May [the LORD] grant you your heart’s desire
And fulfill all your purposes!
We will sing for joy over your victory,
And in the name of our God we will set up our banners.
May the Lord fulfill all your petitions!
Psalm 20:4-5
May [the LORD] grant you your heart’s desire
And fulfill all your purposes!
We will sing for joy over your victory,
And in the name of our God we will set up our banners.
May the Lord fulfill all your petitions!
Psalm 20:4-5
The first chapter of the Gospel of John includes some of the most famous lines in all of scripture: the “prologue” in 1:1-18. Scholars debate whether the prologue was part of the original materials that comprised this Gospel or whether it comes from a source who had a different theological outlook than other narrative parts of the book. Many scholars think the Gospel writer adopted an existing hymn for the prologue. You might say that the prose of the prologue sings, and is meant to be sung.
Karoline Lewis suggests that the prologue identifies eight themes that are unpacked in the narratives throughout the rest of the Gospel:
On this last theme of “abundance,” Lewis notes that the word “grace” (charis) appears only four times in the Gospel of John, and only in the prologue (1:14, 16, 17). The rest of the Gospel narratives “show the reader what grace looks like, tastes like, smells like, sounds like, and feels like.”
Some questions for discussion on the prologue:
The section from 1:19-34 demonstrates that Jesus is superior to John the Baptist. There are similar materials later in John 3:22-36, where John the Baptist himself is depicted as saying “He [Jesus] must increase, but I must decrease.” (John 3:30.) Some scholars think these references suggest the Gospel of John might in part have been written to counter groups that continued to favor John the Baptist over Jesus and that did not understand Jesus was God. Some of these groups, those scholars suggest, might have also been attracted to Gnostic ideas. There is still a community today in the Middle East called the Mandaeans who hold such beliefs and trace their origins back to John the Baptist. Other scholars, however, think the evidence for this kind of connection is thin.
The section from 1:35-51 narrates Jesus’ call of his first disciples. Many commentators remark on what Jesus says to Philip in 1:50-51: “You will see greater things than these . . . you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending on the Son of Man.” This is a reference to eschatology, that is, to God’s consummation of history. Scholars debate whether the eschatology in the Gospel of John is “realized” or “futurist.” In a “realized” eschatology, the Kingdom of God has already arrived and is operating in the present time. For the Gospel of John, this would mean that the coming of Jesus is the arrival of the Kingdom of God. In a “futurist” eschatology, the arrival of God’s Kingdom and its attendant blessings remains a future event. Many scholars see elements of both a realized and a futurist eschatology in the Gospel of John: the Kingdom is now present in Jesus, but also there are elements of the Kingdom that are just over the horizon.
The title Jesus applies to himself in verse 51 — “Son of Man” — appears about eighty times in the four Gospels, including in thirteen different passages in the Gospel of John, but occurs only four times in all of the rest of the New Testament. The original Greek literally translates “the son of the man,” a phrase that does not appear in any secular Greek literature and that makes no grammatical sense. Most scholars agree that this title must relate to Jesus’ humanity, but there is significant debate over what the title says about Jesus’ humanity and how this relates to the claim that Jesus is divine.
Some questions for discussion on these sections:
I’ve been leading a Bible study on the Gospel of John. Here are my “background” notes.
he Gospel of John occupies a unique place in Christian faith and spirituality. It has often been called the “spiritual Gospel” for its emphasis on Jesus’ divine character and its call to inner transformation. It differs from the “Synoptic” Gospels — Matthew, Mark, and Luke — both in its tone and in many of its details. Because of these features, the cultural background, editorial history, and theological significance of the Gospel of John has been subject to significant discussion throughout history.
The Gospel of John refers to an anonymous disciple “whom Jesus loved.” (John 13:23; 19:26; 20:2-9.) This anonymous “beloved disciple” is portrayed as first-hand witness to Jesus’ ministry and as the source of the Gospel’s narratives. (John 19:35; 21:20-24.) Although the Gospel of John does not refer to anyone named “John,” early Church tradition identifies him (presumably, a man), as someone named “John.” The Synoptic Gospels identify “John the son of Zebedee” as one of the twelve Apostles, and this John appears in Acts as a leader of the church in Jerusalem along with Peter. (See Matt. 10:2; Acts 3:1; Acts 8:14.) It is possible that the Apostle John is the first-hand source behind the Gospel of John, be we cannot be sure.
The suggestion that the text reflects the input of a first-hand source, perhaps even the Apostle John, however, does not mean it is a simple transcript of events written by this one person. The text itself demonstrates that the version we possess went through stages of editing or “redaction.” This includes, for example, the addition of the final Chapter 21 as a sort of post-script to the events described elsewhere in the text. Like the Synoptic Gospels, the Gospel of John likely is based on some material collected close to the time of Jesus’ life that was subsequently shaped, supplemented, and amended to reflect the concerns of a community or related communities of First or Second-Century Christians. It seems that the Synoptic Gospels relied on some common source materials, starting with the Gospel of Mark, and that the Gospel of John relied on some different source materials, which perhaps accounts for some of the differences between the Synoptics and John. At the same time, scholars have begun to note similarities as well as differences between John and the Synoptics.
Some scholars have suggested that the earliest source material behind the Gospel of John might have been a “Gnostic” source that portrayed Jesus as more “spiritual” and less human than the final canonical form of the text. The final canonical form, in this view, came to reflect a more “orthodox” Jesus than the earliest versions. In the first few centuries of church history, what came to be considered “orthodox” Christian theology existed in tension with “Gnostic” versions of the faith. Gnosticism was a family of Greek religious philosophies that elevated “spirit” over “matter” and that offered its adherents secret forms of knowledge that would allow them to access the Divine. Christian thought tried to emphasize both the humanity and divinity of Jesus, and the related goodness of the material creation, in a way that came to distinguish Christian thought from Gnosticism.
There are themes in the Gospel of John that seem more “Gnostic” than the Synoptic Gospels — not least the famous opening line, “In the beginning was the Word (logos), and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John 1:1.) And there are early Gnostic Christian texts, such as the Gospel of Thomas, that did not make it into the canon of scripture. Current scholarship, however, tends to hold that the earliest versions of the Gospel of John were not Gnostic texts and did not differ radically in theology from the final canonical form.
At the same time, the Gospel of John’s theological themes relate to the other “Johanine” writings in the New Testament: the epistles of 1 John, 2 John, and 3 John, the book of Revelation. It is impossible to reconstruct the community that produced the Gospel of John with any precision, but the related themes in these texts suggest there was a unique stream of Christian faith centered on participation in God’s life in Jesus, the presence of Jesus through the Spirit, perseverance through difficulty, and the practice of faith during this world and into the world to come.
In recent months I’ve assigned myself a project of reading through the “Apocrypha.” These are texts included in the Septuagint (the ancient Greek translation of the Old Testament) or Vulgate (Latin) Bibles but not in the Hebrew text of the Old Testament. These books are not considered part of the Biblical canon by Protestants, but some of them are considered canonical by the Roman Catholic Church or by different parts of the Orthodox churches, and portions of some of the Apocryphal texts are used in the Anglican lectionary.
There are all sorts of interesting and contentious historical, theological, and polemical reasons why different parts of the church have included or excluded the Apocryphal books from the canon. (One relates to Purgatory – the Reformers didn’t like that 2 Maccabees 12:43-46 supports the idea of Purgatory, so they removed it from the canon!) What’s interesting me in my study, however, is the light these books shed on Jewish life, wisdom, and practices during the “Second Temple” period – that is, after the reconstruction of the Jerusalem Temple by Jewish Exiles following the destruction of the First Temple (Solomon’s Temple) during the Babylonian conquest in 586 BCE. The New Testament Gospels are set in the Second Temple period after Herod the Great had substantially expanded this reconstruction in about 20 CE. To understand Jesus the Jewish prophet, it’s important to understand something about the social, theological, and political hothouse of the Second Temple period.
Recently I was particularly captivated by a slice of life in the book of Sirach, which was probably composed as a teaching manual by a Jewish sage who ran a school in Palestine in the early second century BCE, that is, about two hundred years before Jesus began his ministry. Sirach 31-32 gives instructions for how to behave at a banquet – probably a kind of literary feast modeled after the Greek Symposium, in which the guests were expected to offer learned opinions on questions of the day, as informed by liberal quantities of wine. Younger men (Sirach’s society was patriarchal), Sirach said, should speak cautiously and respectfully – not bad advice in any age. But Sirach’s advice for older men is particularly amusing: “Speak old man, you’ve earned the right — but speak truthfully, and don’t interrupt the music!” Sirach 32:3 (my loose translation).
Part of me knows that Jesus-as-fiery-prophet disapproved of the Hellenistic syncretism between Jewish and Epicurean philosophies represented in Sirach’s easy approval of the Symposium. “Eat, drink, and be merry” as a complete philosophy of life, after all, was something Jesus called foolish. (Luke 12:13-21). But Jesus the holy fool also confounded the self-righteousness of the Pharisees – a strict party that developed in response to the more liberal Hellenistic groups – and used his Divine power to make sure the good wine didn’t run out at a wedding (John 2:1-11).
So, I like to think Jesus would have approved of Sirach’s advice to those of us who have earned some right to speak through age and experience. Our favored place at the table is deserved, and we have something important to say (Millennials, are you listening?! Bueller? Anyone?). But no one must listen unless we speak truth born of that hard-won wisdom. And, no one should interrupt the music, not even us! The music, after all, is something we all enjoy together.
Image: By Nikias Painter – Marie-Lan Nguyen (User:Jastrow), 2008-05-02, CC BY 2.5
This is my review of D. Stephen Long, Augustinian and Ecclesial Christian Ethics: On Loving Enemies (Lanham: Lexington Books / Fortress Academic 2018) to appear in the Englewood Review of Books.
Steve Long has a talent for seeing a way through tensions between competing movements in contemporary theology. In his 2014 book Saving Karl Barth: Hans Urs von Balthasar’s Preoccupation (Minneapolis: Fortress Press 2014), Long addressed the debates over natural theology and the analogia entis that still divide Protestant theology in a Barthian key from Catholic theology sympathetic to von Balthasar. As Long showed in that book, while there are real differences, contemporary theology can benefit from insights from both of these great thinkers, even as Barth and von Balthasar benefitted in their own lifetimes from their personal friendship.
Now, in Augustinian and Ecclesial Christian Ethics, Long takes up a related set of differences in Christian ethics, between “neo-Anabaptists” and “neo-Augustinians.” The “neo-Anabaptists” – or, as Long comes to refer to them, the “ecclesial” ethicists, are represented by John Howard Yoder, Stanley Hauerwas, James William McClendon, and others who have taken up their work. The “neo-Augustinians” are represented by Oliver O’Donovan, John Milbank, Eric Gregory, Charles Mathewes, Jennifer Herdt, and others who are more sympathetic to the “Augustinian realism” of Reinhold Niebuhr. In many ways, the ecclesial ethicists represent the Barthian side of Saving Karl Barth, while the neo-Augustinians represent the von Balthasarian side (though O’Donovan is perhaps a Barthian Augustinian).
In his introduction, Long notes a common experience for many readers who have felt chilled both by right wing fundamentalism and left wing progressivism: ecclesial ethics “gave us a way to embrace Christian orthodoxy without coupling it to a bankrupt populist, evangelical Christianity.” Further, Long, suggests, people attracted to ecclesial ethics “saw it making common cause with what appeared to be a similar movement in the UK – radical orthodoxy.” Unfortunately, Long admits, “[w]e were, overall, wrong.”
I count myself as one of those disappointed hopefuls. I even did a Ph.D. in the home of radical orthodoxy (the University of Nottingham) based on those hopes. I still very much appreciate radical orthodoxy’s early promise and energy, just as I remain grateful for the influence of Stanley Hauerwas and other ecclesial ethicists, but I think Long is correct that the vision of a more unified trans-continental movement has dissipated.
The bulk of Long’s text traces the lineaments of both the ecclesial and neo-Augustinian approaches in particular through the criticisms each approach has brought against the other. Long’s discussion suggests that one of the key reasons we were wrong in hoping that ecclesial ethics and radical orthodoxy could draw together Anabaptist and Augustinian streams of the tradition is the need for more attention to differences in ecclesiology and eschatology. The most basic, historic differences between these approaches, of course, concern how the Church should relate to the temporal governing powers in this present age. Long offers some important and helpful suggestions for how both ecclesial ethicists and neo-Augustinians could temper their views and move just a bit closer to each other, even if they finally also hold some of their differences in creative tension.
Long summarizes these places of convergence and creative tension in three main theses in his conclusion: first, any common project must agree that neither America nor any other nation-state is a “salvific institution”; second, the church’s role in relation to the nation-state is as a “conversation partner,” not as an institution that seeks control over the levers of temporal government; and third, the conversation must entail deeper reflection on the meaning of human “freedom.” As Long asks, “[w]ho will sustain an ancient, positive view of liberty,” that is, freedom as a freedom from evil that facilitates a positive vision of authentic human flourishing, rather than freedom primarily as negative liberty, a freedom to live however one pleases free of external restraints, so long as that freedom does not unduly impinge on another individual’s basic negative liberties, regardless of any other broader conception of the good. I think this is one of the most important points Long makes. The argument between today’s “conservatives” and “progressives” usually assumes the same radically libertarian view of “freedom” as negative liberty, which is not the predominant view of “freedom” in the Biblical literature or the Christian tradition.
There is one area in which I’d like to see more discussion on this front, which reflects my own background and interests: the role of the rule of law and its effect of mitigating the inherent violence in the exercise of police powers. Any discussion of the rule of law raises the question of “natural law,” which is not really addressed in Long’s text. This is perhaps not surprising, since both the ecclesial and neo-Augustinian ethicists Long surveys are contemporary Protestant theologians – indeed, even the moniker “theological ethics,” rather than “moral theology,” reflects a Protestant bent. This is true even of the Anglo-Catholic neo-Augustinians, notably John Milbank, who claim to be extending Roman Catholic social teaching rather than doing “Protestant” theology.
Part of the problem with any discussion of “natural law” in relation to Long’s central theses is the influence today of the “new natural law” – a school of thought led by John Finnis that emphasizes the capacity of human reason, apart from any specifically religious claims, to discern objective principles of the good. The ecclesial ethicists generally echo Barth’s “nein” to this kind of natural theology, and the neo-Augustinians for the most part likewise reject the claim that a meaningful account of social order can derive from human reason without at least glaringly begging the question of God — or, in Milbank’s case, without starting with the question of God. But there are also Catholic neo-Augustinians, such as Jean Porter, writing on natural law from a more classically theological perspective in ways that could help further bridge the gaps Long identifies.
For any reader of this Review who is disturbed by our current political culture, Long’s Augustinian and Ecclesial Ethics is important reading. If you are not already deeply versed in the contemporary political theologians Long surveys it may be difficult reading at points, but keep at it, and take notes. Even as someone knee-deep in this world already, I have two pages of notes for further reading in the flyleaf of my copy of Long’s book. This is what thoughtful, engaged contemporary political theology looks like.
Continuing my reading of 1 Peter, I’ve come to the ominous sounding text of 1 Peter 4:7: “The end of all things is near; therefore be serious and discipline yourselves for the sake of your prayers.” (NRSV). (Πάντων δὲ τὸ τέλος ἤγγικεν. σωφρονήσατε οὖν καὶ νήψατε εἰς προσευχὰς). Harink notes that “[w]e must clarify the meaning of telos (end, goal). . . .” He suggests, first, that telos
is not in any signifcant sense simply the final point in the cosmic or historical temporal sequence. It is not the end as midnight is the end of a twenty-four-hour day, nor is it near in the sense that midnight is near to 11:59 PM. It is not the next or last thing, but the goal of all things, a goal that subsumes the temporal but cannot be summed up by it.
Harink, Commentary, p. 111. This is the sense telos carries in much of Greek thought, and it also seems consistent with New Testament eschatological usage more broadly, so I’m surprised that David Bentley Hart’s translation also reads “Now the end of all things has drawn near.” I’m curious why Hart used a phrase that has such a different resonance in popular culture.
Harink further argues that “the telos here is not immanent in or intrinsic to the being of all things, something given a priori and awaiting discovery and realization. It is not a possession or potential. It is other; it is fundamentally beyond; it is present in its coming.” Harink Commentary, p. 111. I don’t fully agree with Harink here. As he does consistently throughout this Commentary, Harink radically separates nature and grace, immanence and transcendence, church and world, and so-on. This is a mistake, because it devalues creation and fails to recognize that creation as given is already a gift of grace that anticipates its eschatological realization.
I agree with Harink that in creation as we now experience it, in the world as we now live in it, the original telos of creation is only restored by Christ. In that sense, the telos of creation is not latent and waiting to be discovered, but requires the radical event of resurrection and new creation. Yet even the radical event of resurrection and new creation is not entirely discontinuous with creation as given or with creation as we experience it. Indeed, what is elided in resurrection and new creation — death, despair, evil — is not a part of creation, not a thing in itself, but is a deprivation of creation’s telos. As St. Paul said, “we know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.” (Romans 8:22). The new creation being birthed cannot be utterly “other” and “beyond” if it derives from the labor pains of this present creation.
So here’s another DBH translation quirk / difference in my study of 1 Peter. 1 Peter 2:2: ὡς ἀρτιγέννητα βρέφη τὸ λογικὸν ἄδολον γάλα ἐπιποθήσατε, ἵνα ἐν αὐτῷ αὐξηθῆτε εἰς σωτηρίαν, (1 Pet. 2:2 GNT)
NIV: Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation,
NRS: Like newborn infants, long for the pure, spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow into salvation–
DBH: Crave the unadulterated milk of reason like newborn babes, so that you may thereby grow into salvation,
The phrase I’m focused on is “pure spiritual milk” or “unadulterated milk of reason” — potentially a really interesting difference!
I think I like Hart’s rendering of λογικὸν ἄδολον γάλα better. λογικὸν in the classical sense means “reason” or “logic.” I note also that DBH translates λογικὴν similarly in Romans 12:1 in the phrase τὴν λογικὴν λατρείαν ὑμῶν as “your rational worship” instead of “your true and proper” (NIV) or “spiritual” (NRS) worship. “Rational” sounds odd in Romans 12:1, but Romans 12:2 refers to the renewal of the “mind” or (per DBH) “intellect” (νοὸς) so the context there does seem to refer to the “mind” and not the “spirit.”
I’m curious, though, why in 1 Peter 2:2 as well as in BDAG “spirit” or “spiritual” is seen as the better reading?
In my study of 1 Peter, using David Bentley Hart’s New Testament as one of my English versions, here’s another interesting translation issue.
1 Peter 1:13: Διὸ ἀναζωσάμενοι τὰς ὀσφύας τῆς διανοίας ὑμῶν νήφοντες τελείως ἐλπίσατε ἐπὶ τὴν φερομένην ὑμῖν χάριν ἐν ἀποκαλύψει Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ.
NRS: Therefore prepare your minds for action; discipline yourselves; set all your hope on the grace that Jesus Christ will bring you when he is revealed.
NIV: Therefore, with minds that are alert and fully sober, set your hope on the grace to be brought to you when Jesus Christ is revealed at his coming.
David Bentley Hart: So, girding up the loins of your mind, being sober, vest your hope completely in the grace being brought to you in the revelation of Jesus the Annointed,
I understand DBH’s decision to “literally” render the idiom ἀναζωσάμενοι τὰς ὀσφύας. I understand his decision to render Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ “Jesus the Annointed.”
DBH renders the phrase ἐπὶ τὴν φερομένην ὑμῖν χάριν ἐν ἀποκαλύψει Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ as something happening in the present: “the grace being brought to you in the revelation of Jesus Chirst.” Both the NRS and NIV render it as something in the future: “The grace that Jesus Christ will bring you when he is revealed” (NRS) or “the grace to be brought to you when Jesus Christ is revealed at his coming” (NIV). The difference seems to turn on the function of the preposition ἐπὶ. The object of the preposition φερομένην is in the accusative. According to BDAG, ἐπὶ with the accusative can mean where (location), to or toward or on or upon (direction — either in progress or attained), over (marker of power or control over something), before (as in a legal proceeding, before the court), against (marker of hostile opposition), or when, in the time of, at, on (marker of temporal association) — or, “marker of feelings directed toward someone, in, on, for, toward, after words that express belief, trust hope” — and this last one is where BDAG lists 1 Peter 1:13.
So why would DBH choose a more “present” rendering of this prepositional phrase? The context seems to suggest a future hope, and that seems consistent with 1 Peter’s theology: these are the end times, Christ is returning very soon, so hang on and when Christ comes back he will make everything right.
This is part of my series on 1 Peter. As noted in my introductory post, I’m interested in the epistle’s language. After the introductory materials in Chapter 1:1-2, the writer offers an encouragement to remain steadfast that is often the subject of sermons. (As they say, “that’ll preach!”) Like most such exhortations in the New Testament, the encouragement is based in the eschatological hope that God will vindicate the community of God’s people. Verse 9 tells the letter’s hearers that they should remain steadfast, “for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls” (NIV). The multiple “you’s” here — you are receiving, your faith, the salvation of your souls — appear in the NIV, NASB, and NRSV.
Here is how David Bentley Hart translates verse 9: “Obtaining the end of your faithfulness: salvation of souls.” Notice the shift in emphasis: the Church’s “faithfulness” — not “your faith” — results in the “salvation of souls” — not “your souls.”
At first blush, I thought this might connect with a missional reading of this text. In Hart’s more “literal” translation, the emphasis seems to shift from the souls of the particular person or community the writer is addressing to “souls” generally, that is, to the broader human community. Perhaps there is a notion here that the Church’s prayers and practices spill over to benefit others who are not yet within the Church. But this instinct shows how tricky it can be to base conclusions on differing translations. It also shows that Hart’s effort to produce a “literal” translation can’t really result in a “literal” reading. A “translation,” after all, can’t ever be “literal.” (I’m not attacking Hart’s work here — I think it’s amazing — but just observing, as I’m sure Hart would agree, that translation always involves interpretation.)
The Greek text here is:
κομιζόμενοι here has the sense of coming into possession of something, often as a reward. [1] The noun τέλος (telos) refers to an end, conclusion, or goal.
πίστεως is the term translated “faith” in the NIV and NRSV and “faithfulness” by Hart. I think Hart’s translation invokes the debate over the translation of πίστεως Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ in the Pauline corpus (cf. Rom. 3:22, Gal. 2:16, Gal. 3:22, Phil. 3:9).[2] My inclination is that “faithfulness” is the better translation, and Achtemeier’s commentary agrees. Perhaps this is a place where the author of 1 Peter is using a Pauline concept, or, more directly, the notion of “faithfulness” seems closer to the early Jewish-Christian thought world generally.
The term “your” — ὑμῶν — appears only once in this clause. Hart reads ὑμῶν to modify πίστεως but not σωτηρίαν ψυχῶν. The word ψυχῶν (from psuché, “soul”) is in the genitive plural, while σωτηρίαν is singular, so that clause literally is “the salvation of souls.”
Hart’s translation therefore seems grammatically correct or at least more “literal” than the other English translations. The problem is that it is equally grammatically correct in Greek to read ὑμῶν as relating both to πίστεως and to σωτηρίαν ψυχῶν. In Greek, the tenses of words determine their relation to each other, not word order. This can be counterintuitive for English speakers, because word order is very important in English. Of course, Hart knows this, and I’m not suggesting there’s anything untoward in Hart’s translation. But, as is so often the case, as a translator Hart is not just rendering the text “literally,” but is necessarily making choices between different plausible possibilities. It’s wise, then, to read any translation with a modestly critical eye.[3]
In his commentary, Achtemeier translates verse 9 “because you are receiving the culmination of your faith that is your salvation.” Hart’s translation gives some credence to how I’m reading the Greek, but the NSRV, NIV, and Achtemeier all read a “your” in connection with “salvation” or “souls.” At the same time, Achtemeier’s translation seems to be relatively dynamic: he does not even render the word ψυχῶν (“souls”) into English because, he suggests in a footnote, the term ψυχῶν refers to the whole person, not to a disembodied “soul.”
How would you choose between these possible alternatives? I don’t think there’s any great doctrinal weight behind the question in this case, and as a theologian you should never build an entire case on one obscure verse in any event. But the first step would be to look at the verse or pericope in question in the context of the particular text under study. The authors of Biblical texts were not writing with “verses” in mind — verse divisions came much later. 1 Peter is a letter, a practical, pastoral exhortation to a particular community or group of communities. How would one translation or another fit into the overall flow of the letter? What concerns is the writer addressing, are there any concepts that seem to recur, is there similar language used in other places? If this particular text is part of a corpus from one writer, how does the language relate to similar concepts and language in other texts by that writer? These are some basic considerations that show there is always an “art” to translation.
So what do I think about this particular text? I think the “standard” English translations probably are the better reading over Hart’s, but to some extent I’m going to punt. The letter is addressed to a particular suffering community or group of communities, so undoubtedly the author wants to encourage these readers about their salvation from this struggle. Much in 1 Peter is oppositional — a “Christ against culture” stance in relation to the power of Rome — and that is what makes its political theology interesting, as Harink’s commentary notes. And yet, there is a “cosmic” eschatological framing in the letter. The author tells the community that they “are being protected by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.” (1 Pet. 1:5 NRS). This σωτηρίαν (1 Pet. 1:5 GNT) will be ἀποκαλυφθῆναι ἐν καιρῷ ἐσχάτῳ. The apocalyptic — revealing — awaits the kairoi eschatoi — the eschatological time. The eschatological time belongs to God and is known only to God. What the Church knows is that it is protected as it is called to bear witness through patient service, and suffering, to what God has yet to reveal.
—–
[1]
BDAG Note 3 on κομίζω reads as follows:
“to come into possession of someth. or experience someth., carry off, get (for oneself), receive freq. as recompense, mid. (Diod. S. 17, 69, 1; 20, 28, 3; Appian, Bell. Civ. 5, 60, §252 γράμματα) τὰ ὀψώνια pay, wages IPol 6:2. μισθόν (Polystrat. p. 22; Lucian, Phal. 2, 5; SIG 193, 9; 11; 1077, 4; 2 Macc 8:33; Ath., R. 18 p. 70, 30 κομίσασθαι τὰ ἐπίχειρα) 2 Cl 11:5; cp. B 4:12, where μισθόν is to be supplied (as En 100:7). μισθὸν ἀδικίας reward for wrongdoing 2 Pt 2:13 v.l. (ἀδικέω 2 end). Of special divine favor in recognition of piety (Diod. S. 3, 2, 4) τῆς δόξης στέφανον 1 Pt 5:4 (cp. Eur., Hipp. 432 codd. κ. δόξαν; 1 Macc 13:37). κ. τὰ διὰ τοῦ σώματος πρὸς ἃ ἔπραξεν receive a recompense for what (each one) has done during life in the body 2 Cor 5:10 (cp. the judgment scenes Pla., Phd. 113 and 114; s. also Diod. S. 8, 15); cp. Col 3:25. τοῦτο κομίσεται παρὰ κυρίου Eph 6:8 (PSI 438, 11 [III BC] κεκόμισμαι παρὰ Φανίου ἐπιστολήν). τὴν ἐπαγγελίαν the promise (i.e. what is promised) Hb 10:36; 11:13 v.l., 39. τὸ τέλος τῆς πίστεως σωτηρίαν ψυχῶν obtain as an outcome of faith the salvation of souls 1 Pt 1:9 (contrast 4:17).—DELG s.v. κομέω. M-M.”
[2]
For a summary of the debate, see Chris Kugler, ΠΙΣΤΙΣ ΧΡΙΣΤΟΥ: The Current State of Play and the Key Arguments, Currents in Biblical Research 14:2, 244-255 (2016).
[3]
I should note that the precise reasons why both readings are grammatically correct are beyond my very modest Greek skills. I did, however, consult other scholars, including my Greek professor from seminary, who confirmed that either reading could be correct.
I’m starting a new study on 1 Peter. I’ll be using the Brazos Theological Commentary by Douglas Harink as a guide. I’ll also consult the Hermmeneia commentary by Paul Achtemeier for scholarly / critical resources. And, in addition to the NRSV and other typical English translations, I’ll be reading along in David Bentley Hart’s recent New Testament translation. I’m also reading the Greek text, with plenty of help from Bibleworks (I claim no strength in the Greek).
I’m particularly interested in Harink’s theological reading of 1 Peter as an exercise in political theology. As I began to dive into this text, I saw in a fresh way how its eschatological vision relates to the formation of a living ecclesial community. That eschatological vision, however, might not look just as you might think. In some respects, it seems like a very “Pauline” vision, with Hellenistic overtones. In other respects, it seems typical of Second Temple Jewish eschatology.
These resonances perhaps should not be surprising given the epistle’s attribution of authorship to the Apostle Peter. Throughout the New Testament, beginning in the book of Acts, we see tension between the “Petrine” and “Pauline” visions of emerging Christianity. You could say that the “Petrine” vision is more rooted in the radical Jewish tradition, and indeed, as Achtemeier notes, scholars debate whether 1 Peter reflects familiarity with the Qumran tradition. Of course, whether the Apostle Peter actually was involved in writing the epistle is hotly debated, and Achtemeier offers a good survey of the arguments. My sense as a non-specialist in this area is that this admixture of Hellenestic and “Qumranic” eschatological elements suggests at least some connection with an authentically Petrine community, although the Apostle likely did not craft the letter’s text itself given its language and historical setting. The role of Silvanus (Silas) here is very interesting (see 1 Peter 5:12). Perhaps Silvanus was a kind of emissary between the Pauline and Petrine communities and wrote 1 Peter based on the Apostle’s general directions or the memory of such directions some time after the Apostle’s death. Achtemeier also addresses this and seems to think it unlikely, but the idea resonates with me. In any event, theologically this text is part of the Church’s canon and therefore we address it as an authentically Apostolic word of scripture, whatever the details of its actual authorship.