers; Jesus is made known in the gospels, not in this existential experience. Jesus is not a wandering sage pointing to the truth and the need for faith, but He is Truth pointing to Himself, and faith finds meaning only in Him. The power of God today is seen, then, in the Jesus Christ who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. “The Word” is not something we create today, He is the eternal Way, Truth, and Life spoken forever, and given to us in the Holy Bible, the Word who became flesh.


Christian Existentialism?

Is Christian faith a leap-of-faith theology? Is universal human experience projected into the stories and moments which make up the Biblical narrative, so that they are for us, myth?

Rudolph Bultmann follows the existentialism of Heideggar, claiming that Heideggar essentially says the same thing about reality as the New Testament, yet wholly apart from it. For a little background, Heideggar contended that our being (“sein”) is just there (“dasein”), so that is has a certain “throwness” to it, extended in time and space. This is a reality we encounter every waking moment. We wake up in the morning and we are there – just there. However, we also encounter the reality of nothingness. We all stare nothingness in the face every waking moment. When we wake up in the morning, we are there instead of not there. Why? Why something, or someone, rather than nothing, and no one? This is the core existential question. How we decide to live knowing that the whole of our existence is radically contingent, knowing everything could and would go on without me? There are those who fill that tension with “externals”, who cram in the noise of everyday living and mundane concerns to keep us from feeling the unbearable weight of the tension of the dark drab meaninglessness of our self-existence. For Bultmann & Heideggar this is cowardly. And for Bultmann, Jesus’ essential significance for us stems from the fact that he alone kept the tension of his contingency at the forefront. He stared death in the face fearlessly, even to the point of death on the cross.

The Bible, then, is an expression of this existential answer for the church, and it must be “demythologized” to find its core existential message. Heideggar was said to “chuckle” that Bultmann put existential significance specially in Jesus, for if this is all true, then Jesus is just one expression of a particular faith-community.

But can the Bible be seen as essentially an existential statement projected into certain forms belonging to the faith-community of the first century alone, so that we who are now more advanced can shed the forms of the Biblical narrative for its striking existential core of meaning?

Looking at how the Bible speaks of Jesus will help us answer this question.

Colossians 1:13-17 says

“He has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son, in whom we have redemption, the forgiveness of sins. He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation, because by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities–all things were created through him and for him. And he Himself is before all things, and in him all things subsist.”

First of all, what does it mean that Jesus is the “firstborn of all creation”? Does that mean He is a created thing, as the Jehovah’s Witnesses would contend? “Firstborn” is a term used throughout the scripture, and is often used to denote superiority or dignity, such as in Ps. 89:27, used in the same way here. The “He is” in the Greek can also be taken without reference to time, meaning that outside of time Jesus is both the image of God and firstborn of creation, with “of creation” meaning superior over creation (Greek note: Objective genitive).

This all trends toward what Herman Ridderbos said: “It can even be maintained that by the name Image of God in the passages in question Paul intended to elucidate “the eternal relationship of the Father to the Son” (Paul, 71), whereas firstborn over all of creation implies a definite priority of the uncreated Son with reference all things created (Paul, 82).

What confirms all this is verse 16, which says “by Him all things were created”, and we aren’t left thinking “what are ‘all things'” because Colossians says all things in heaven and earth, which corresponds to the visible and the invisible. And what’s more, this is a clear kickback to Genesis 1 – “In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth”, so that Jesus’ divine being is said here to be eternal. He is without time and space.

What about the “throwness” of being? The confrontation with nothingness? Could it be that the scriptures are expressing the eternality of Jesus as a way of saying that our existential experience reaches beyond even time and space? There are two reasons this can’t be the case. 1) The “because” of verse 16 makes Jesus stand far above “all things” (the all things of Genesis 1 which would include humanity), they existing not only by him, but for him. And 2) verse 17 says “in him all things subsist” (could also be translated “hold together” or “cohere”). This means that all contingent beings, or things, are only being there (“dasein”) by and for Jesus. How then, could the cross be an expression of the tension of his radical contingency in facing nothingness? In Jesus is everythingness. In Jesus are all contingencies, so that the scriptures flatly contradicts this existential approach to scripture.

And yet, let us not forget that although all things exist by and for Him, verse 13 makes it clear that this same One took on flesh and dwelt among us. The One in whom all contingencies exist became contingent! Of course, He did not leave His eternal nature behind (as if by subtraction), but assumed (added) humanity to His person to redeem His people. In this way the atemporal became temporal, the One outside of time entered in, and so we must relate to Him as both God and man. We must see the eternal purpose of God in the Son (outside heavens & earth, visible & invisible), and yet we must see the history of God’s purpose unfolding not only by and through the Son, but with Him as the center figure.

It is this unfolding of revelation which provides for our turn toward Kierkegaard, the father of existentialism. My argument is essentially the same as the one toward Bultmann and Heideggar; that is, when focusing so specifically on the individual-existential situation, the explicit and scriptural grand narrative and overarching purpose becomes obscured and discarded at the very cost of its meaning. The interpreter comes either with the presupposition that they ought to only listen to what pertains to this aforementioned existential anxiety (brought about by Kantian philosophy, but that is for another time), or they allow scripture to speak for itself and interpret itself as it pertains to that very existential quandary (and every other type & topic). Let me recap what Kierkegaard argues in his work “Fear & Trembling”, which centers on the narrative of Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac in Genesis 22.

For Kierkegaard the existential situation is not being and nothingness per se, but the tension is the same. Kierkegaard writes that “[m]ost people live completely absorbed in worldly joys and sorrows; they are benchwarmers who do not take part in the dance.” For Kierkegaard, taking part in the dance is a matter of faith. He says, “By faith I do not renounce anything; on the contrary, by faith I receive everything exactly in the sense in which it is said that one who has faith like a mustard seed can move mountains. It takes a purely human courage to renounce the whole temporal realm in order to gain eternity… But it takes a paradoxical and humble courage to grasp the whole temporal realm now by virtue of the absurd, and this is the courage of faith.” By faith, then, Abraham is said to enter in to the realm of absurdity by suspending his ethical judgments (i.e., that he should not kill his son). For Abraham this is not a mere infinite resignation to do what is absurd, but a step of faith, in which authentic existence is found.

To be a “knight of faith” the Christian existentialist must have faith in God and His word, just as His word to Abraham, even if it is capricious or counter-intuitive or absurd, because there is no reason, in this spacio-temporal realm, to accept “objective” values (be they moral or whatever) which cannot be tested by the senses – these are accepted by “faith”, or “blind faith”, to use a colloquialism.

Is this what Genesis 22 teaches? That we also should be like Abraham who make this irrational leap of faith into the nonsensible realm? It was the unfolding of revelation which turned us toward Kierkegaard, and that is where we begin. What was God revealing in Genesis 22?

Well, turn back a few chapters to Genesis 17, where God says,

“Behold, my covenant is with you, and you shall be the father of a multitude of nations… I will make you exceedingly fruitful, and I will make you into nations, and kings shall come from you. And I will establish my covenant between me and you and your offspring after you throughout their generations for an everlasting covenant, to be God to you and to your offspring after you. And I will give to you and to your offspring after you the land of your sojournings, all the land of Canaan, for an everlasting possession, and I will be their God.”

Now, first of all, when it says in 17:1 that the Lord appeared to Abraham to speak this, was the moment in the realm of the non-sensical (Kantian “noumenal”)? Even if it were so, in chapter 18 the Lord appears as an man and sits down to eat with Abraham to give the message of Isaac’s birth (its significance being that through Isaac blessings would come to the nations – Gen. 18:18). How then is Gen. 22 taken as a leap of faith into the irrational? The Lord’s revelation to Abraham is not a guess, or an impression, or anything like it, but it is a clear revelation clearly spoken by God Himself, just as the Lord physically walked and spoke in time and space as a man with Adam (Gen. 3:8). Will we let the text speak for itself, or must we impose upon it certain parameters which outlaw its very message (i.e., that God spoke to certain men differently than he spoke to others)? In order for Kierkegaard to make Abraham’s experience analogous to ours, which he does, we must reject that God specially revealed Himself to Abraham in this way, but that would be to reject what the text plainly teaches about how God spoke with Abraham.

Second, the defining factor for the story of sacrifice is faith in God, not faith in the absurd, irrational, or non-sensical. Listen to what the author of Hebrews writes,

“By faith Abraham, when he was tested, offered up Isaac, and he who had received the promises was in the act of offering up his only son, of whom it was said, ‘Through Isaac shall your offspring be named.’ He considered that God was able even to raise him from the dead, from which, figuratively speaking, he did receive him back” (11:17-19).

How would blessings come to the nations, or kings come from Abraham – how would God’s word be true, if Abraham’s son was dead? When Kierkegaard describes the “knight of infinite resignation”, he puts forth a notion that to be infinitely resigned is necessary because the future and the outcome of our faith is entirely and completely unknowable to the rational mind. This is exactly the opposite of what the Bible puts forth as faith. While it was unseen that God could bring Isaac back from the dead, the character of God’s promise (“I will make you into nations, and kings shall come from you”) is such that it is so sure to happen in time and space, that even miracles will be wrought that its end may come. It is fixed. To have faith in God is to have faith that what He says about time and space (our sensible realm) is the truth; and in fact, it is the only truth, so that irrationality is not having faith in God, and irrationality is believing anything other than what God has said (which, ironically, these existentialists are prone to do).

For this reason faith is not a faith in the irrational, but it is a faith in God, who is the measure of rationality! And to prove God’s faithfulness to His promise, that He would even raise one from the dead, He gave Jesus, who lived in space and time – the Son. The purpose of Abraham’s sacrifice is only seen fully in the light of God’s. Abraham cannot be seen as speaking with God in isolation from God’s unfolding of revelation, starting with Adam and ending with Christ (Heb. 1:1). In Jesus is the fulfillment of the promise to Abraham, that through his seed the nations would be blessed. So, then, because we are not directly players in the revelation of this promise (but recipients), to pattern our lives and existential quandaries after them would completely miss the point of what the Bible says about our personal lives in space and time.

So finally then, the faith once for all delivered to the saints is not an irrational one, but is unfolded by He who is ultimate rationality. It is not divorced from time and space, for Jesus, in whom all contingencies exist, entered into time and space to live and die, that our faith might be secure in God – and God has given sufficient proof to all men not only of His eternal power and divine nature throughout creation, but by raising His Son from the dead and seating Him in the heavens. A so-called “Christian Existentialism” does nothing but overthrow the message of the Bible by coming to it with terms that cannot and will not be justified with the text itself. The existential hermeneutic is a hermeneutic of unbelief – unbelief that God has revealed Himself, and that climatically in His Son.

May our God continue to save us from our self-sufficiency, save us from our thoughts of self-existence, and help us see that we may have eternal life in Christ, a life which escapes all fear of death or “nothingness” and makes void every notion of irrational faith through a faith grounded and vindicated in the God who raised Jesus from the dead, for we who believe are also seated with Him and wait for His further revelation from heaven. May He quickly come. Amen.


**Leaned upon Strimple on the Historical Jesus, Vos on Biblical Theology, Van Til for ultimate rationality, and the lecture material of Lane Tipton for Colossians.