The World is a Novel in the Mind of God

Can God determine our actions? One need not think more than a second or two. Of course he can. If CIA brainwashers and television advertising can cause us to act in specific ways, then the Creator of the universe certainly can. Let’s rephrase the question: Can God determine our actions without violating our freedom and autonomy? Here the spirits divide between libertarians and compatibilists. The former believe that divine agency and human agency are mutually exclusive. Our actions are free only if we might have done otherwise. To the extent that they can be sufficiently explained by a set of nomic conditions that temporally or logically precede them, I live in a state of thralldom and do not enjoy genuine autonomy. If God causes my actions, then they are not my actions and I am reduced to the status of puppet. In the words of Jessica Rabbit: “I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.” Compatibilists, on the other hand, claim that free agency is compatible with divine determination. What is crucial is that I am the source of my determinations. Libertarian freedom or determinism—they seem to be the only options. Or are they?

In Creation and the Sovereignty of God, Hugh McCann asserts a version of double agency that seeks to split the difference. Contemplate the relationship between an author of a novel and the characters he or she creates:

The author does not belong to the world she creates, nor do her characters and their actions exist as an event-causal consequence of anything she does. Rather, their first existence is in her creative imagination, and they are born and sustained in and through the very thoughts in which she conceives them, and of which they are the content. The interesting thing about this relation­ship is that it is too close to permit the author’s creative activity to damage her characters’ freedom. On the contrary, it is perfectly legitimate for her to present them as free and responsible beings. Indeed, it is not even possible for the author to enter into the world and interact with her characters in such a way as to undermine or pervert their integrity as agents. Only other char­acters in the novel can do that—subject, of course, to the will of the author.¹

A good story draws us into its world, and once we are in that world, we do not experience the characters as playing out a script—unlike, say, the robots in Westworld. The fictional charac­ters enjoy an integrity of their own. They live out their lives in credible, consistent, and convincing fashion. Even when a character surprises us, it is the character, not the author, who surprises. Only poorly written stories shock us out of the narrative and return us to the “real” world. Some novelists, such as J. R. R. Tolkien and J. K. Rowling, go to remarkable lengths to create imaginative universes that are compelling and utterly convincing.

I draw your attention to this sentence from the above quotation: “The interesting thing about this relationship is that it is too close to permit the author’s creative activity to damage her characters’ freedom.” McCann seems to be suggesting that fictional characters enjoy a genuine measure of freedom because they live within the imagination of the novelist. They are not external objects that can be manipulated or meddled with. The relationship is too intimate, too immediate for interfer­ence. Dorothy Sayers might disagree with McCann here: his proposal underesti­mates the “element of pure craftsmanship” that is necessary to the creation of a good story. “Neverthe­less,” she con­cedes, “the free will of a genuinely created character has a certain reality, which the writer will defy at his peril.”² A fictional world is not the real world, of course, but McCann still finds the analogy illuminating:

As I see it, our relation to our creator is much the same. We, of course, have more than a mental existence; we are real. But we too are brought to be and sustained in being entirely in and through our creator’s will. We are not self-creating in any way, and we can no more engage in decision and action apart from our creator’s will than can the creatures of fiction. Here, too, however, the relationship is too close to undermine our freedom. God does not, in creating us, act upon us, or produce any intervening cause, even an act of will on his part, that somehow makes us do what we do. There is indeed an exercise of his creative power, but in it he simply becomes the ground of our being, holding us in existence as the content of his creative act. God does not, that is to say, alter our nature or that of our actions merely by providing for our existence. This, I claim, permits all that legitimately belongs to responsible freedom to characterize our actions, just as it does those of fictional creatures. The author of the novel never makes her crea­tures do something; she only makes them doing it. It is the same with us and God. He does not make us act; he makes us acting, so that the free­dom that goes with genuine action can still be present. To think otherwise is to confuse providing for the existence of something and tam­per­ing with its nature. Nor should God’s action as creator lead us to worry about our integrity as agents—about whether we will turn out to have a substantive and genuine moral character, or will come across as contrived and manipu­lated, as somehow lacking a true and unified self. There is no reason to expect the latter outcome, especially when an all-wise and powerful God is produc­ing the work. Bad authors may sometimes have to manipulate their charac­ters; a perfect one never does.³

God does not cause our acts, as in deterministic models, nor does he place us on a deistic stage upon which we autonomously live out our choices. God makes us acting. He is as intimately related to his creatures as the storyteller to his tale or the singer to her song. As James F. Ross has so beautifully worded it: “The being of the cosmos is like a song on the breath of a singer.”⁴ The eternal Creator is an artist, not an engineer. Just as he does not create entities without their properties and powers, so he does not create human beings apart from their free agency. God’s creative “Let there be …” simply is our historical existing. McCann thus seeks to move philosophical reflection beyond the “causal joint” that binds divine and human agency.⁵ He takes us to a deeper metaphysical or transcendental level. Perhaps we should not even employ the notion of causality when speculating on divine creation—hence McCann’s suggestion that we think of the relation between God and creatures as analogous to the relation between intention and content:

The existence of creatures belongs to God’s act of creating them, rather than being a consequence of it. One good model for this is the relation between acts of will and their content. Consider, for example, the case of deciding. When I decide to do something—say, to go to Europe next summer—the intention thereby formed does not appear as a consequence of my act of decision making. It is, rather, the content of my decision, so that by the time the decision is over, I already hold the intention to go to Europe. The intention, which can be expressed as, “I shall go to Europe next summer,” is intrinsic to my act of deciding to go there. It belongs to it, in the peculiar way that con­tent always belongs to acts of thinking. What I want to suggest is that the relation between God’s activity as creator and the entities he creates is analo­gous to this. It is not, of course, the same: the content of mental acts has only mental existence, whereas the things God creates are quite real. Nevertheless, I want to say, creatures belong to God’s act of creation in much the same way. We are not products of God’s creative willing, but the very expression of it.

If something like this is correct, the gap between creation and creature is closed. There is no distance whatever between us and God, hence we need not invent a causative process or nexus to fill the imagined void. Yet we are not made parts of God, or descriptive modifica­tions of him—any more than the content of a thought would be a part of a predicate of a thinker. Rather, the relation is analogous to that between a story and its author or a song and its composer. The world has its existence in God, but God is in no way composed or constituted by the world. A second upshot of this view is that any remain­ing vestiges of conflict between God’s activity as creator and the operation of secondary causes is wiped away. They are not even the same sort of process. God’s creative activity is not a determining condition of the being of the world, but an endeavor in which he himself serves as the foundation of reality, the source in which we live, and move, and have our being. That, of course, is as it should be, and it is in keeping with the idea that God is completely involved with his creatures, that his providential care extends immediately and comprehensively to all that exists.⁶

God is closer to us than any cause. He creates the world ex nihilo, and this creating is a causing unlike any that we know, not a nomic determination of events and states of affairs but the conferral of being itself, thus making possible both creaturely freedom and divine providence. One certainly can’t fault McCann for lack of ambition and daring.

Compare McCann’s construal of artistic double agency from what he calls the model of command and causation. In Genesis 1 God speaks the world into being: “And God said, ‘Let there be light’; and there was light.” One might interpret the divine word as a com­mand, followed by the intended effect. If divine and human agency is construed along these lines, then outright determinism is the result. God thinks the mental command “Let there be Al Kimel typing these lines on his computer,” and voila! here I am typing. The divine decree is followed by the consequence. God has commanded and so I type. My typing is no more free than the billiard ball that falls into the corner pocket.

We are prone to represent creation in terms of a model of command and causation: thus, in the present case, to believe that if God is indeed creatively responsible for our decisions and volition, these must occur through a mechanistic relation. He must first engage in some activity specifically directed to creation, some sort of command or concurrence, which in turn has the event-causal consequence that we will the things we do. If such were the case, it would indeed be plausible to think that involving God as creator in our decisions must destroy creaturely freedom, for then the relation between the operation of God’s will and ours would be perfectly analogous to what would obtain if our decisions were caused by our strongest desire. The apparent active quality of deciding would be destroyed, and we would be just as passive in deciding as we are in experiencing the onset of desire.⁷

McCann’s proposal of double agency needs to be carefully distinguished from determinis­tic views that envision Deity as causing volitional acts in the same way that creaturely beings cause events. Let’s return to Genesis 1. Instead of reading the text as a display of cause and effect, we might instead read it as an intellectual, even imagina­tive, fait accom­pli. Its wording, McCann suggests, “implies that in the very command itself, the appear­ance of light was achieved, that in the very exercise of God’s creative will, dry ground finds its existence.”⁸ The world in its actuality is the content of God’s eternal decision to create, analogous to the way intention is intrinsic to human decision:

There can be no event-causal means—not even the operation of his own will—which God employs as creator. Rather, his will is, in itself, immediately efficacious in the task of creation, so that all that is, including rational creatures and all that they do, find their being in the very act through which they are created. A fortiori, there is no nexus that binds God’s will to ours, nor is there any causal distance whatever between God and us or any of our willings. Indeed, there is not even causal contiguity. Rather, we and all that we do have our being in God, and the first manifestation of God’s creative will regarding our decisions and actions is not a command that causes those acts, but nothing short of the acts themselves.⁹

McCann does not discuss historical elaborations of the command and causation model (though he does mention the Neo-Thomist Reginald Garrigou-Lagrange as a possible representative). Whatever their differences, the advocates of the command model share one feature in common—they deny libertarian freedom:

Applied to human willing, command and causation models would certainly re­store God to full knowledge and gover­nance of the world, but only at the ex­pense of making his will as governor an independent determining condition of creaturely willing—the very thing any definition of libertarian freedom must rule out. If the relationship between God’s will and ours took this form, the spontaneity of free will would be gone; we would have every right to feel we were mere puppets, and God the puppe­teer. The problem is substantially similar for views that provide God a role in crea­turely action, but treat it as a concurrent or assisting one, in which his action is both independent of ours, and necessarily efficacious with respect to it. Here too it is possible to guarantee God full sovereignty and omniscience; but as long as his action is conceived as independent of ours, the situation regarding freedom ends up no better.¹⁰

These problems are avoided, McCann assures us, if we think together cosmos and divine act. The world is not an artifact of God’s making, abiding outside of him as manipulable object, but the artistic expression and content of his eternal willing: “So God does not create us or our works by means of commanding our existence, where this is conceived as a kind of causal device. Rather, His commanding our existence is our production, and we have our being in His very act of creating us.”¹¹ In him we live and move and have our being.

Yet surely divine determinism remains hidden somewhere in McCann’s proposal. The nagging feeling won’t go away. Watch Robert Lawrence Kuhn’s interviews with McCann. It’s clear that Kuhn thinks that his theology of creation is deterministic. The Texas A&M phi­los­opher vigorously objects:

Even though, as primary cause, God provides for the existence of my decisions and actions, the minimal requirement for libertarian freedom is preserved: there is no independent condition or state of affairs by which my exercises of will are deterministi­cally caused—none on earth, and none in heaven either.¹²

God neither acts upon us as a cue stick acts upon a billiard ball, nor forces us to behave against our will. “That is precisely what does not go on in the relationship between God and his creatures,” McCann insists. “The operation of his will is not an event independent of my willing; there is nothing ‘left over’ if we subtract my act of deciding from God’s act of creating it.”¹³ I am created in my willing and acting, and apart from this willing and acting, there is no me for God to manipulate, coerce, or control. Hence the divine act that puts my decidings and actings in place cannot do violence to me: “God’s creative determination of my decisions does not rule out their being free, for in fact the determination and the decision are one and the same.”¹⁴ If we find ourselves straining at McCann’s logic, perhaps it’s because we still keep thinking of God as a being alongside ourselves rather than as the transcendent source of being. Creator and creatures do not exist on the same metaphysical plane and therefore cannot be coordinated in an ordinary way.

In God’s activity as creator we encounter no event or state that is ontologically independent of our will, and determinative with respect to it. He does not operate upon us, or from without; he operates in our very willing, so that his will is done through ours, but without any kind of forcing. There is no standing condition that is out of our control, no fait accompli prior to the very act that is our decision or volition.¹⁵

When God summons me into existence—and he’s willing me into existence at every moment—he simultaneously wills my decisions and actions. He creates me in my freedom; he creates me freely acting. The divine author does not make us do things; he makes us doing them. His decision that I shall go to the theater to see Dune just is my freely-enacted decision to see Dune. Nothing is forced upon me. I am not compelled and can always do otherwise.

God is responsible for the being of all that is, but He does not produce it by operating to change something else, and He does not produce our decisions by operating on us… And the true manifestation of that is not some descriptive condition determining the nature of things, but rather their very existence. So far as my decision is concerned, God’s creative activity does not, even on the eternal level, stand as a determining condition which settles what I shall decide. It is fully manifested simply in my deciding as I do.¹⁶

The above is a key paragraph for comprehending McCann’s metaphysical vision. Note the unity of divine and creaturely agency. This unity is only possible if we grasp the noncom­petitive relationship between the transcendent God and the finite beings he has made from out of nothing. Here’s another long paragraph that I hope will further clarify:

A useful analogy that may be drawn here is to the relationship between the author of a story, and the characters within it. The author does not enter into the story herself, nor does she act upon the characters in such a way as to force them to do the things they do. Rather, she creates them in their doings, so that they are able to behave freely in the world of the novel. On the traditional account, God’s relation to his creatures is similar. As creator, he is the “first cause” of us and of our actions, but his causality works in such a way that we are not acted upon, and so are able to exercise our wills freely in deciding and acting. If this is correct, then as Aquinas at least seems to suggest, God’s creative activity does not violate libertarian freedom, for it does not count as an independent determining condition of creaturely decision and action. On the contrary: assuming God’s own will is free, there is no event in heaven or earth that is independent of my deciding to attend the concert tonight, and which causes my decision. God’s creative activity does not act upon me or render me passive in any way, for it consists solely in God’s freely giving himself over to being the ground of being for me and all that I do. Accordingly, I can still display libertarian freedom. My decision is a spontaneous display of creaturely agency, free in the libertarian sense because it does not occur through event causality, and because in it I am fully and intentionally committed both to deciding and to deciding exactly as I do. There are no further legitimate requirements for libertarian freedom. There is, of course, something that cannot happen on this view: it is not possible for God’s activity as creator to be devoted to my deciding to attend the concert, and yet that I should forebear to decide at all, or decide to do something else. But that is not because if I were to try it, I would find myself in a losing battle with God’s efficacious will. It is because there is no manifestation of that will regarding my decision short of the decision itself. The impossibility that God’s will as creator and mine as creature should diverge suggests trouble because we can view what goes on either from God’s perspective or from mine. That suggests two events, and a potential conflict between them. Properly interpreted, however, the traditional view appears to call for only one event, and as far as it is concerned, all the impossibility comes to is that I cannot at once both make a decision and not make it. To be incapable of the logically impossible is not a failure of freedom, libertarian or otherwise.¹⁷

It sounds all quite schizophrenic, yet if we stay with McCann’s reasoning long enough, it does begin to make sense, the way things sometimes do when we turn them upside down. At least I think it makes sense. How can God and I both be the subject of my willing? Think about it along these lines:

I alone am the subject of my decision. It is predicated of me, and its defects are mine. What God does is create the event of my deciding as I do. He is, as it were, the subject of my being the subject of my decision—which is really just an expression of the point that we have our being in him.¹⁸

Double agency—think back to the analogy of the novelist and her characters.

But could I have done otherwise? the libertarian asks. Yes, of course. But if you had done otherwise, God would have willed otherwise. But can I do otherwise? Again yes. Just go ahead and do otherwise. What’s stopping you? Certainly God isn’t. You are free to pursue whatever goods you wish to pursue, free to prioritize your motives as you choose, free to follow your desires or not follow them—everything an incompatibilist could ask. “God’s activity as creator,” notes McCann, “operates in such a way that my integrity as an agent is exactly what it would have been if the subject of creation had never come up, and we had concluded that, as many libertarians believe, my decisions and actions have no determin­ing cause of any kind, primary or secondary.”¹⁹ God is too close to us to damage our interior freedom. But given that God creates the volitionary event, this necessarily means that I cannot decide other than what God eternally decides. I cannot simultaneously decide and not decide to go to the theatre to see Dune. “But since the only manifestation of His will in this regard is my deciding,” explains McCann,

all that this limitation comes to is that I cannot decide anything else while at the same time deciding as I do. That, of course, is not a limitation at all… Paradoxical though it may appear at first, therefore, even though our decisions are set in place by the creative power of God, we could, even on the eternal stage, have done otherwise.²⁰

But if I am free to do otherwise, how does that not mean that I am determining God‽ It sure sounds like I have a hook in the divine nose. On a mere whim, I can make God do whatever I want, will whatever I will, like the young John Connor commanding the T-800 Terminator to stand on one foot. What a conundrum, yet it really isn’t. It only looks that way because we keep separating the divine and creaturely side of things; but there is only one event of decision and action, analyzed from two perspectives: God freely wills as Creator and we freely will as creaturely agents.

If this seems obscure, consider again the relationship between the author and her characters. Their first existence is, of course, in her thoughts. But there is no independent mental act of the author that gives rise to her characters; they are born with the very thoughts themselves in which she first conceives them. The same holds of us in our dependence on God for our existence, and it holds of our decisions also. Thus, the first manifestation of God’s will in creating me the person who decides to vacation in Colorado is not an event independent of my decision, but simply my deciding to go there…

True, I cannot decide in opposition to God’s will—and since he is the foundation of my being, not I of his, his will is in that sense determining. But if, in all of my decisions, the first manifestation of God’s will is simply my deciding as I do, then as far as the actual events go all the determina­tion comes to is that neither God nor I can will as we do and yet be willing something else. My freedom is in no way curtailed.²¹

God does not have a hook in our noses, nor do we have a hook in his. There aren’t any hooks, just as there aren’t any causal joints or nexuses.

But this makes divine grace irresistible, we object. What is this but an expression of Augustinian determinism? The objection, though, reveals that we are still thinking of Creator and creature in dualistic opposition:

It is true that God’s will cannot be resisted, but that is not because in the operations of our own will he has us cornered, or in any way overpowered. It is because God’s will is not the kind of thing that can be resisted, in that it does not operate by force. Indeed, where God’s action as creator is concerned, we do not even “follow” his will, in the true sense of the term. There is no point in our lives as decision makers where we are presented with a decision God has ordained for us and then are driven to accept it. Rather, we are presented with specific moral choices to make and to act upon. In making and carrying out those choices we decide and act for reasons—that is, for the sake of certain ends—and in so doing we select our own destiny every bit as much as God does. That we and our doings are known and ordained to be from eternity changes none of that, for the knowing and ordaining is nothing apart from God’s act of creating us as the beings we are.²²

The only difference between his construal of human freedom and the typical libertarian construal, McCann tells us, is that his account presents our decisions and actions as grounded in God as primary cause, “whereas on the standard libertarian view their existence is grounded in nothing whatever.”²³ The divine Creator not only respects our freedom; he is its ground and source. “It is true that our destinies are written,” he remarks; “but the handwriting is ours.”²⁴

Yet we remain uneasy and unpersuaded. Another objection comes to mind: if God creates me willing and acting, then that would seem to imply that my agential purposes are subordinated to God’s purposes, thus destroying my autonomy. We may think we are acting in accordance with our own reasons and motives, but in reality we are being constrained by God to advance his own covert agenda. Our belief in free agency is illusory. We are mere dupes and puppets, no more free than the androids in Westworld, who have no idea that an outside world exists or that they were made for the sole purpose of fulfilling the desires of the guests. McCann concedes the possibility of subordination but denies the negative consequences:

Subordination occurs only when yours or my ends are selected only because they are congruent with the other, so that if they did not suit, one or the other would have to give way. And we may grant that since God wills our decisions for the good he sees accomplished in and through them, it is possible that our ends are subordinate to his in this way. But it does not follow that they are. That conclusion would be in order only if we could be sure that God’s purposes finally conflict with our good as morally responsible agents—so that they can be achieved only at the expense of our exercising our wills in just those ways that yield for us a robust and consistent moral character, uniquely appropriate to each individual. And there is no reason whatever to think such a thing is the case. On the contrary: it may well be that as creator God has no more paramount objective than that we should exercise full autonomy in forming and executing our intentions, and come to display precisely the moral character to which they give rise. Or, if he does have higher objectives it may be that they cannot be achieved except through this expedient. Indeed, it is not implausible to think that nothing less than this is in keeping with the complete and loving involvement with each creature’s destiny that is so often claimed by believers to characterize divine providence.²⁵

I keep pondering upon this objection. It seems to me that McCann might have given a stronger response. If “God’s act of willing that I choose as I do is related to my action not as nomic cause to effect, but as will to content,”²⁶ then my reasons for my action are part of that content. Is not the possi­bil­ity of inappropriate subordination thereby excluded, given that God wills the reasons that lead to my decisions? Or am I thinking about this in the wrong way?

As fascinating and compelling as I find McCann’s reflections on divine and human agency, I believe that his position should be supplemented—or perhaps corrected—by the assertion of humanity’s teleological orientation to the Good.²⁷ We are creatures who are ordered toward God for our happiness and fulfillment, and it is out intrinsic desire for God as our final end that prompts our willing, even when we choose lesser or apparent goods, even when we sin. Our Creator wills for us the very good that we ultimately will for ourselves. It is precisely this truth we do not believe, and because we do not believe, we fear his beneficent sovereignty and construct our fortresses of personal autonomy. Here is our sin and the root of sin. If we had faith, we would not fear God’s control of history nor resent our onto­log­ical dependence as creatures—and so would not worry ourselves about the impossible possi­bil­ity of God sacrificing us on the altar of providence. One way or another, the divine Novelist who is absolute Love, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, will bring the cosmic narrative to glorious consummation in his Kingdom.

(cont)

 

Footnotes

[1] Hugh J. McCann, Creation and the Sovereignty of God (2012), p. 107; emphasis mine. McKann cites Katherin Rogers as an inspiration for his reflections on God as novelist: “How a Perfect Being Creates: Anselm’s Theistic Idealism,” The Anselmian Approach to God and Creation (1997), 223-261.

[2] Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker (1941), 54.

[3] McCann, 108; emphasis mine.

[4] James F. Ross, “Creation II,” in The Existence and Nature of God (1984), 128.

[5] The great Anglican philosophical theologian Austin Farrer coined the term “causal joint” in his metaphysical writings. For an excellent introduction to Farrer’s construal of double agency, see Jeffrey A. Vogel, “A Self-effacing Gardener,” Eclectic Orthodoxy (30 December 2019).

[6] McCann, 44-45.

[7] Ibid., 103.

[8] Ibid., 43.

[9] Ibid., 103.

[10] Ibid., 106.

[11] Hugh J. McCann, “Divine Sovereignty and the Freedom of the Will,” Faith and Philosophy 12 (October 1994): 592.

[12] McCann, Creation, 104.

[13] Ibid., 105.

[14] Hugh J. McCann, “Divine Sovereignty,” 594.

[15] McCann, Creation, 106.

[16] McCann, “Divine Sovereignty,” 595; emphasis mine.

[17] Hugh J. McCann, “Divine Providence” (2012), Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy.

[18] McCann, “Divine Sovereignty,” 595.

[19] McCann, Creation, p. 105.

[20] McCann, “Divine Sovereignty,” 595-596.

[21] Hugh J. McCann, “Sovereignty and Freedom,” Faith and Philosophy 18 (January 2001): 114-115.

[22] McCann, Creation, 109.

[23] Ibid., 109.

[24] Ibid., 111.

[25] Ibid., 110.

[26] Ibid., 155.

[27] See David Bentley Hart, That All Shall Be Saved (2019), meditation #4.

 

Hope Springs Eternal

— The cypresses of Edenton Bay, in the azure and argent sky and water of October 23. Edenton, North Carolina.

I’m writing this a few days before Election Day, although you’ll be reading it in print in the Chowan Herald afterward. So I’m writing from a curious little time warp. What is still possibility for me has become fact for you. Whatever was desired or dreaded has passed from uncertainty into history.

But I’m also looking forward to Sunday, All Saints’ Day (November 1st), when I’ll be reading Revelation 7:9–17 at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church.

In my youth, which seems to have been ages ago, I used to be scared as hell of the book of Revelation. Now, I cherish it. I used to read it as a sequence of horrors. Now, I read it as someone in occupied Europe might have heard the BBC announcing the D-Day landings: liberation had begun, even though the war was far from over.

Because liberation is what Revelation is about.

John wrote his book of hope for people already living through tribulation. And tribulation is not merely some future catastrophe waiting around the corner. It is the cold, hard leitmotif of the entire history of a fallen world. Not of Creation itself, mind you, but of its fallenness.

And yet the promise of Revelation embraces the whole Creation: ourselves and everyone else, our animals and gardens, the forests, the sky, and the sea. It is a hope for the healing of everything God has made and loves.

Here is what John tells us:

“Therefore are they before the throne of God, and serve him day and night within his temple; and he who sits upon the throne will shelter them with his presence. They shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; the sun shall not strike them, nor any scorching heat. For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water; and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.”

Everything is gained. Nothing is lost.

All that is removed in the final liberation is what wounds and diminishes life: corruption, disease, cruelty, hatred, injustice, violence, and death. Nothing good is discarded. No beloved person is erased. Creation is not abolished but healed, brought forward into everything it was always meant to become.

This is hope. Not a shot in the dark, not wishful thinking, but something substantial enough to hang your hat on.

Hope is more than optimism.

Optimism depends upon favorable outcomes. Hope does not. Hope survives even when historical and political outcomes disappoint us, as they eventually tend to do. “Put not your trust in princes,” says the Bible. And it has good reason to say so.

Injustice still flourishes upon the earth, and we are not permitted to look away.

So here is an additional Beatitude I would like to append to those in the Sermon on the Mount:

Blessed are those who refuse to despair.

In Sunday’s reading, John sees “a great multitude which no man could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and tongues,” standing before the throne and the Lamb, crying out that salvation belongs to God and to the Lamb.

Every nation. Every people. Every language. No one has a monopoly upon that multitude.

There have been temporary victories and defeats, triumphs and disasters, governments and empires rising and falling. Sometimes the politics of the world have gone reasonably well. Sometimes they have gone terribly wrong.

But all the while, the calling of Jesus has remained: justice, mercy, compassion, and the solidarity of neighbors. Love of God and love of neighbor have never been suspended while we wait for better political circumstances.

And in the final analysis, salvation belongs to the Lamb.

Not to mortal princes.

There is a remarkable moment earlier in Revelation when John hears the announcement of the Lion of Judah, the one who has conquered. But when he turns to look, he sees a Lamb, standing as though it had been slain.

Perhaps we have been looking for victory in all the wrong places.

No electoral victory constitutes the arrival of the Kingdom of God. And no electoral defeat can prevent its coming.

Now, I don’t mean that hope is simply jumping off a ledge and trusting that someone will catch me. My hope is grounded in everything I’ve learned from my better angels, my family and friends, the beauty of my Father’s world, my Bible, and my church.

Above all, it is grounded in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

The New Jerusalem, with its open gates, living waters, and healing of the nations, is not merely a pleasant picture of a distant future. It is the future by whose light I have learned to read the past and live in the present.

And as a silver-haired fellow, considerably older than I once imagined I’d ever be, I’ve come to understand something about the passing of time.

The redemption of time is not the abolition of passing, but the liberation of passing from loss.

The kindness we have given, the beauty we have cherished, the courage we have found, and the love we have shared are not rendered meaningless because the moments in which they occurred have passed. What love receives in time, love may carry forward into ever-deepening communion.

Nothing is lost. All is gain.

So let me send this little message forward through my election-week time warp.

Optimism watches election returns and asks whether tomorrow will be better. Hope looks upon the same uncertain world and asks what love requires of us tomorrow, whatever the returns may be.

Optimism needs favorable circumstances. Hope gives us courage to make unfavorable circumstances more humane.

Hope is not the conviction that history will go our way. It is the freedom to love, act, and give ourselves away even when it doesn’t.

And even when history does go our way, I want to remember that the Prince in whom I may place my trust did not ride into Jerusalem upon a warhorse. He came humbly, riding on a donkey.

And in the New Jerusalem, where the gates are never shut and the sun will never set, he reigns not as a conquering tyrant, but as the Lamb.

He is the same yesterday and today and forever.

Appendix Ω: The Last Laugh

I’m working on a long essay on ecclesiology and eschatology, called, provisionally, “The Church that Forgot Her Future.” And I’m thinking of including, in the apparatus at the back, an appendix with jokes.

I think one of the deficiencies of theological textbooks is the absence of jokes. I aim to fix that problem.

An Eschatological Collection of Jokes That Even God Will Eventually Forgive

Q: Are you a universalist?
A: Hell yeah.

Q: How do you know this comedian isn’t an infernalist?
A: Because he can tell, and take, a joke.

Q: How many universalists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: Eventually, everyone.

Q: Why did the Calvinist refuse to attend the heavenly banquet?
A: He hadn’t been told he was invited.

Q: What’s the difference between an infernalist and a universalist?
A: The infernalist believes hell is eternal. The universalist believes it’s temporary—and the infernalist is furious about it.

Q: Why doesn’t God believe in eternal conscious torment?
A: He has better things to do forever.

Q: What did the infernalist say upon arriving in heaven?
A: “This place has really gone downhill.”

Q: What did the universalist say upon arriving in hell?
A: “Well, this won’t last.”

Q: Why was the infernalist disappointed at the Last Judgment?
A: The Judge kept asking the defendants to stay for dinner.

Q: What’s the difference between purgatory and a theological faculty meeting?
A: Purgatory eventually ends.

Q: Why did the Calvinist bring a guest list to heaven?
A: To check whether God had made any mistakes.

Ecclesiastical Difficulties

Q: What did the Orthodox theologian say when he discovered the New Jerusalem had no iconostasis?
A: “But where’s the Great Entrance?”

Q: What did the Anglican say when everyone finally arrived at the heavenly banquet?
A: “Splendid. But who arranged the seating?”

Q: Why did the ecclesiastical committee postpone the Second Coming?
A: They hadn’t finished discerning whether Christ had the necessary credentials.

Q: Why did the Church appoint a committee to investigate the New Jerusalem?
A: There were serious concerns about unauthorized access.

Q: How do you know the Church has forgotten her future?
A: She’s changed the locks on the gates that God explicitly said would never be shut.

Q: What did the church growth consultant recommend for the New Jerusalem?
A: “Close the gates. Exclusivity builds brand value.”

The Scandalous Guest List

Q: What is the real reason why people declined the invitation to the Wedding Banquet?
A: They didn’t like the guest list.

Q: What did Jonah say when he arrived at the New Jerusalem and found the Ninevites already there?
A: “I want to speak to the Manager.”

Q: What did Jonah say when he discovered the gourd tree growing beside the River of Life?
A: “Oh, not you again.”

Q: Why did the infernalist object to the River of Life?
A: It flowed outside the approved boundaries.

Q: Why was the devil furious about universal reconciliation?
A: God had offered him a job in hospitality.

Musical Difficulties in the Eschaton

Q: What did Ferlin Husky (“On the Wings of a Snow White Dove”) say when Mozart welcomed him into heaven?
A: “You mean there’s more than three chords?”

Q: What did Mozart say?
A: “Oh, infinitely more, Herr Husky. Infinitely more.”

A Final Theological Objection

Q: But surely somebody must be excluded?
A: Yes. Exclusion.

Q: Who gets the last laugh?
A: Everybody.

Epilogue: We Want Proof; John Gives Us Witnesses (John 20:30-31)

By John Stamps

Kierkegaard tells a little parable about a man walking down the street who spots a sign in a shop window: “Pants Pressed Here.” Delighted, he walks inside and begins removing his trousers. Imagine his embarrassment when he discovers that he’s not in a dry cleaner’s shop. He’s in a shop that sells signs.¹

The poor fellow could read the sign, but he couldn’t understand what it sign-ified. Something similar happens throughout John’s Gospel. Jesus performs signs in abundance, often in plain sight of crowds of eyewitnesses. They see the signs. They marvel at the signs. But they repeatedly fail to recognize what the signs are telling them about Jesus.

So Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book. But these things have been written so that you may come to believe and trust that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that by believing and trusting you may have life in his name. (John 20:30-31)² 

The Gospel that began with the promise of life in the Logos now concludes with the promise of life in his name. Here, John breaks the fourth wall and addresses us directly. He reveals why he wrote his Gospel—and for whom. John knows that most of his readers will never see what Thomas saw. We will never poke our fingers into Christ’s wounds. We will never hear Mary Magdalene called by name. Instead, we will receive the testimony of those who did.

The Signs Have Been Pointing Us To Someone

The Gospel of John itself becomes the bridge between the first witnesses and every subsequent generation of believers. We receive their testimony “at second hand,” but John does not therefore regard our faith as second-class faith. John tells us that Jesus performed many other signs that are not recorded in his Gospel. He has been intentionally selective. John only numbers two of them: the “first” sign is the water-become-wine (2:11), and the “second” is the healing of the official’s son (4:54). Traditionally, readers have organized John’s Gospel around seven major signs. Perhaps you learned them this way, too:

• Water into wine (John 2:1–11)
• Healing the royal official’s son (John 4:46–54)
• Healing the paralytic at the Pool of Bethesda (John 5:1–15)
• Feeding the five thousand (John 6:1–15)
• Walking on the Sea of Galilee (John 6:16–21)
• Healing the man born blind (John 9:1–41)
• Raising Lazarus from the dead (John 11:1–44)

John never gives us a canonical list of seven signs, and his concluding statement reminds us that whatever list we devise cannot be exhaustive.

But identifying the signs is not the same thing as understanding what they sign-ify. Surely something has gone wrong if we turn them into a checklist of seven miracles. From Cana onward, Jesus has been speaking mysteriously of his coming hour: “My hour has not yet come” (2:4). Finally, as he marches steadfastly toward Jerusalem and the cross, he announces: “What shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, for this purpose I have come to this hour” (12:27). The signs have been pointing us toward one particular place and one particular hour. As R. H. Lightfoot famously remarked:

The crucifixion was to St John doubtless the greatest sign of all.³

Yet even that needs qualification. For John, the cross cannot be isolated from resurrection and glorification. Jesus is “lifted up” upon the cross; crucifixion and glorification mysteriously coincide; his hour is his passage through death to the Father. The climactic sign is therefore not simply one more miracle to add to our list.

The signs are not ends in themselves. They sign-ify. Jesus sign-ifies that he is the Bread of Life by providing a superabundance of bread. He sign-ifies that he is the Light of the World by giving sight to a man born blind. He sign-ifies that he is the Resurrection and the Life by calling Lazarus from the tomb. And finally, the crucified Jesus stands alive before Thomas, nail wounds and all. Taken together, the signs converge upon the great Sign: the crucified and risen Jesus, revealed at last as “my Lord and my God.”

The Signs Reveal, but They Do Not Compel

Yet John has already shown that signs by themselves cannot compel faith. One of the most sobering passages in the Gospel occurs after Jesus has performed sign after sign before the crowds:

Although he had done so many signs before them, they did not put their trust in him. (John 12:37) 

The problem was never a shortage of evidence. The problem was a failure of recognition. The signs revealed Jesus’ glory, yet many remained unable—or unwilling—to see what God was doing among them. Some even reached the terrifying state Isaiah described: their eyes were blinded and their hearts hardened.

The signs reveal, but they do not compel. They point beyond themselves to the One who performs them. René Girard helps us out here:

I am convinced that God sends human beings a lot of signs that have no objective existence whatsoever for the wise and the learned. The ones those signs don’t concern regard them as imaginary, but those for whom they are intended can’t be mistaken, because they are living the experience from within.⁴

Girard’s point sounds as if it were ripped straight from John’s Gospel. A sign is not simply an object lying there waiting to be inspected and analyzed from a neutral distance. To recognize it as a sign is to see what it points beyond itself toward. Two people may witness the same event and yet find it signifies something utterly different to each. One sees only the event; another recognizes God’s glory.

This is why John concludes his Gospel not with another sign but with a written testimony. “These things have been written.” Thomas saw and believed. We read and believe. The beatitude pronounced upon those who have not seen now becomes the purpose of the Gospel itself. John writes so future generations may come to believe and trust that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and, by believing, have life in his name.

John does not write because his readers need more signs. He writes because they need faithful testimony. The signs point to Jesus, but the Gospel bears witness to him. Those who receive that witness and entrust themselves to Christ discover what the signs were pointing toward all along: life in his name.

We Want Proof; John Gives Us Witnesses

And please notice what St John has just done for us. He has not given us a treatise on the resurrection. He has not delivered a collection of air-tight arguments proving that Easter really happened. Instead, he has told us the story of Jesus. Now Christianity could have handed us Twenty Propositions Concerning the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as its foundational document, something like the Nicene Creed avant la lettre. But it didn’t. Instead, it handed us four Gospels. If we learn how to inhabit the Gospel story faithfully, it can teach us to see the world in ways that rational argument alone cannot. And when we become truthful witnesses ourselves, we can help others see differently, too.

Question: Why do we keep inventing apologetics?
Answer: Because John gives us witnesses, but we want proof instead. We want to transmogrify their martyria into epistēmē.

John asks us to believe and trust his testimony, and he promises that by entrusting ourselves to Jesus, we will have life in his name. Yet Jesus blesses those who have not seen but nevertheless believe.

John therefore makes no attempt to give us what philosophers sometimes call “the view from nowhere”: a supposedly neutral standpoint from which a detached observer might weigh the evidence and arrive at the resurrection as an irresistible conclusion. John speaks instead from within a community of witnesses. He invites us to receive their testimony, entrust ourselves to the One they bear witness to, and discover for ourselves the life he promises.

Let’s sharpen the contrast even more. John does not offer us the view from nowhere.⁵ He offers us the view from the true and living way. He does not invite spectators to inspect Christianity from a safe distance. He invites pilgrims to receive the testimony and follow the One to whom it bears witness. The invitation to trust is itself part of the way of knowing.

Thomas does not graduate beyond witness. He becomes part of it. The risen Christ does not replace testimony with certainty. He creates more witnesses. The Gospel itself is the written form of that witness, entrusted to future generations who have not seen and yet believe. As David F. Ford observes:

To meet God through Jesus, it is not at all necessary to have been an eyewitness.⁶

At first blush, later generations of Christians seem to stand at an epistemic disadvantage. We were not present in the upper room. We did not see the wounds. We did not hear Jesus speak. Yet John refuses to concede that point. The risen Lord does not regard later arrivals as second-class believers. On the contrary, he blesses us. The goal of the resurrection appearances is not to create an elite class of eyewitnesses but to establish a trustworthy witness through whom others may believe and trust.⁷

Thomas’s encounter is therefore unique, but it is not normative. He belongs to the apostolic foundation. We belong to the community that receives their testimony. Faith does not become weaker because it rests on witness. Genuine faith now becomes possible.

If we have learned anything from John’s resurrection narratives, it is that they are not “evidence that demands a verdict.” We misunderstand the resurrection the moment we treat it as historical proof that compels assent. The resurrection is no more a discovery of reason than are the incarnation or the cross. It is a signpost for pilgrims. The disciples’ witness invites us onto the same journey they took to know the risen Lord. Faith remains indispensable, not because the evidence is deficient, but because only those who learn to love, trust, and follow him know the risen Christ.⁸

Do We Still Want Life?

But can we still trust this testimony? That question has grown especially urgent in twenty-first-century America. We have watched American Christianity discredit our own witness. Churches have confused the gospel with prosperity, spectacle, political power, and nationalism. Others have watched the faith they inherited come apart piece by piece and have wondered whether anything worth trusting remains.

Among Christians today, deconstruction has become a loose metaphor for taking apart an inherited faith, piece by piece, to ask what belongs to the gospel, what belongs to the culture in which we received it, and what can no longer be believed or trusted.⁹

That is exactly where John’s Gospel becomes newly urgent. He does not ask us to trust American Christianity. He does not ask us to believe in the Church’s competence, respectability, political usefulness, or institutional survival. He asks us to trust the testimony concerning Jesus of Nazareth—the Logos made flesh, the Galilean carpenter and itinerant rabbi, God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God.

After all the deconstruction, then, perhaps one question remains: Is Jesus still worth trusting?

And what does John promise those who entrust themselves to Jesus? Nothing less than life—ζωή. That word has echoed through the Gospel from its opening lines: “In him was life.” Jesus gives living water. He is the bread of life. He comes that his sheep “may have life, and have it abundantly.” He tells Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life.” As the Gospel draws to a close, John tells us why he wrote: “that by believing and trusting you may have life in his name.”

This ζωή is not merely βίος—the continuation of biological existence. Perpetually extended bios is not what John means by ζωὴ αἰώνιος. Resurrection is not simply more of the life we already possess, stretched indefinitely into the future. As my old philosophy professor Diogenes Allen put it:

Eternal life is the holy life of God that is shared by the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.¹⁰

That is why John’s invitation to believe and trust matters. Institutional Christianity might disappoint us. Churches might betray their witness. Our inherited constructions of faith might need to come apart. But John does not ask us to believe in Christianity. He bears witness to Jesus Christ and asks whether we will entrust ourselves to him.

Jesus does not offer us βίος restored, but ζωή given. As it was in the beginning, so it is now: God breathes, and life comes into being. In the locked room, the risen Jesus breathes the Holy Spirit upon his disciples. In the written Gospel, their testimony is handed on to those who have not seen. And through that testimony John invites us into the ζωή of the new creation.

After all our deconstruction, the question remains: Do we still want life?

Footnotes

1. Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or, Part I, ed. and trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1987), 32 (“Diapsalmata”). ↩︎
2. All translations from the Greek New Testament, the Greek Old Testament (LXX), and the Hebrew Bible are my own, unless otherwise indicated. If you’re curious about my translation choices, I always defer to Bauer-Danker-Ardnt-Gingrich (BDAG), Lust’s Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint, and HALOT. When I don’t, it turns out to be a mistake.  ↩︎
3. R. H. Lightfoot, quoted in David F. Ford, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2021), 379. Ford himself comments, “Jesus crucified is the supreme sign.” I agree, although, as I suggest above, with an important Johannine qualification. ↩︎
4. René Girard, When These Things Begin: Conversations with Michel Treguer, trans. Trevor Cribben Merrill (East Lansing, MI: Michigan State University Press, 2014), 134. ↩︎
5. Thomas Nagel, The View from Nowhere (New York: Oxford University Press, 1986; repr., 1989). Nagel uses the phrase “the view from nowhere” for the aspiration toward an objective standpoint increasingly detached from the contingencies of one’s particular perspective. My contrast with John’s “view from the road” deliberately plays on Nagel’s metaphor. ↩︎
6. David F. Ford, Meeting God in John: Wisdom for the World according to the Fourth Gospel (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2002), 15.  ↩︎
7. Writing under the pseudonym Johannes Climacus, Kierkegaard argues that contemporaneity with the historical Jesus confers no decisive epistemic advantage. Those who stood face-to-face with Jesus often misunderstood, rejected, or abandoned him. Faith is possible only because God gives both the condition and the truth for believing. Consequently, later generations of Christians are not disadvantaged by living after the apostolic age. They are as capable of encountering the risen Christ as his first disciples because faith is God’s gift rather than the product of historical proximity. John’s Gospel makes the same point. Even eyewitnesses required revelation before they recognized Jesus (20:16, 28), while Jesus pronounces a special blessing upon those “who have not seen and yet have believed” (20:29). See Søren Kierkegaard, Philosophical Fragments/Johannes Climacus, ed. and trans. Howard V. Hong and Edna H. Hong, Kierkegaard’s Writings, vol. 7 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985).  ↩︎
8. Diogenes Allen, Between Two Worlds: A Guide for Those Beginning to Be Religious (Atlanta: John Knox Press, 1978), 150–54. Allen describes the resurrection narratives as directing pilgrims toward the risen Christ rather than furnishing historical proof that compels assent. Faith receives the apostolic witness because the intellect has been formed through the pilgrimage of love and trust in God’s vindication of Jesus. ↩︎
9. Despite the name, contemporary Christian “deconstruction” may owe more imaginatively to Descartes’s project of demolishing inherited opinions and rebuilding from secure foundations than to Derrida’s déconstruction. ↩︎
10. Diogenes Allen, Theology for a Troubled Believer (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2010), 131. ↩︎

From Mud to Glory: St Irenaeus and Deification

By the end of the first millennium, deification had become the principal way the Eastern Church would speak of God’s gift of salvation in Jesus Christ. The gospel promises many blessings—forgiveness of sins, deliverance from bondage, victory over death, baptism in the Spirit, eternal life in the Kingdom—but all these blessings would eventually be comprehended under one primary theme—theosis. To be saved is to be reborn into the life of the Father, through the Son, in the Holy Spirit. In Christ, we are given to participate in the one God and so made “partakers of the divine nature” (2 Peter 1:4). As St Athanasius the Apostolic would famously declare in the fourth century: “For God was made man that we might be made God” (On the Incarnation 54).

Yet it would take years of prayerful reflection upon the Scriptures and the Eucharist for preachers to reach such boldness. Given the Church’s struggle to speak the gospel in a pagan world filled with deities, such language would have been easily misunderstood. But the groundwork was laid in the late second century by the great theologian St Irenaeus of Lyons. In his writings we encounter the foundational Trinitarian grammar of theosis.¹ Irenaeus did not, of course, use the word, but the reality it names permeates his theology. His vision unfolds within the divine economy (οἰκονομία)—the “single, unified purpose or plan which God has for the whole of his creation.”² This economy begins with God’s creation of the cosmos and his fashioning of the human being in the divine image, continues with the embodiment of the divine Word in the womb of Mary, and culminates in the glorification of the flesh and the eschatological renewal of all things. Irenaeus thus provides a narrative of deification centered in the Incarnation: “The Word of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, through his immeasurable love, became what we are, that he might bring us to be even what he is himself” (Against Heresies V pref.).

The End Reveals the Beginning

When we read a story, we start on the first page and continue until we reach the last. But when we read the biblical story, Irenaeus tells us, we must first jump to its conclusion. Only then can we understand what God intended when he created Adam. The creation of humanity and its eschatological consummation belong to a single divine economy whose meaning is disclosed in the glorification of Jesus Christ. The cosmos is created from the eschaton, and the eschaton is inaugurated on the cross. The end reveals the beginning. Or as Irenaeus puts it: “the beginning appeared at the end” (AH 1.10.3). The crucified and risen Lord is the Alpha and the Omega. John Behr incisively observes:

Irenaeus is clear that the only perspective from which one can contemplate the economy of God, from its beginning to its conclusion, is from the end point, the apocalyptic opening of the Scriptures at the end of the ages in the light of the Cross of Christ.³

For Irenaeus, protology and eschatology are thoroughly, from beginning to end, Christocentric.⁴

This eschatological perspective governs Irenaeus’s understanding of God’s creation of humanity as presented in Gen 1:27 and Gen 2:7 (when read together, as did Irenaeus). Scripture teaches us that the first human being, Adam, is made in the divine image; yet it is Jesus, the Second Adam, who is the archetypal image. Although Adam precedes Jesus in the historical sequence, Jesus is prior in the economy. In his Incarnation, the true image becomes visible in the flesh originally fashioned in the Garden. Christ is the first true human being:

In former times it was said that man had been made according to the image of God, but it was not yet shown; for the Word was as yet invisible, according to whose image man had been made. Wherefore also he easily lost the similitude. When, however, the Word of God became flesh, he confirmed both these: for he both showed forth the image truly, since he became himself what his image was, and he re-established the similitude after a sure manner, by assimilating man to the invisible Father through means of the visible Word. (AH V.16.2)

Here we find the theological foundation for the economy of salvation. The Word through whom the Father created the world becomes human himself, thereby revealing both the perfection of the human being and the final destiny of mankind. Adam is the “type of the one to come” (Rom. 5:14); Jesus is the prototype. Irenaeus provocatively describes the necessity of the Incarnation in these words:

Because the Word, the Fashioner of all things, prefigured in him [Adam] the future economy relating to the Son of God on behalf of the human race, God having predetermined the first, the animated human that is, so that he should be saved by the spiritual one; for, since the Saviour pre-exists, it was necessary that the one to be saved should also exist, so that the Saviour should not be without purpose. (AH III.22.3)

You might want to re-read the above passage, as it’s one of the most surprising in patristic literature. Scholars have long debated its meaning. Yet when we have grasped that Irenaeus is reflecting upon the single divine economy from the eschatological end to the protological beginning, it begins to make an odd kind of sense. Creation and salvation together belong to the one divine economy. Given that the crucified, risen, and returning Jesus Christ is the Savior of humanity, the divine Word has always been the Savior; therefore it was necessary for God to create human beings for him to save, “so that the Saviour should not be without purpose.” As Behr elaborates:

In Adam, the Word sketched out in advance what would be revealed and established in the Son of God, Christ himself. The description of Adam as a ‘type’ implies the prior existence of the one of whom he is a type. As such, the one who was to come exists before Adam; it was by him and for him that Adam came into existence, and, furthermore, as he exists as the Saviour, Adam came into existence to be saved by him. Thus, though only appearing at the end, this one is, nevertheless, the true beginning. ⁵

God’s salvific intention, therefore, reaches beyond the recovery of a lost paradise. Adam’s disobedience subjected humanity to the dominion of sin, corruption, and death: “As our race went down to death through a vanquished man, so we may ascend to life again through a victorious one” (AH V.21.1). This victory is accomplished through the cross: “By his passion the Lord has destroyed death, nullified error, destroyed corruption, overcome ignorance; he has manifested life, displayed the truth and given incorruption” (AH II.20.3). The telos of the divine economy is nothing less than the eschatological perfection of humanity, joyously lived in communion with the Father through the Son in the Spirit. Christ restores what was lost in Adam and accomplishes what Adam did not attain. Salvation is both restoration and fulfillment.

The Human Being: Created for Glory

“So from this earth, while it was still virgin,” Irenaeus reports, “God ‘took mud from the earth and fashioned man,’ the beginning of humankind” (Demonstration 32). The human being is the handiwork of the divine Artist, molded by his two hands, the Word and the Spirit. The work of salvation is continuous with the work of creation.  At every step along the way, he remains intimately involved in the formation of humanity, patiently bringing it toward its intended perfection.

But what exactly was the mud creature’s original condition? Christian theology typically thinks of Adam as possessing a state of perfection that he subsequently lost through disobedience. Irenaeus tells a different story. Adam was created good yet immature. He had only begun his journey toward the fullness of human existence. He was, as Irenaeus describes him, a child who needed to grow:

It was necessary for man to be first created; and having been created, to grow; and having grown, to become mature; and having become mature, to multiply; and having multiplied, to grow strong; and having grown strong, to be glorified; and having been glorified, to see his Lord. (AH IV.38.3)

Irenaeus addresses the question of why God did not create humanity perfect from the beginning. His answer turns upon the distinction between the uncreated God and his creatures. God is eternally perfect; creatures receive their existence from him and must grow into the perfection for which they have been created. Irenaeus elaborates in this long passage:

If, then, anyone say, “What then? Was not God able to have made man perfect from the beginning?” let him know that, as far as God is concerned, inasmuch as He is always the same and ingenerate, all things are possible to Him. But those things made by Him, because they have a later beginning of creation, must for this reason be inferior to Him who created them. For it was not possible for things recently created to be uncreated; and since they are not uncreated, on this account do they fall short of the perfect. And since these things are of a more recent origin, so are they infantile; and since they are infantile, so are they unaccustomed to and unexercised in perfect discipline. For certainly it is in the power of a mother to give strong food to her infant, yet she does not do so, since the child is not yet able to receive stronger nourishment. So too, it was in the power of God Himself to grant perfection to man from the beginning; but the man, on the contrary, was unable to receive it, since he was still an infant. And for this reason our Lord, recapitulating all things in Himself, came unto us in these last times, not in such a manner as He Himself was able to come, but in such a manner as we were able to behold Him. He could have come to us in His ineffable glory, but we were not able to receive the greatness of that glory. Therefore, as if to infants, He who was the perfect bread of the Father offered Himself to us as milk, since His coming was in keeping with a man. This He did so that we, being nourished, as it were, from the breast of His flesh, and from such a course of nourishment becoming accustomed to eat and drink the Word of God, might be able to contain in ourselves Him who is the bread of immortality: the Spirit of the Father. (AH IV.38.1)

“Infant” here is a literal translation of the Latin word infans, but scholars suggest that the underlying Greek word is νήπιος (nēpios), i.e., infant or child. We need not, however, think that Irenaeus imagined Adam and Eve as literal infants. He never specifies an age for them, though there are indications he may have thought of them as prepubescent. Whatever their physical age, Irenaeus clearly regards them as immature in their spiritual and emotional condition. They lacked the capacity to receive the glory of God. The human being must learn to receive the divine gifts. Growth requires time, experience, obedience. But humanity’s perfection ultimately awaited the coming of Christ himself. M. C. Steenberg offers this interpretation of the immaturity of Adam and Eve:

The state of infancy of which Irenaeus is speaking seems, above all else, to be a state of want: the first man is a child because he “falls short of the perfect,” because he cannot receive perfection, because he cannot endure God’s greatness… This monumental gulf between Adam and God, a gulf founded here in Adam’s own being as newly created man, is not one of physical distance nor deprivation of grace, but the natural difference of being that exists between Creator and created. One is infinite, the other finite; the distinction between the two is of the highest order. It is this concept which grounds the notion of radical incompleteness that stands as a driving theme behind Irenaeus’ larger conception of humankind. There is almost no section of his corpus that does not resound with the idea that humanity, commencing in Adam, stands at the base of an ascent into the perfection for which it is destined, perilously far from its goal yet offered full guidance and support for the duration of the journey… This full humanity, the whole and complete man, is for Irenaeus unequivocally the person of Jesus Christ. It is He who is the true image of God into which humanity was created and in whom all other human persons may come to their own full maturity.⁶

Irenaeus therefore understands creation dynamically. The creature fashioned from mud is called to become a participant in divine life. Adam’s infancy is fitting because the human being was created for a perfection that lay ahead. The incarnate Christ reveals the fulfillment of the divine plan. In him we behold what it means to be fully human.

Recapitulation in Christ

The heart of Irenaeus’s soteriology is his doctrine of recapitulation. The Greek word anakephalaiōsis means summing up or gathering together under a head. Irenaeus draws upon St Paul’s declaration that God intends to sum up all things in Christ (Eph. 1:10). In becoming human, the eternal Word enters the history of humanity and gathers that history into himself. He retraces the path of Adam, confronting the temptations and disobedience that brought humanity into bondage. “God recapitulated in himself,” Irenaeus writes, “the ancient formation of man, that he might kill sin, deprive death of its power, and vivify the human being” (AH III.18.7). Herein lies our redemption—the healing and perfecting of the image in which we were originally made:

When he became incarnate, and was made human, he recapitulated in himself the long unfolding of human beings, furnishing us with salvation by way of a compendium, so that what we lost in Adam—to be according to the image and likeness of God—that we might recover in Christ Jesus. (AH III.18.1)

Recapitulation embraces the whole of Adamic existence. The eternal Son of God is born of a woman, grows from infancy to adulthood, experiences hunger in the wilderness, confronts the Devil and overcomes temptation, weeps at the death of Lazarus, struggles with the fear of death, and freely subjects himself to the agony of the cross, embracing the fate that all human beings must suffer.

By living a genuinely human life in obedience to the Father, Jesus heals the long history of disobedience that began with Adam. The contrast between Adam and Christ is especially apparent in the accounts of temptation. In his immaturity, Adam succumbs in the Garden of Eden to Satan’s deception and eats from the tree of knowledge. Jesus, confronted by the same adversary in the wilderness, answers Satan with the words of Scripture, the voice of his Father. And in the Garden of Gethsemane, he freely submits to the inevitable conclusion of his mission, “not as I will, but as thou wilt” (Matt 26:39). His obedience to the Father finds its supreme expression in his sacrificial death upon the cross, “redeeming us by his own blood” (AH V.14.3). As Irenaeus declares: “So, by means of the obedience by which he obeyed unto death, hanging upon the tree, he undid the old disobedience occasioned by the tree” (Dem. 34). The disobedience of the tree of Eden is redeemed through the obedience of the tree of glory.

Irenaeus also speaks of the recapitulation of Eve in the Blessed Virgin Mary, whose obedience reverses Eve’s disobedience:

And just as through a disobedient virgin man was struck and, falling, died, so also by means of a virgin, who obeyed the word of God, man, being revivified, received life. For the Lord came to seek back the lost sheep, and it was man who was lost; and, therefore, He did not become any other formation, but being born from her who was of the race of Adam, He maintained the likeness of the formation. For it was necessary for Adam to be recapitulated in Christ, that “mortality might be swallowed up in immortality”; and Eve in Mary, that a virgin, become an advocate for a virgin, might undo and destroy the virginal disobedience by virginal obedience. (Dem. 33)

Note Irenaeus’s strong wording: “For it was necessary for Adam to be recapitulated in Christ … and Eve in Mary.” Given the Father’s predetermination to save humanity through divine recapitulation, it was economically fitting and proper that Christ be born of the Virgin Mary, whose faithful assent at the Annunciation would undo the disobedience of the virgin Eve. Thus the Theotokos is included in her Son’s redeeming work.

Adoption as Sons by the Holy Spirit

The salvific goal of the Incarnate Son’s work of recapitulation is the elevation of human beings as adopted sons. “For it was for this end,” declares Irenaeus, “that the Word of God was made man, and He who was the Son of God became the Son of man, that man, having been taken into the Word, and receiving the adoption, might become the son of God” (AH III.18.1). It is precisely here that we see in Irenaeus the gospel taking on the form of theosis. In recapitulating fallen humanity in his sanctified life, Jesus establishes himself as the head of a new human race. By baptismal union with him, we are reborn in the Spirit and incorporated into his filial communion with his Father:

For it was incumbent upon the Mediator between God and humans, by his kinship to both, to bring both to friendship and concord, and to bring it about that God would take the human to himself and that the human would give itself to God. For in what way could we be partakers of the adoption of sons, unless we had received through the Son participation in himself, unless his Word had not entered into communion with us by becoming flesh? Therefore he also passed through every stage of life, restoring all to communion with God. (AH III.18.7)

In recapitulating humanity, the eternal Son brings Adam and his descendants into participation in his own Sonship and communion with his Father. Irenaeus quotes Psalm 82.1, “God stood in the congregation of the gods, He judges among the gods,” and then remarks: “He refers to the Father and the Son, and those who have received the adoption; but these are the Church” (AH 3.6.2).

Consider also what our adoptive sonship ultimately entails: participation in the uncreated attributes of incorruptibility and immortality:

For this the Word of God became man, and the Son of God [became] Son of man, that man, mingled with the Word and thus receiving adoption, might become a son of God. We could not receive imperishability and immortality unless we had been united to imperishability and immortality. And how could we have been united with imperishability and immortality unless imperishability and immortality had first been made what we are, so that what was perishable might be absorbed by imperishability and what was mortal by immortality “that we might receive adoption as sons” (Gal. 4:5)? (AH III.19.1)

Here, my friends, is deification! Because of the Incarnation of the eternal Son, humanity is now given to share in the divine life of the one God. “Deification moves from the image and likeness,” explains Eric Osborn, “by means of the trinitarian economy, to the vision of God which gives incorruptibility.”⁷

We have yet to consider the critical role of the Holy Spirit in our adoption as sons. In this passage Irenaeus describes the work of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the deification of humanity:

For this reason the baptism of our regeneration takes place through these three articles, granting us regeneration unto God the Father through His Son by the Holy Spirit: for those who bear the Spirit of God are led to the Word, that is to the Son, while the Son presents them to the Father, and the Father furnishes incorruptibility. Thus, without the Spirit it is not possible to see the Word of God, and without the Son one is not able to approach the Father; for the knowledge of the Father is the Son, and knowledge of the Son of God is through the Holy Spirit. (Dem. 7)

The Spirit leads us to the Son; the Son presents us to the Father; and the Father crowns our adoption as sons with the gift of life everlasting. Irenaeus directly connects rebirth in the Spirit to our adoption as children of the Father:

Therefore Isaiah says,… “For the Spirit will come forth from me and it is I who made every breath” [Isa 57:16], properly setting the Spirit in God, who in the last days has spread it forth on the human race by adoption. (AH V.12.2)

Irenaeus draws a crucial distinction between the life bestowed in creation and the new life bestowed through adoption:

For the Father bears the creation and His own Word simultaneously, and the Word borne by the Father grants the Spirit to all as the Father wills. To some He gives after the manner of creation what is made; but to others [He gives] after the manner of adoption, that is, what is from God, namely generation. And thus one God the Father is declared, who is above all, and through all, and in all. The Father is indeed above all, and He is the Head of Christ; but the Word is through all things, and is Himself the Head of the Church; while the Spirit is in us all, and He is the living water, which the Lord grants to those who rightly believe in Him, and love Him, and who know that “there is one Father, who is above all, and through all, and in us all” [Eph. 4:6]. (AH V.18.2)

Our adoption is thus a new generation, a birth into the divine life that transcends our original creation. As Behr comments: “Those … who receive the adoption of sons in Christ receive life as the life-creating Spirit himself, vivifying them permanently ‘inside and out.’”⁸

Hence we must think dialectically. To be baptized by the Spirit into the ecclesial body of the risen Christ is to be adopted as children of the Father; to be united to the Son is to be reborn in the Spirit. The logic must be run both ways if we are to grasp Irenaeus’s Trinitarian grammar.     

Conclusion

Osborn invites us to think of the single divine economy of humanity’s deification as unfolding in three seasons:⁹

• The first season is creation and God’s fashioning of the first human beings and their historical movement through the successive dispensations of Adam, Noah, and Abraham. This is a time of pedagogy as God accustoms human beings to his grace and presence, harmonizes them “to the symphony of salvation” (AH IV.14.2), and prepares them to receive his incarnate Son and the gift of the Spirit.
• The second season is the new covenant of God’s enfleshment as the Second Adam and his recapitulation of human history through death and resurrection. “The cosmic cross implanted (infixus) in creation becomes visible,” comments Osborn. “In his incarnation and death Christ has gathered up (in compendio) the whole history of salvation and restored the image and likeness of God in man.”¹⁰ This is the season of the Church, which “has been planted as a garden [paradisus] in this world” (AH V.20.2). In this garden, the faithful eat the words of Scripture and feast upon the Body and Blood of Christ, as they look forward to their final deification in the Kingdom.
• The third season will begin with the return of Christ in glory, when he shall raise the dead, judge the living and the dead, and consummate his work of recapitulation. The divine economy that began with the creation of Adam will reach its fulfillment in the resurrection of humanity and the gift of imperishable life. The children of God will enter into their promised inheritance, beholding forever the glory of their Father shining forth in his Son. “When we come to the end of all our pilgrimage,” Osborn declares, “our final vision shall be the face of him who was born of Mary.”¹¹

St Irenaeus’s narrative of salvation would be appropriated and adapted by later theologians. Origen, St Athanasius, St Gregory of Nyssa, St Cyril of Alexandria—each developed elements of his narrative as they sought to proclaim the gospel of theosis. Yet its truth is already anticipated in the bishop of Lyons’s celebrated words:

For the glory of God is a living man, and the life of man is the vision of God. If the revelation of God by the creation already gives life to all the beings living on earth, how much more does the manifestation of the Father by the Word give life to those who see God! (AH IV.20.7)

1. “Although he never employed the language of theopoiesis or theosis, already present in the theology of Irenaeus are all the essential elements of what would come to be regarded as the characteristically patristic understanding of sanctification as divinization: restoration of prelapsarian likeness to God and incorruptibility, initiated by the union of human nature with divine nature through the incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of the Eternal Son, appropriated existentially as adoption by God and infusion by the Holy Spirit, and finally perfected eternally through the face to face vision of God.” Jeffrey Finch, “Irenaeus on the Christological Basis of Human Divinization,” in Theosis (2006), 86-87. ↩︎
2. Denis Minns, Irenaeus (2010), 69. ↩︎
3. John Behr, Irenaeus of Lyons (2013), 145. ↩︎
4. Ibid., 185. ↩︎
5. Ibid., 146. Irenaeus is not engaging in the kind of speculation that would be raised in medieval theology: Would God have become man if Adam had never sinned. He is exegeting Scripture and therefore only thinking only in terms of the biblical story. ↩︎
6. M. C. Steenberg, “Children in Paradise,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 12 (2004), 15-16. ↩︎
7. Eric Osborn, Irenaeus of Lyons (2003), 132. ↩︎
8. Behr, 155. ↩︎
9. Osborn, 115-116. ↩︎
10. Ibid., 115-116. ↩︎
11. Ibid., 210. ↩︎

Fr John Behr on Origen on the Psalms

Thinking Trinity

Thinking Trinity: The Radical Homoousion by Fr Aidan “Fedora” Kimel

Read on Substack

A God-Sized Event: Thomas and the Revelation of the Crucified God (John 20:24-29)

By John Stamps

In Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, the opera’s climax arrives when Count Almaviva, who has been trying to seduce Figaro’s bride, Susanna, discovers that the woman he thought he was seducing is actually his own wife in disguise. He falls to his knees and begs her forgiveness, singing the words the audience has been longing to hear: “Contessa, perdono!” (“Countess, forgive me!”)

John’s Gospel has its own climactic recognition scene, and Thomas finally gives voice to what perceptive readers have known all along. The Fourth Gospel is traditionally symbolized by an eagle soaring into the theological heights, but its characters spend much of the story stumbling around on the ground. Thomas stands at the end of a slew of Johannine misunderstandings. Nicodemus misunderstands new birth. The Samaritan woman can’t make heads or tails out of living water. The crowds grossly misunderstand the bread of life. Mary Magdalene mistakes Jesus for the gardener. Repeatedly, eyewitnesses see and hear Jesus without grasping who stands before them. The problem is never merely the absence of evidence. It’s the mystery of recognition!

But Thomas, one of the Twelve, who was called “Twin,” was not with them when Jesus came. Therefore, the other disciples kept saying to him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and thrust my finger into the mark of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will never believe and trust.” (John 20:24-25) 

Thomas is often portrayed as the disciple obsessed with empirical evidence. But Thomas has a more basic question: Can the man who was crucified really be alive? It’s startling to realize that Thomas does not demand to see the risen Jesus. He demands to see the crucified Jesus. The issue is continuity. He wants to know whether the Jesus who appeared was the same Jesus who was nailed to the cross. Thomas’s demand is grotesque. He does not merely request to see the wounds. He insists on thrusting his finger into the nail marks and his hand into Jesus’ pierced side. Only then, he says, will he believe and trust.¹ Only when Thomas encounters the risen-indeed-but-still-nail-scarred Lord does he finally utter the confession toward which the entire Gospel has been moving: “My Lord and my God!“

At the same time, Thomas refuses the other disciples’ testimony. They repeatedly tell him, “We have seen the Lord.” Yet he stubbornly refuses to believe them. Their witness is not enough. Unless he pokes and prods for himself, he will not believe and trust.² Marianne Meye Thompson provocatively suggests that Thomas’s error may lie “not in his empiricist refusal to believe what he could not see, but in his historicist refusal to trust the apostolic witness to the resurrection.”³ Thomas demands something that will soon become impossible: he insists upon occupying the historical position of the eyewitness.

Thomas’s situation is uncomfortably familiar. We occupy pretty much the same epistemic position as Thomas. We were not present in the upper room. We did not stand beside the empty tomb. We did not place our hands in the wounds of the risen Christ. Like Thomas, we encounter the resurrection through others’ testimony.

Our instinct is to solve this problem with certainty. We seek a form of knowledge stronger than somebody else’s witness. We want our own direct access. We want proof. We want to upgrade martyria—witness—to epistēmē, a form of knowledge that feels more respectable, more secure, and less vulnerable than second-hand testimony. Thomas voices precisely that temptation we feel.

Yet John’s Gospel consistently places witness at the center of its understanding of faith. John the Baptist bears witness. The works of Jesus bear witness. The Scriptures bear witness. The Father bears witness. The Spirit bears witness. Mary Magdalene bears witness. Now the disciples bear witness: “We have seen the Lord.“

This helps explain why I have translated πιστεύσω (pisteusō) as “believe and trust.”⁴ Throughout John’s Gospel, believing is never merely accepting a proposition. It involves entrusting oneself to the one who is believed. It includes confidence, fidelity, reliance, and commitment. When Thomas declares, “I will never believe and trust,” he is not merely withholding intellectual assent. He is refusing to entrust himself to the testimony he has received.

Thomas seeks certainty above and beyond mere witness. Yet John’s Gospel refuses to abandon the category of witness. The risen Christ does not replace testimony with certainty. He creates yet more witnesses. Thomas refuses to trust them. The irony is lovely. Despite himself, Thomas will soon become one of them.

Put Your Hand Into My Side

And after eight days, again his disciples were inside, and Thomas was with them. Jesus comes while the doors were shut and stands in their midst and says, “Peace to you!” Then he says to Thomas, “Bring your finger here and see my hands. Bring your hand and thrust⁵ it into my side. And do not become faithless, but faithful.” (John 20:26-27) 

It is again the eighth day. Jesus continues his work of new creation. On this eighth day, his particular piece of handiwork is Thomas. After demanding assurance that the risen Lord is the very one who was crucified, Jesus issues an astonishing point-blank command to Thomas. Jesus honors Thomas’s presumptuous request. Eight days earlier, Jesus had redirected and deflected Mary’s attempt to cling to him. Now he commands Thomas to come even closer: “Bring your finger here and see my hands. Bring your hand and thrust it into my side.“

Thomas gets the answer he sought. The cruciform wounds remain. The glory of the resurrection has not erased the shame of the crucifixion. The risen Lord still bears the history of his suffering. The stigmata are not discarded; they are glorified.

But there is one more surprise. Jesus already knew Thomas’s brazen demand. Thomas had made it when Jesus was absent, yet Jesus repeats it almost verbatim. Nobody had reported the conversation to him. Nobody explained anything. But before Thomas reaches for Jesus’ wounds, Jesus has already dug deep into Thomas’s doubts. We might think the story is about Thomas recognizing Jesus. Nope. Jesus recognizes Thomas first.⁶

Then Jesus addresses Thomas directly: “Do not become faithless, but faithful.” Jesus is not asking Thomas to acknowledge yet another fact or rearrange his mental furniture. Faith is thicker than that. He summons him into the posture of faithfulness itself—a life of trust and fidelity. In short, Jesus wants Thomas to become what he has refused to trust: a dependable witness. Thomas must move beyond skepticism and entrust himself to the risen Lord standing before him and to the testimony already given by his fellow disciples.

For Those Who Have Not Seen: Thomas and the Faith of the Church

Thomas answered and said to him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus says to him, “Because you have seen me, you have believed and trusted. Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe and trust.” 

The best (and the most outrageous) commentary I know on this passage comes from the Easter Orthodox Vespers service for St Thomas Sunday:

O strange wonder, that grass should touch fire and be safe! For Thomas thrust his hand into the fiery side of Jesus Christ our God, and was not burned by touching.

St Romanos the Melodist suffered no doubt that Thomas thrust his hand into Christ’s fiery wounds. The image is shocking, but it captures the scene’s wonder. Thomas encounters not merely a resuscitated corpse but the living God. The wounds remain, yet they blaze with divine glory.⁷

And then Thomas utters the high-water mark of Christology in John’s Gospel: “My Lord and my God!” The confession answers the Gospel’s opening words. John began his Gospel by declaring that “the Word was God.” We readers have known from page one who Jesus is: the divine Logos made flesh. But now, at the story’s apex, one disciple finally catches up with us. “My Lord and my God!” The eagle has landed.

Thomas’s confession resonates deeply with Israel’s Scriptures. Thomas’s confession is not invented on Easter morning. Its language belongs to Israel’s worship. The psalmist prays:

Arise, O Lord, and give heed to my cause, O my God and my Lord, to my case. (Ps. 34:23 LXX [35:23 MT])

Thomas now directs that same language to the risen Jesus. The confession is therefore more than an acknowledgment that Jesus has returned from the dead. It is an act of worship. The crucified and risen Jesus now receives the worship that Israel offered to the God of Israel.

First-century readers would also have sensed the confession’s strident anti-imperial overtones. Calling Jesus “my Lord and my God” stood in striking contrast to the acclamations offered to the emperor. Suetonius reports that Domitian delighted in being addressed as Dominus et Deus noster (“our Lord and God”). Whether or not John consciously intended this contrast, Thomas’s confession leaves no room for rival claims to ultimate lordship. The crucified Jesus, and not Caesar, is “my Lord and my God.“⁸

Thomas’s confession changes not only how we speak about Jesus but how we speak about God. The resurrection has not simply vindicated Jesus. It has revealed God’s identity in the crucified and risen Christ.

There is no way to describe Jesus’ resurrection except as “a God-sized event.” Jesus is not a resuscitated corpse. He is not a ghost. He is not a zombie or Frankenstein’s monster. The risen Jesus challenges the very categories we use to understand reality. If he is indeed Lord and God, then Easter also challenges our assumptions about what it means for God to be God. As David F. Ford observes, the Jesus who stands before Thomas is “incarnate, crucified, risen, ascended to his Father, and breathing his Spirit.” Resurrection does not return Jesus to the old creation. It manifests the life of the new creation, a life that only God could create.⁹

Yet the God whom Thomas confesses has conquered death without ceasing to be the Crucified One. The risen Jesus still bears the wounds of his crucifixion. What are we to make of them? St Gregory Palamas asks this question precisely. How can the risen Christ display wounds when his body is no longer subject to suffering or death?

So how then did he have the scars? On the one hand, a body that is mortal and capable of suffering could not display scars and perforations and remain sound and healthy. But a body free from suffering and death can display the scars and perforations it previously suffered to whomever it wishes, and yet remain no less free from suffering and death.¹⁰

The risen Christ can display the wounds of his suffering without becoming subject to suffering or death again. Resurrection does not erase the history of suffering and death. The wounds remain. But their power does not.¹¹

When we describe the resurrection as “a God-sized event,” we do not mean that it is merely spectacular, overwhelming, or even obvious. We are not describing Zeus hurling thunderbolts or Odin leading the warriors of Valhalla into battle. We expect God to look like Zeus. The Gospel insists that God looks like Jesus. In Jesus, God becomes exceedingly inconspicuous, if not teeny-tiny indeed: concealed within a virgin’s womb, laid in a manger, washing the feet of his disciples, and finally hanging dead upon a Roman cross. From womb to tomb, divine power takes the form of self-giving love. Divine glory appears under the form of humility.

Even the resurrection itself hides God as much as it reveals him. The risen Christ is mistaken for a gardener. He appears quietly behind locked doors. Mary recognizes him when he calls her by name, and the disciples recognize him when he shows them his wounded hands and side. A God-sized event does not overwhelm the world by force. It challenges what we mean by God. The resurrection is a God-sized event precisely because the God who acts is the crucified God.

Thomas’s confession takes us beyond abstract speculation about divine attributes. It forces us to ask who God truly is. Meeting Jesus is meeting God. Meeting Jesus is our burning bush. How do we know who God is? Look at his wounds.

But what about us? We will never see those wounds. Jesus accepts Thomas’s confession, then immediately turns his attention beyond Thomas.

Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe and trust.

With this beatitude, the Gospel turns outward. The story is no longer about Thomas alone. John addresses every subsequent generation of Christians who must rely upon apostolic testimony rather than direct sight. The blessing falls not upon the eyewitness but upon us, the Church.

Thomas believed and trusted because he saw. We believe and trust through the witness of those who saw. The risen Christ reserves a special blessing for those who receive that witness and entrust themselves to him. The final word of the Thomas story is therefore not doubt but testimony, not sight but faith, not Thomas alone but the countless generations of Christians who confess with him: “My Lord and my God.”

But how are those who have not seen to believe and trust? John does not leave the question unanswered. After pronouncing the blessing, Jesus disappears from the scene, and the evangelist steps forward. The fourth wall comes down. John turns from telling us what Mary, the disciples, and Thomas saw and speaks directly to those of us who saw none of it. We have not been given Thomas’s eyes or his hands. We have been given something else: a written Gospel. “These things have been written.”

Epilogue: These Things Have Been Written—Faith, Witness, and Life for Those Who Have Not Seen (John 20:30–31)

Footnotes

1. Theophylact observes that Thomas does not reject the other disciples’ testimony because he thinks they are liars, but because he judges their report impossible. His skepticism stems from the resurrection’s unprecedented nature rather than suspicion of the witnesses. Theophylact adds, with characteristic wit, “Gullibility is a sign of light-mindedness, but stubborn resistance to truth is a sure indication of thick-headedness.” Blessed Theophylact, The Explanation of the Holy Gospel According to John, trans. Fr. Christopher Stade (House Springs, MO: Chrysostom Press, 2007), 301. ↩︎
2. Careful readers of John’s Gospel cannot help but remember Jesus’ earlier rebuke to the royal official: “Unless you see signs and wonders, you will never believe” (4:48). Thomas’s demand for sight echoes the attitude Jesus had earlier criticized. Ironically, in both cases, Jesus graciously grants the request. His purpose is never to reward unbelief but to lead unbelievers beyond signs to faith. Raymond E. Brown, The Gospel According to John XIII–XXI, vol. 2 (Anchor Bible 29A; Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1970), 1045. ↩︎
3. Marianne Meye Thompson, John: A Commentary (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 2015), 13.  ↩︎
4. BDAG: πιστεύω – 1. to consider something to be true and therefore worthy of one’s trust, believe. 2. to entrust oneself to an entity in complete confidence, believe (in), trust. 3. entrust. 4. be confident about. 5. think/consider (possible). ↩︎
5. Brill Dictionary of Ancient Greek: trans. to throw, hurl, to throw down, overthrow, to place, toss, put (often fig. ), to drop, to set aside, drive back ↩︎
6. John offers no explanation for Jesus’ knowledge, nor does he seem interested in supplying one. Throughout the Fourth Gospel, Jesus repeatedly knows what others have not yet revealed (1:47–48; 2:24–25; 4:17–19; 6:64; 11:11–15; 13:11). Thomas’s hidden conversation belongs to this recurring Johannine motif. ↩︎
7. Raymond E. Brown argues that John deliberately omits any statement that Thomas actually touched Jesus, suggesting that the invitation itself elicited Thomas’s confession. Brown, 1046. John is certainly silent on the point. Yet Jesus’ imperatives (“Bring your finger… bring your hand…“) read more naturally as genuine commands than as mere suggestions. ↩︎
8. Thompson, John, 426-427.  ↩︎
9. David F. Ford, The Gospel of John: A Theological Commentary (Grand Rapids: Baker Academic, 2021), 410. ↩︎
10. St Gregory Palamas, Homily 17, §18, in J.-P. Migne, ed., Patrologia Graeca 151, cols. 220–236; my translation from the Greek.
    Πῶς οὖν εἶχε τὰς ὠτειλάς; Θνητὸν μὲν σῶμα καὶ παθητὸν οὐκ ἂν ὠτειλάς τε καὶ διατρήσεις ἐπιδεῖξαι δύναιτο, καὶ σῶον καὶ ὑγιὲς διαμένειν· τὸ δὲ ἀπαθὲς καὶ ἀθάνατον ἔχει καὶ ὠτειλὰς δεικνῦναι καὶ διατρήσεις ἃς προϋπέστη καὶ οἷς ἂν θέλῃ καὶ μένειν οὐδὲν ἧττον ἀπαθὲς καὶ ἀθάνατον. ↩︎
11. Hartwig Thyen, commenting on John 20:27, cites Calvin’s dismissal of the inference that “Christ’s side is still pierced, his hands are still perforated” as ridiculous. Against Calvin, Klaus Wengst insists that the issue is not our “childish” conceptions but “what constitutes Jesus’ identity. He is not an unscathed victor figure, but permanently characterized as one who is wounded.” Thyen adds that the great painters seem to have understood this better than many great theologians when they depict even the judge of the world as the pierced one. Hartwig Thyen, Das Johannesevangelium, 2nd corrected edition, Handbuch zum Neuen Testament 6 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2015), 765. ↩︎