PART I, ARTICLE VIII: THE PERILOUS FOLLY OF FULL PRETERISM, SECTION I

There may come a time when a Christian has to risk friendship and fellowship because of what the word of God says regarding heresies and heretics. He may have to offend in order to defend God’s word and to make an attempt to set a straying friend straight and to get him back on the narrow path of orthodoxy. The word of God commands Christians to not tolerate heresy; there are no exceptions for friends. This friend of mine has since died, and not before our alienation on account of my challenge to his new beliefs. The omen that I had of his death has been fulfilled. My uncertain hope is that his false beliefs were rooted in his overwhelming fear of aging and death, not in his unbelief; and that his startling decease was nothing more serious than a chastening stroke from God. But can a man end his life as a heretic and be saved at last? Even with mitigating circumstances in his favor? This study resulted from my attempt to understand this friend’s position and to answer his heretical propositions more satisfyingly than I had done orally to his face. It took a couple of visits by this friend before I could even begin to understand what he was espousing. Then, as I necessarily edged closer to applying the command in Galatians 1.8, 9, he quit coming over because of that righteous offense, and our communications ended.  

Introduction

The term ‘preterism’ is not featured in my Pocket Dictionary of Theological Terms from 1999. Neither do I see it listed in McClintock and Strong’s exhaustive Cyclopedia of Biblical, Theological, and Ecclesiastical Literature from the late 1800s. And I have never come across the word in any of the many theological books that I have read from centuries previous to that, even those that deal with Revelation’s last things, like Samuel Hopkins’ Treatise on the Millennium from 1794, for example. Regardless of this absence, the word is commonly used now, in the 21st century. Wherever I look for the meaning of the word, I find that ‘preterism’ comes from ‘praetor,’ a Latin word, which means ‘had.’ Except in one place I find that it comes from the longer Latin word, ‘praeteritus,’ which means ‘past’ or ‘bygone.’ This last opinion more exactly pinpoints the view of the full preterist: that all prophecy is bygone, or fulfilled. I have heard ‘preterism’ referred to as ‘pastism.’ That word-hook is a good way to remember what cryptic ‘preterism’ means. On a website called English Learner, it says that the first use of the word was by a clergyman from the Church of England, George Faber (1773-1854.) What his view on it was, I have not bothered to gather.   

Writing about an odd heresy like full preterism would never have occurred to me if an old friend had not fallen for it and spoken of it to me. Wanting a more thorough answer to this friend than one that I could come up with in the moment and on the spot, I sought out full preterists on videos, watched videos by men who opposed the view, and watched several debates on it. Having done all of that, I still had no satisfying closure. So I thought about what the Scriptures taught in relation to what I had heard. Then an outline began to form, into which I could set down a biblical response. Because coming from myself, the answer gave me some assurance of having dealt with the matter to my satisfaction. “That business does not usually go on well, which you transact with the eyes of other persons” (Livy.)  

Prophecies viewed as pertaining to last things is that part of theology called ‘eschatology.’ These things that have traditionally been taken as events to look forward to are, to full preterists, things that have long ago come to pass. Full preterism—also called ‘consistent preterism,’ ‘radical preterism,’ and ‘hyper preterism’—is a view that is wholly backward-looking where prophecy is concerned. To full preterists, even the second coming of Christ, as well as the general resurrection and the final judgment that are connected with it, is nearly two thousand years gone by. They say that these monumental prophecies were somehow fulfilled in the year A. D. 70. So maybe the best name for this eschatological belief is ‘realized eschatology.’ My name for it is ‘A. D. 70-ism’ because the Siege of Jerusalem in A. D. 70 is what full preterism is based on. Don K. Preston, a full preterist, calls the movement ‘covenant eschatology,’ which dignified name it does not deserve. 

In order to avoid making a slip in this article, observe that for me, the ‘full preterist’ is synonymous with the ‘preterist’; if I use both terms, I will use them interchangeably. As for the ‘partial preterist,’ to me this is the traditional interpreter who does not reckon prophecy to have been entirely fulfilled. I will show, later, that every Christian is at least a ‘partial preterist.’    

Full preterism is not, to my surprise, a view that is as easy to dismiss as the belief in Neanderthals or Piltdown Man. Because some apocalyptic passages can be easily shown as fulfilled, all other apocalyptic passages are susceptible, in the wrong hands, to the same explanation. Moreover, since resurrection is sometimes used in the New Testament in a non-material sense, every reference to resurrection is, to a degree, likewise impressionable. 

I must show what I mean, firstly, about the interpretation of apocalyptic passages; then, secondly, about the interpretation of resurrection. 

Here is an apocalyptic passage that has been fulfilled: “For the stars of heaven and the constellations thereof shall not give their light: the sun shall be darkened in his going forth, and the moon shall not cause her light to shine” (Isaiah 13.10.) This, in apocalyptic speech, concerns the judgment that was prophesied against Babylon; this prophecy has been fulfilled by the warring Medes and Persians. The language reminds us of what we read in Matthew 24, which passage appears to be a cosmological description of Christ’s return: “Immediately after the tribulation of those days shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken” (verse 29.) The full preterist argues that this verse, and the passage of which the verse is a part, was fulfilled in the year A. D. 70 when General Titus and his Roman forces overcame to destroy Jerusalem. This was, says the full preterist, when the Son of man came ‘in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory’ (verse 30.) This sense is convincing, given the context in light of history. Great Commentators are divided concerning the passage. John Gill says that it refers to the Siege of Jerusalem in A. D. 70. Matthew Poole says that it refers, rather, to the second coming of Christ, or perhaps to that and the siege. Gill’s view has the similar language of Isaiah concerning Babylon for support; Poole’s view has the similar language of 2 Peter 3.10 for its helper, which text, more particularly than most, seems to point to the second coming of Christ to judge, not Jerusalem merely, but the World. Here is that verse: “But the day of the Lord will come as a thief in the night; in the which the heavens shall pass away with a great noise, and the elements shall melt with fervent heat, the earth also and the works that are therein shall be burned up.” Both Gill and Poole take this verse from 2 Peter 3 in the futuristic sense, though Gill does not exclude the A. D. 70 holocaust in his interpretation of it. The full preterist, however, excludes what Gill and Poole reckon as constituting the essence of the passage: the actual future judgment of the world by Jesus Christ. Because some apocalyptic passages have been fulfilled, it is possible, on the strength of that, to be inveigled to believe that they all have.  

Concerning the interpretation of resurrection, now; the bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead is asserted in Scripture as clearly and boldly as anything can possibly be. The apostle Paul, in 1 Corinthians 15, declares vain that faith which doesn’t believe it: “And if Christ be not risen, then is our preaching vain, and your faith is also vain” (verse 14.) But there is, too, an immaterial kind of resurrection in Scripture. “If ye be risen with Christ, seek those things which are above,” urges the apostle to the Colossians (3.1.) This resurrection, obviously, can only be an immaterial one; otherwise the Colossians could not obey the command until their bodies were physically raised from the dead, and they weren’t even dead yet. The resurrection referred to in this verse is likely a regenerative one; we must at least admit that it has to do with the soul, not the body. Full preterists, though, interpret even the resurrection of bodies in some sense other than material, except, I presume, those bodily resurrections that are recorded in Scripture and that precede the year A. D. 70, like the resurrections of Tabitha and Lazarus. As for the general resurrection of literal bodies from the dead, they don’t believe it; it may be more proper to say, for most of them, I think, that they no longer believe it. “That there shall be a resurrection of the dead, both of the just and the unjust” (Acts 24.15)—this they disavow; to them this verse does not refer to literal bodies being raised at some future time. It is difficult to find what, to them, the nature of resurrection is in passages that, to the rest of us, speak of the general resurrection. William Bell says that it is a ‘hope of righteousness.’ That is his ‘body of resurrection.’ To him, there will be no literal, physical resurrection of bodies from their graves. Whatever full preterists interpret from the resurrection of the body in verses like Acts 24.15, they do not mean actual bodily resurrection. Resurrection is sometimes spoken of in Scripture in a metaphorical sense. The full preterist is right about that, though he is wrong about this verse.  Because resurrection is sometimes used metaphorically, full preterism, if cunningly wielded, can present a plausible case to uninstructed persons.  

So apocalyptic language does not guarantee that its prophecy awaits fulfillment; and resurrection is not always of the body. These two facts are taken advantage of by preterists who believe or want, for whatever reason, all prophecies to be in the past.                  

If we take the book of Revelation as that which tells us of last things, we all are preterists at least partially. It is foretold, for example, in Revelation 2, that the church in Smyrna will suffer tribulation and that members of this church will have their faith tested ‘unto death.’ The history of this fulfillment is well-known, and has been recorded by such reliable historians as Eusebius and John Foxe. The church of God in Smyrna wrote a letter about how the prophecy about them, in the book of Revelation, was fulfilled in certain members of their church. Foxe, via Eusebius, gives the tenor of this epistle, of which here is a part: “Their patience was so admirable (saith the epistle) that the bystanders were amazed; while they beheld them torn with whips till their veins and arteries appeared, yea and even their bowels and the inward structure of their frame were laid open to view; then, laid on prickly sea-shells, and on little sharp spikes or nails…in short, made to go through every kind of punishment and torture that could be devised; and, lastly, thrown to the wild beasts to be devoured” (John Foxe, Acts and Monuments, Volume I, p. 671.) Partial pastism of eschatology is therefore unavoidable. Furthermore, the ‘last days’ were begun even before the book of Revelation was written. They were in effect when Jesus Christ ministered on earth. The writer to the Hebrews says that God ‘hath in these last days spoken unto us by his Son’ (1.2.) Far from these last days being in the past, though, we are still living in them. “Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day” (John 6.54.) This ‘last day’ is at the end of the ‘last days.’ It is the last day of the last days. And this resurrection at the last day is yet future. Here is how we know that. Eating Jesus’ flesh and drinking Jesus’ blood—this speaks of faith which obtains eternal life by believing, which could happen even today. What comes after? “I will raise him up at the last day.” Therefore the resurrection happens after a person believes on Jesus. This resurrection cannot be regenerative because regeneration happens before, or at least when, faith is obtained—when whoso eateth Jesus’ flesh, and drinketh Jesus’ blood. Therefore what kind of resurrection is it? We know that it is a personal one because of the word ‘him’—which refers to any person who consumes, by faith, the life, death, and doctrine of Christ. I have consumed this holy body and blood; but this I did post-A. D. 70. Therefore my resurrection did not happen back then. I know that it didn’t (not even in an allegorical sense) because the text says that it happens after I eat Jesus’ flesh and drink Jesus’ blood. It must be that I am still waiting for it. Suppose that a sinner does not eat the flesh and drink the blood of Jesus, which he consumes in a mystical sense by believing, until the year 2020, or 1590, or even 75 A. D. By appropriating the body and blood of the Lord, he is the ‘whoso’ in the verse, which ‘whoso’ must yet be raised up; therefore, his resurrection is not past, but to come. Besides, if we (today, not just Christians of the first century) are supposed to ‘eat this bread and drink this cup,’ by which we shew the Lord’s death ‘till he come’ (1 Corinthians 11.26), then it must be that the Lord is coming back, even after A. D. 70 and even after 2020 to raise us up ‘at the last day.’  

Full preterism, therefore, is unorthodox and heretical, denying as it does, a future resurrection for persons who consume the body and blood of the Lord. The following three points will, I believe, distinctly show the unorthodoxy of this movement. In consideration of full preterism under a New Testament light, three blemishes may be observed: an eerie similarity, an egregious dissimilarity, and an eradicated expectancy.

PART I, ARTICLE VII: THE CASTAWAY SCARE IN FIRST CORINTHIANS, SECTION V

This doctrine, then, of apostolic fear—of an apostle being scared of being cast away—is thus proved by word definition and context far and near. The apostle Paul was so exalted in his office and so awestruck at the riches of God’s grace that he often asked himself if he could ever live up to his calling and prove himself to have been chosen by God, not only to salvation, but to preach salvation to others. This mindset is understandable from Saul of Tarsus, the Pharisaic persecutor, saved by grace, as he contemplated the measure of the undeserved favor that an apostle of God must, of necessity, be the recipient of. The castaway scare in 1 Corinthians 9.27 is not merely rhetorical or hyperbolic.

It is the Holy Spirit who inspired all those verses that have just been walked through. “Grieve not the holy Spirit of God” (Ephesians 4.30.) To be scared of being cast away is a fear that we should all feel; it is not something to be cured of until we have harbored in heaven. The Holy Spirit regenerates, assures, comforts, and gives inexpressible peace and joy. When he is grieved he withdraws, our confirmation is clouded, and the joy that he causes evaporates. We will doubt our salvation when we live less than holy lives. But as we become more holy we are thrown into doubt by smaller and smaller sins. So the Spirit protects us before and behind, both on the backslide and on the increase. The apostle Paul lived on the increase. Notwithstanding periods of ‘desertion,’ the Holy Ghost draws closer to a holier Christian and he is more easily grieved in that person by a lesser sin. More demand is laid upon us the holier we get. We see ourselves as potential castaways unless we improve. Holier persons feel more pressure. They either grieve the Holy One by sins less grave because better things are expected of them, or they are given to feel grief caused by sin more keenly. The more a saint sees of God, the more he sees himself as a potential castaway. A less mature Christian will doubt when he sins outright. A holier one feels doubtful even when he is tempted. The ministry of the Holy Spirit is involved in this—in our sanctification. When we fail to mortify, Satan accuses us of not being real and tries to throw us into despair; and the Holy Spirit makes us feel unworthy and counsels us to prove ourselves anew. Satan condemns; the Holy Ghost exhorts; we can learn from both by interpreting each one. The devil tries to instill a sense that our case is hopeless in the hope that sin will win out; to urge resistance to sin, the Holy Ghost convicts, and we are pricked to drive on. The Accuser would have us quit; the Comforter would have us check. One wants to ruin us; the other wants us to win the race. The Devil is our Accuser; the Spirit is our Counselor. We must distinguish and listen to what is right. The Dragon tries to burn up faith; the Holy Ghost is there to fire faith up; both use fears and doubts to do the work. Satan’s temptation is the Spirit’s test; or, this temptation is at least used by the Spirit to prove the Christian. The devil casts doubt to cause despair; the Holy Spirit uses doubt to urge perseverance. The Dragon tries an unholy consumption; the Holy Ghost uses a communion of entreaty. The dove led Noah off the ark to a place where he might work and bear good fruit. The Holy Ghost leads us from salvation to sanctification. Should we not think ourselves castaways unless we step off the ark to bear good fruit? If Noah had stayed on the ark, eventually it would have come apart, and he would have been drowned. Saved Christians are sanctified Christians who work salvation out just as Noah and his family worked the ground after they got off the boat. The Old Testament dove led Noah to leave the ark; the New Testament Dove nudges us to press on. He does it with a blend of authority and gentleness. While we deserve the anger of Moses and the rigor of the law, we are blessed with a more affectionate ministry. And since it is right to thank God for everything, we may thank him even for Satan’s accusations. If we feel that we are just easing into the kingdom instead of pressing into it, are we striving after holiness, praying in earnest, learning our doctrines, putting down sin? If we are not pressing on and through, are we not wise to wonder about our faith? If our Christianity is just a stand, not a race, it is not thoroughly biblical, and it may not be enough. Since faith is an instrument, it is meant to be used, not only once for all as the rope of salvation, but on a regular basis as if to climb by the rope up to heaven. Entering the kingdom of God ‘through much tribulation’ is to ‘continue in the faith’ (Acts 14.22), and this is contiguous with what the apostle says about his own fear of being found accursed in the end through lack of effort. To spur us on, to help us mortify, to justify the fact that God will not be mocked, and because of our laziness to be holy and our unwillingness to live righteously, should we not be thankful that even an apostle was scared of being cast away in the end? The suspicion of ourselves should rouse us to push on in holy fear. Many of us will, at the judgment, wish we had entertained more doubt, for among us are many who presume to have grace but do not have it. What if a little more doubt exposed presumption? What if it were used as a step toward contrition and remission of sin? It is obvious from the verses that have been adduced, that there is a holy use to be made of doubts and fears. It is folly—maybe perilous folly—to mistake all our fears and doubts for the devil’s indictments, to melancholia, or to the fact that we don’t understand our doctrines well enough to have the assurance that a pastor says we should have. It is good to be assured; but it is vital to not pooh-pooh doubts. 

Some doubting of our salvation is the norm on this side of eternity. Speaking of what it was like on earth for members of the church triumphant in heaven, Thomas Boston says: “The saints in this life were still labouring to enter into that rest; but Satan was always pulling them back, their corruptions always drawing them down, insomuch that they have sometimes been left to hang by a hair of promise, if I may be allowed the expression, not without fear of falling into the lake of fire” (Thomas Boston, Human Nature in its Fourfold State, p. 463.) Speaking of professors who are wont to exude overconfidence, C. H. Spurgeon impersonates one of them to make his point: “I can tell you, whatever you may think, I am genuine enough I never had a doubt or fear. I know I was chosen of God; and though I do not exactly live as I could wish, I know if I do not go to heaven, very few will ever have a chance. Why, sir, I have been a deacon the last ten years, and a member twenty; and I am not to be shaken by anything you say. As for my neighbor here, who sits near me, I do not think he ought to be so sure; but I have never had a doubt for thirty years.” Then Spurgeon gives his answer to that: “Oh my dear friend, can you excuse me? I will doubt for you. If you have no doubt yourself, I begin to doubt. If you are quite so sure, I really must suspect you; for I have noticed that true Christians are the most suspicious in the world; they are always afraid of themselves. I never met with a truly good man but he always felt he was not good enough; and as you are so particularly good, you must excuse me if I cannot quite endorse your security. You may be very good, but if you will take a trifle of my advice, I recommend you to ‘examine yourselves, whether ye be in the faith,’ lest, being puffed up by your carnal fleshly mind, you fall into the snare of the wicked one. ‘Not too sure,’ is a very good motto for the Christian. ‘Make your calling and election sure,’ if you like; but do not make your opinion of yourself so sure” (C. H. Spurgeon, False Professors Solemnly Warned.)  

The great apostle Paul was never ‘too sure.’ He allowed his low opinion of himself to make and to keep him suspicious. To simply spurn all doubts and fears would have been to quench the Holy Spirit. When suspicion leads to perseverance, as it did for the apostle, it is holy. If it is holy, the Spirit has had something to do with it. The Holy Spirit helps us through a fear of being cast away at last. Genuine faith is progressive. It improves. If we are not improving, then we need to labor apace to make our profession certain. “But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.” It is better to doubt a little and be saved, than to presume too much and be unsaved. Suppose that a man is dangling from a cliff. It is safer for him to hang on to a branch doubtfully with fear than with confidence and presumption. It is safer to believe on Jesus fearfully and nervously than over-familiarly. It is better to hope to get to heaven than to presume to go there for sure—without ever a doubt. Hesitation about our security is more apostolic than overconfidence. We should rather doubt a little than stake our destiny on doubtless faith.

Doubts and fears do not negate an assurance of being saved in the end. There is no contradiction in being assured of eternal life, and yet being convinced of the necessity of proving salvation through perseverance. “Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, having our hearts sprinkled from an evil conscience, and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering; (for he is faithful that promised)” (Hebrews 10. 22, 23.) There is a Scriptural summary in The Canons of Dort (1618-19) of this assurance relative to various doubts: “Of this preservation of the elect to salvation, and of their perseverance in the faith, true believers for themselves may and do obtain assurance according to the measure of their faith, whereby they arrive at the certain persuasion that they ever will continue true and living members of the Church; and that they experience forgiveness of sins, and will at last inherit eternal life…The Scripture moreover testifies that believers in this life have to struggle with various carnal doubts, and that under grievous temptations they are not always sensible of this full assurance of faith and certainty of persevering” (Article 9 and part of 11 on The Perseverance of the Saints.) All believers should expect to have ‘various carnal doubts’ because not one of them is perfectly sanctified, not even an apostle. He who has no doubt, therefore, must think himself holier than he is; he who thinks himself holier than he is must be presumptuous; and presumption belongs to the same family as hypocrisy and smug security. The Holy Spirit, through conviction, uses fears and doubts as goads to prick us in the right direction. He sanctifies them, as it were, and puts them to good use.   

The Holy Spirit uses what remains in us of the flesh to impress a holy doubt, or to let a little doubt linger and nag, for the disciple’s own good, impelling him to persevere. So this doubt is relative to sin, conscience, and the Holy Spirit. As long as we are not sanctified so much that we are glorified or gone to heaven, there is a doubt that must remain, as we feel, and struggle with, the remnants of indwelling sin, which always wrestles against ‘the law of God after the inward man’ (Romans 7.22.) God uses the clash of these contrary forces to guard us from expecting an easy route to glory, because there is no easy route. We must persevere—be as holy as can be. The apostle was assured of his preservation; but he was convinced that perdition was the end of any, including himself, who did not persevere by a demanding course of increasing sanctification until the end. It is not popular to doubt salvation today. The kind of assurance that never doubts is not apostolic, though. The absence of dubiety is more dangerous by far than feelings of uncertainty. Disquietude induces us to make our calling and election sure. This exercise should be ongoing until we cross over into the Other World. 

PART I, ARTICLE VII: THE CASTAWAY SCARE IN FIRST CORINTHIANS, SECTION IV

Proximate Context

This thesis becomes most convincing as we lean in to consider the context more closely. Again, the verse being considered and exposited is: “But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway” (1 Corinthians 9.27.) The verse right before it is: “I therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air.” This illustration to describe the apostle’s evangelistic work ethic highlights his goal of persevering until the end lest glory be not entered into at last. The runner runs that he may obtain the prize. But if he runs unworthily, he is disqualified, rejected, reprobate, cast away. Not only does he not win the prize, regardless of what that is, but he does not cross the finish line, or at least, if he does cross, it is of no account—he is disqualified. That is the natural trend of this figure of speech that is used. Matthew Poole sees it my way; John Gill does not. Two other commentators who agree with me are A. C. Gaebelein, and George Eldon Ladd in A Theology of the New Testament. Concerning the passage in question, Ladd says this, “The crown he hopes to win at the end of the race is the crown of life—the eschatological gift of God.” On the verse in particular he says, “It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that he is thinking of the possible failure to reach the goal of the Christian life.” Ladd’s deduction is identical to the fruit of my exposition, which I harvested before resorting to commentaries, lending credibility to my case. But notice the hesitancy in those words of his, “It is difficult to avoid the conclusion.” It sounds like he would rather not terminate as he did. Why shrink from the obvious? Why be tempted to resist an uncomfortable conclusion? While studying Scripture, the student should invariably be in utrumque paratus (ready for both of two possibilities.) He should be ready to have his preconceived notion confirmed, but just as ready to have it exploded. And he should receive any new truth without reservation or regret. To not be of this ready mind is to be sinfully resistant, and to be partially open to delusion. We may be tempted to draw back from the common sense interpretation of this text because we are not well equipped to handle what the apostle says. But it is not up to us to soften the blow of Scripture. We do not need to be scared of the full force of what is professed in 1 Corinthians 9.27: sanctification and industry, or else. A commentator might be afraid of the conclusion because he does not know how it might be squared with the orthodox belief that a Christian cannot become an infidel. Or he might be tempted to resist the conclusion because strict mortification is often confused with the heresies of asceticism and penance. But mortification does not mean whipping yourself on the back with knotted ropes. A method of mortification might be to exercise ‘bowels of mercies, kindness, meekness,’ and so on, in order to avoid ‘fornication, evil concupiscence,’ and so on (Colossians 3.5.) It is mortifying to serve. We are prone to explain away the looming castaway scare of 1 Corinthians 9.27 because we do not know how to take it in light of the doctrine that a Christian will persevere until the end and be saved at last. But see the matter in light of the apostle’s frame of mind. He trembles because he has in mind thoughts like, “My brethren, be not many masters, knowing that we shall receive the greater condemnation” (James 3.1.) The apostle Paul surely thought along this line, regardless of his familiarity or not with these words of James. Indeed, the verse reminds us of his fear of being cast away. He must have had the words of Jesus in his mind as he went about to discharge his ministry: “Great things he must suffer for my name’s sake” (Acts 9.16.) And so he reasons that the least hint of impropriety or sloth might mean that he will suffer to a bad end, not a good one. Part of our suffering is to suffer the death of ourselves, as it were, which is to keep under the body, lest we should be cast away. Keeping under the body; that is to say, under control and subdued, is the negative half of sanctification, which the Bible calls, mortification. We should labor to see into the mind of the apostle a little. His musing, I doubt not, went something like this: “If I don’t maintain the highest standard, I will be a castaway. I will discover that the preacher who won souls, lost his own, and that Saul never became Paul, after all. I will have stayed a Pharisee, just like I was when consenting to the death of Stephen. It will then be true that he who labored the most was the chief of sinners but never an apostle, much less a notable one; it will be said that the light from the sky was not the Lord Jesus, only superstition; and the apostles will be vindicated for avoiding me in the beginning like they did. If I do not persevere, this will be my epitaph.” We have something akin to this mindset going on in 9.23-27 of his first epistle to the Corinthians. As we come to grips with the context and think about what this apostle’s frame of mind must have been, we come face to face with the fact that a professing Christian with a less than mortified lifestyle may be cast away in the end. The apostle’s psychology is not just an experience of doubt, but a doctrine also. The Holy Spirit ministers the truth through the apostle’s experience; and, in light of supporting verses, the apostle’s experience is also a doctrine. The doctrine is that perseverance is prosecuted from a state of grace, which state does not preclude a fear of perdition. Who is saved by Christ? Only the trembling saint who perseveres. That is the experience, the doctrine, and the outcome. 

Immediately preceding the passage and verse is Saint Paul’s defense of his apostleship. He compares his single-minded conduct in the pursuit of souls to that of an athlete competing as if his life depends on it. And so the verse, “But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.” The evangelist must be all things to all people: ‘to them that are without law, as without law,’ &c. (verse 21.) Like the boxer who observes a strict diet and narrow parameters just before the fight, he must be in shape to meet every circumstance. He is no athlete who will not do this to win; he is no evangelist who will not be mortified for the sake of winning souls. A man is bound to make a mistake or be disqualified from his competition if he is not in tip-top form. We that are not apostles, nor missionaries, ought nevertheless to question ourselves as the apostle did, and be self-critical. The Holy Ghost will convince us of sin; we need to search ourselves, and not quench. The devil will accuse us of sin; we need to answer with Scripture, and make our behavior prop our profession to make our calling known. Paul the apostle lived up to his calling perhaps more than any other apostle did his own. But his position and experience were that salvation itself should not be doubtlessly presumed even when a high measure of obedience to the Lord can be demonstrated; and he felt this in the bowels of his being. What follows 1 Corinthians 9.27 is an example from history of what the apostle stated could be his own case if he did not keep under his body. 

“Moreover, brethren, I would not that ye should be ignorant, how that all our fathers were under the cloud, and all passed through the sea; and were all baptized unto Moses in the cloud and in the sea; and did all eat the same spiritual meat; and did all drink the same spiritual drink: for they drank of that spiritual Rock that followed them: and that Rock was Christ. But with many of them God was not well pleased: for they were overthrown in the wilderness. Now these things were our examples, to the intent we should not lust after evil things, as they also lusted. Neither be ye idolaters, as some of them; as it is written, the people sat down to eat and drink, and rose up to play. Neither let us commit fornication, as some of them committed, and fell in one day three and twenty thousand. Neither let us tempt Christ, as some of them also tempted, and were destroyed of serpents. Neither murmur ye, as some of them also murmured, and were destroyed of the destroyer. Now all these things happened unto them for ensamples: and they are written for our admonition, upon whom the ends of the world are come. Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10.1-12.)

Rather than be ‘temperate in all things’ to obtain the crown (9.25), the Old Testament children of Israel committed idolatry, lusted, murmured, and fornicated, and ‘were overthrown in the wilderness’ (10.5.) A striking show of this intemperance was their eating of quails in Numbers 11. They stuffed that meat into their mouths without any more thought of giving thanks than the average North American as he eats his fries on his way from the counter to his seat at McDonald’s. The Israelites could use the excuse of being sick of eating manna; we have no excuse. Thoughtless unrestraint is the mark of unbelief. This kind of eating is savage gluttony. All eyes are on the blessing, and the blessing is not even considered a blessing. If it were, the blessed God would be acknowledged as the provider. “All our fathers were under the cloud…all baptized unto Moses…did all eat the same spiritual meat; and did all drink the same spiritual drink…But with many of them God was not well pleased: for they were overthrown in the wilderness” (1 Corinthians 10.1-5, emphasis added.) Is this not the meaning of tasting of the heavenly gift and of partaking of the Holy Ghost and then falling away nevertheless? (Hebrews 6.4.) All partook of the same religion, it seems, but many were overthrown. “We see that they could not enter in because of unbelief” (Hebrews 3.19.) A contemporary example of tasting of the heavenly gift and partaking of the Holy Ghost might be the experiencing of divine peace when the Holy Ghost settles down on a prayer group or Bible study. We can be under this blessed cloud without being Christians. There is a kind of eating and drinking that is not true communion. There is a baptism that is not spiritual, but ritual only. Intemperance may lead to stolid unbelief in the end. Those who were overthrown were the intemperate ones; they did not enter the Promised Land. Why should we not be castaways through intemperance? The apostle learned from history that many who think they will cross into heaven will not go there; so he kept under his body; and this doctrine of godly mortification is what he taught. “Be thou faithful unto death, and I will give thee a crown of life” is not an ultimatum that is limited to the members of the church in Smyrna. We might not have to put our faith on display before executioners. But we are called to live faithfully until we die. 

PART I, ARTICLE VII: THE CASTAWAY SCARE IN FIRST CORINTHIANS, SECTION III

Peripheral Context

That was my first proof: word definition. Phrases used elsewhere, including the context broadly, prove, beyond doubt, that a fear of being cast away is an apostolic experience, not just a novel idea. The apostle’s preaching to the Corinthians was ‘in much trembling’ (1 Corinthians 2.3.) Comparing this to 9.27, it is not difficult to see the association. A man who feels the full weight of his responsibility to convey the message of salvation to others will judge his own profession of faith in light of how well he executes his task. The apostle eyed his salvation relative to the faithful execution of his ministry. “This I do for the gospel’s sake,” he says, “that I might be partaker thereof with you” (9.23.) That he will partake of what? ‘Thereof,’ that is, of the gospel, which means: of the merits of our Lord’s obedience and death: of that by which we may be saved. Then comes his communication in verse 27: “But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.” In other words, he tells himself, as he tells the church, that there can be no salvation without a mortified life and a faithful work ethic. That is what these verses teach. He prosecuted his ministry in a trembling spirit. That he was holy enough to take it that seriously means that he must have been mortified in every department of his life. His ministry was mortified because his whole life was temperate. Worldliness had no access by which to water him down. That he had a trembling ministry means that he was not chummy and conversational with his congregations. It means that he did not strut across a platform with his chest puffed out and his thumbs under his belt. He preached Christ crucified with much fear. He did not prate feel-good stories and jokes. He did not exhibit a vain show. He feared God; he was afraid. He was determined to do nothing by which he could suspect his faith to be merely nominal.    

This doctrine of fear is for the church too, not just for the apostle, and not only for ministers. He instructs the Philippians to work out ‘salvation with fear and trembling’ (2.12.) He exhorts them to practice nothing less than what he did for the faithful prosecution of his preaching ministry. “Necessity is laid upon me,” he says. “Woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel!” (1 Corinthians 9.16.) Who preaches today as if some necessity is laid upon him by the Lord? If pastors feel no necessity, it must be because they fear God only little, if at all. If they have no doubts or fears, it must be because they are smugly assured. Because he feared God, the apostle did not aim to produce a sensation from his preaching; his aim was to have his preaching attended with power from on high: “That your faith should not stand in the wisdom of men, but in the power of God” (2.5.) He endured “all things for the elect’s sakes, that they may also obtain the salvation” (2 Timothy 2.10.) 

Necessity, fear, trembling, woe—why such frightful, fateful words? How come was he so terribly serious? Was it because he feared to lose some of his rewards? No, but because he feared the loss of his soul. He subdued his fleshly appetites because the Christian who does not, and especially the preacher who fails in this, feels threatened with, “I myself should be a castaway.” This fear is the work of the Holy Spirit; the Holy Ghost does more than assure and comfort. When it isn’t the devil doing it, it is the Spirit’s work on the conscience that causes doubts to be kicked up. The Spirit assures; but he also convicts; he makes demands. But how could an apostle, who believed his salvation was assured, as is evident through the whole of Romans 8, and who had such precious visitations of the Spirit, speak of being a potential castaway? In the realm of spiritual experience, a sense of obligation will be as intense as one’s sense of being accepted. Such is the gravity of devotion that one cannot contemplate the possibility of a substandard ministry without doubting the conversion that underlies the calling. The devout spirit feels the least exertion of the flesh. When the flesh exerts itself, therefore, the devout spirit recoils, examines itself, accuses itself, and entertains a doubt. Then the Christian gets right back to prosecuting his mission in earnest, once more acutely conscious of the fact that “no whoremonger, nor unclean person, nor covetous man, who is an idolater, hath any inheritance in the kingdom of Christ and of God” (Ephesians 5.5.) A holy doubt, whether it be a recurring scruple, an intermittent suspense, or a lingering influence, is a good thing, and it should not be pretended away or rationalized to mean something else. This kind of doubt is a holy thing; it helps to protect the child of God from sinning, thus aiding him to go on toward perfection. The unbelieving professor or false minister, contrariwise, will not brood on a doubt because he is not holy. Instead, he will give in to the flesh and be proud of whatever moral progress he thinks to be making. Fear of being cast away is a wonderful safeguard; it is a heavenly pressure. And because it is biblical, it is in harmony with the frequent appeals in Scripture to self-examine. “Examine yourselves, whether ye be in the faith” (2 Corinthians 13.5.) There is such a thing as vain faith (1 Thessalonians 3.5.) In one of the principal passages that we look to for joy in the prospect of rewards to come, our acceptance is hung on the hinge of our faithful labor. “We labour, that…we may be accepted of him” (2 Corinthians 5.9, emphasis added.) Not just labor to make sure that we will be rewarded for our deeds, but labor as though our acceptance relies on those deeds. We are not saved by deeds, but our deeds must be of the kind, temper, character, and quality that proceed from a faithful, grace-filled life. We should press on and labor in reverent fear. “Knowing therefore the terror of the Lord, we persuade men” (verse 11.) Conformity to God’s moral law is a mark of grace. Jonathan Edwards would perhaps say that it is not a sure mark—not a certain proof of a person being a Christian. But still, no person is a Christian without it. That we are under grace does not mean that the law is not a threat, only that we are no longer cursed. The law is no longer a terror to persons believing in Christ, but it may still be a threat that says: if no evidence of faith is found, the law was never fulfilled for you in particular, and its curse was never borne on your behalf. To be God’s worker is to have orthodox beliefs, right thoughts, and good conduct. This must be proven, or else why do warnings so often come in? If we should ‘receive not the grace of God in vain’ (2 Corinthians 6.1), then there must be a sense in which we may receive God’s grace amiss. That is what the apostle touches on in his letter to the Philippians. He counts all things loss that he may win Christ, “and be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith” (Philippians 3.9.) There is no righteousness by the law; that is his point. This is a matter of perseverance in the state of grace, but also of holy fear as some kind of engine, or motivating factor. Better still, if perseverance is the engine, fear of being cast away is a whistle warning the soul to persevere, to shovel in the coal for a full steam ahead. Had the apostle not already won Christ? He speaks as if he ‘may’ win Christ in verse 8. Christ is never taken for granted, no matter how great the apostle’s faith, no matter how much he has suffered for preaching the gospel, no matter how many churches he has planted, no matter how many disciples he has made, no matter how much labor he has accomplished, no matter how many visions he has had, and no matter how close to his dissolution and victory he may be. The letter to the Philippians is one of the last ones that he wrote. Yet after all his years of service and after the attainment of great faith, he strives toward the light from under the penumbra of doubt, which penumbra attends his ministry just as the star of Bethlehem assisted the Magi. A ‘penumbra’ is the outer part of a shadow; our fear of being cast away comes from the outer part of our remaining corruption—from what remains, after regeneration, of the pollution of our flesh and the corruption of our nature. This is why the apostle says things like: “If by any means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead” (verse 11.) He is aiming, even at this late stage of his faith and life, to be found, at last, resurrected unto life everlasting. This is the meaning. He is apprehended of Christ Jesus; but he does not count himself to have apprehended (verse 12.) He strives after what he hopes to have obtained by faith. Doubts and fears nip at his heels; he does not assume that all is won, much less Christ. That is part of his theology, regardless of what he believes concerning the power of God to keep him saved, and the divine promise that this power will be extended. The question is, “Is the person who thinks he is saved, truly saved?” The apostle did not think that salvation is revocable. He knew, however, that there is such a thing as hypocrisy. The abundance of hypocrites is why doubts concerning the welfare of our soul should never be shrugged off as if our being a hypocrite is not possible. 

We need to subject ourselves to regular examination. We need to prove ourselves with regularity, not once and for all as if we can name-and-claim our salvation. The apostle was assured of his salvation. But, in the knowledge that hypocrites have a counterfeit assurance, he mortified and he persevered, allowing the least doubt that he had, to do its part to push him forward. If he had never had a doubt, he would never have written as he did. If he never had a doubt, such phrases as ‘lest…I myself should be a castaway’ and ‘receive not the grace of God in vain’ are empty words in the word of God, which is oxymoronic and blasphemous. If he did have a doubt, and we understate this doubt, our interpretation is dishonest, misleading, and harmful. By not taking phrases like these at face value—by understating their full force—we devalue the apostle’s experience and doctrine; we deny the fact that we have our own doubts; and, living in denial, we become smug instead of circumspect, perhaps all the way to hell. Many persons who are too proud of their faith to muse over their doubts, will wish, after it is too late, that they had done so; many others who think that they stand only to lose rewards will suffer the loss of their souls because they were not taught, and did not believe nor practice, perseverance unto salvation. Fear of being cast away is a sentinel against damnation by self-deceit. 

PART I, ARTICLE VII: THE CASTAWAY SCARE IN FIRST CORINTHIANS, SECTION II

Word Definition

‘Lest…I myself should be a castaway.’ What does this mean? The word translated ‘castaway’ is the same word that is rendered ‘rejected’ in, “But that which beareth thorns and briers is rejected, and is nigh unto cursing; whose end is to be burned” (Hebrews 6.8.) It is the bearer of thorns and briars who is rejected: he who ‘falls away’ (verse 6.) The idea conveyed is the same one that comes in at the end of 1 Corinthians 9. It is the apostle, then, who should be a castaway, not just his works, and not just his rewards for his works, if he does not keep under his body. The possibility that a professing disciple be found a castaway should remind us of what Jesus spake in his great Sermon on the Mount: “Every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire” (Matthew 7.19.) Not only is the fruit rejected, but the tree is destroyed. “By their fruits ye shall know them” (verse 20.) The tree signifies the person; that person not bearing good fruit will be cast into the fire. A corrupted, rotten harvest will not be accepted, nor the tree that yields it; bad fruit is the kind that is produced by persons who do not keep under their body. John the Baptist singled out the Pharisees and Sadducees when he snarled, “Therefore every tree which bringeth not forth good fruit is hewn down, and cast into the fire” (Matthew 3.10.) 

The Lord, the Baptist, and the Apostle, therefore, agree as one. That is a scary concurrence for loose livers to discover—hopefully scary enough to encourage temperance in all things, and avoidance of cardinal sins like fornication and idolatry. We have bigger worries from being disobedient than losing a few presents at the throne. The situation is perhaps graver than we think, for we tend to minimize biblical warnings. A runner cannot win a race on a diet of sugar; we cannot get to heaven on a lifestyle of sin. The race to heaven is the race of races; it is the only race of eternal consequence that we will ever run. The fire that the castaway will be turned into is an eternal one. Again, concerning this word ‘castaway’—: It is the same word as ‘reprobate’ in, “God gave them over to a reprobate mind” (Romans 1.28.) These reprobates, “knowing the judgment of God…are worthy of death” (verse 32.) There is a kind of reprobate who is ‘reprobate concerning the faith’ (2 Timothy 3.8.) There is another who is ‘unto every good work reprobate’ (Titus 1.16.) The apostle Paul expresses the following reservation: ‘except ye be reprobates’ (2 Corinthians 13.5) Works, rewards—these are never reprobate. The word concerns persons. To be reprobate is to be condemned and rejected by God: to be cast away. The antithesis of this word and curse is to be ‘approved,’ as in ‘approved in Christ’ (Romans 16.10) or ‘approved unto God’ (2 Timothy 2.15.) 

Finally, follow the natural flow of that word ‘castaway,’ taken all by itself, in the nautical sense. The castaway is adrift. He missed the rescue boat. He goes down to destruction. He did not just lose his baggage. He himself is lost. As far as our text is concerned, ‘castaway’ does not mean a saved man who falls overboard. And it does not mean a saved man who lost his baggage, or works. The castaway is a lost man who never gets rescued. The wreck happened in Adam’s sin; and all his descendents are castaways; they need to be saved; and many are not, though in the delirium of drowning they might think they are. At the end of the age, the castaway calls out, ‘Lord, Lord.’ The only reply is, ‘I never knew you.’ There is such a thing as being too sure about the state of one’s soul. To be humble enough to admit a doubt is wise, biblical, and apostolic.

PART I, ARTICLE VII: THE CASTAWAY SCARE IN FIRST CORINTHIANS, SECTION I

 

A recurring realization that I have is how lightly the Christian Faith is taken by so many persons among us who call themselves Christians. It used to be that Christians could not be assured of salvation except through a series of sermons or pastoral sessions. Now it is rare to meet a professing Christian who doesn’t claim complete assurance of his saving state. This danger got to bothering me so much that I began to keep an eye on the subject during my reading and studies. This article is the fruit of that. 

“But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway” (1 Corinthians 9.27.)

A strong sense of duty will be accompanied by a principle of doubt concerning our works or character yielding evidence of saving faith, for we can never do enough nor be holy enough for him who died for us. We should expect to be accepted only if we do what God commands the accepted to do. Even were we to come up to as high a level as the apostle Paul, and maybe because of this attainment, a doubt concerning our security would exist. It is the Holy Spirit who threatens our sense of acceptation as he presses upon the Christian conscience the need to run into that very kingdom that has been planted in the heart. He does not cause doubt directly, but indirectly as we are made sensitive to our duty. The title for the verse above could be, The Christian’s Fear of God; or it could be, The Perseverance of the Saints. But these titles are not specific enough to address the suspense in the words, ‘lest…I myself should be a castaway.’ The apostle’s experience is that salvation, or his claim to it, is suspended on the hook of how well he does his work and how mortified he is to self and sin. We are not propelled to heaven on the steam of a languid life. Those who think they can be, or will be, are at special hazard of being falsely assured of where they are going. We persevere toward what has been procured for us by Christ. We fight to lay hold on that eternal life which was gifted to us when we believed (1 Timothy 6.12.) We are beseeched to not receive the grace of God in vain (2 Corinthians 6.1.) Both of these verses, in line with the text at the top, admonish us to prove ourselves by being sanctified. We do this by resisting sin and by walking in truth. And so: “The gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord” (Romans 6.23); but “receive not the grace of God in vain” (2 Corinthians 6.1) and “lay hold on eternal life” (1 Timothy 6.12.) The apostle Paul feared that he ‘should be a castaway.’ This is another way of saying that he was scared of being cast away. As T. S. Eliot observes in the first sections of Pascal’s Pensees, ‘the demon of doubt’ is inseparable from ‘the spirit of belief’ (Blaise Pascal, Pensees, p. xv.)  

Verses 22 to 26 of 1 Corinthians 9 read as follows: “To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some. And this I do for the gospel’s sake, that I might be partaker thereof with you. Know ye not that they which run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize? So run, that ye may obtain. And every man that striveth for the mastery is temperate in all things. Now they do it to obtain a corruptible crown; but we an incorruptible. I therefore so run, not as uncertainly; so fight I, not as one that beateth the air.”

The apostle’s drift in these verses—in these verses leading up to his final one in chapter nine—is a lesson on perseverance. The Christian is like the athlete in a sporting contest, whether running or boxing, striving to obtain the crown of victory. This crown is the crown of life, the imperishable crown. The Lord is the trainer; the Christian is the athlete. The athlete has been purchased from the slums, as it were. Both his person and rights are owned. The crown is in the Lord’s possession, to be presented to the rigorously trained athlete upon completion of the event. In verse 27, it is stated that the athlete keeps his body subdued because he fears being disqualified, or cast away: “But I keep under my body, and bring it into subjection: lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.” The picture is given as a parallel to the Christian life. The Christian who is not mortified and motivated ought to fear disqualification from obtaining the spiritual crown (of eternal life), just as the Olympic competitor should fear disqualification for his lack of discipline. Recent Bible scholars avoid this interpretation. The definition of that word ‘castaway’ scares them. They think they might have a heresy on their hands if they take the apostle Paul seriously. Charles Ryrie says that this is a ‘reference to the possible loss of reward.’ C. I. Scofield believes the same. An old commentary that I have from 1880 (usually precious) intimates that the apostle could have fallen from grace, which is, I suppose, the false teaching that Ryrie and Scofield, by their understatement, are determined to dodge. A more honest treatment of the text constrains us to maintain that the apostle teaches that the Christian who does not subdue his carnal desires has just cause and good reason to doubt his salvation and that it is hazardous to his soul not to be of this mind. Paul’s message is not that he keeps his body disciplined for fear of losing rewards. His message is that he keeps under his body because he knows that intemperance (verse 25) is the mark of an infidel. There is a material difference between these two interpretations. The one which is correct is obvious from a fair treatment of the text. Which interpretation the professing Christian receives can mean more than a marginal difference, both in this life and hereafter. We should bear in mind that the apostle was addressing Corinthian converts, many of whom were courting carnal behavior. The possibility of being a castaway is the fair interpretation, and it is not an inconsequential one. Believing this interpretation may lead to salvation from being falsely assured; and this belief, at the least, should serve as a spur to both morality and ministry, and an aid to laying up treasures in heaven. The faithful interpretation of a text is the word of God explained and amplified—what the Puritans used to call ‘improved.’ It is not merely a design to make people behave. Salvation should be reckoned doubtful when disciples are immoral or when ministers are less than blameless in ministry; in the apostle’s case, such a doubt hangs in the air at the mere thought of a second-rate performance. We could, like Ryrie and Scofield do, attempt to instill a sense of duty by warning that rewards may be lost if the body is not kept under. If we take the text at face value, however, and give it the interpretation that it calls for, the incentive to prove ourselves is driven by an actual risk of being cast away; and then a sense of duty to persevere ought to follow. Some Christians would never risk going against what Ryrie and Scofield say. I used to fear the impulse of doing so myself. As far as scholars go, however, these two men are bantams, not heavyweights. 

I will prove my interpretation in three ways: by the definition of words, by the peripheral context, and by the proximate context. There is good reason to believe that even an apostle was scared of being cast away; and we have good reason to be glad that he had that scruple.

PART I, ARTICLE VI: THE SYMBOL OF POWER IN THE CHURCHES OF GOD, SECTION X

This Custom is Contested by no Other Church

The Corinthian church alone contested the symbol of power. “But if any man seem to be contentious, we have no such custom, neither the churches of God” (verse 16.) Those who look for a way around the ordinance often cast their eyes here for an escape. They bash the KJV for its old English; but they are positively wild about it here because of its peculiar diction and syntax. They try to suppose that Paul, who wrote ‘the commandments of the Lord’ (14.37), is now repealing all of his anterior arguments in order to accommodate a contentious temperament. Happy with this preposterous interpretation are contentious Christians who will be convinced by no argument, even one that says Paul would never prove the keeping of a tradition by brilliant argumentation, only to dismiss, in the last verse, the tradition that he labored to prove. At first glance the KJV seems to allow contentious Christians to never mind the tradition. But the definition of the word ‘custom’ proves that Paul is doing the opposite: pressuring the contentious to obey. ‘Ordinances’ in verse 2 means ‘traditions,’ while ‘custom’ in verse 16 means ‘mutual habituation,’ the entertaining of a moral or immoral habit. The same word is used in John 18.39 to identify another bad habit. Paul uses the Greek word translated ‘custom’ here in 1 Corinthians 11.16 to distinguish it from ‘ordinances’ in verse 2. Therefore, ‘we have no such custom’ does not mean ‘we have no such ordinance, or tradition.’ It means, ‘we have no such bad habit.’ And so the sense of the verse is, “But if any man seem to be contentious, we have no such bad habit of being contentious, and neither do the churches of God.” The teaching is that Christians not in the habit to contend do not contest the tradition. The church at Corinth is being encouraged by peer pressure to imitate the other churches of God. The substance of verse 16, in modern translations, is, “We have no tradition other than the one just delivered.” This is surprising and good, given their liberal tendencies, for this interpretation at least admits that the tradition is not, at this place, left to one’s personal judgment.  But the more precise sense may be gleaned by a diligent study of words, as I have somewhat shown. The liberal sense of the verse is, “We do not necessarily hold to this tradition.” That this is wrong is plain, if only from the fact that this would mean that the apostle is granting an exemption to Christians who wish to be contentious.

The scope of the tradition is known by the word ‘churches.’ Paul’s frequent use of this word—fourteen times in his two epistles to this one church—conveys the universality of his orders. The symbol of power is meant for the churches of God then and now: them and us. No time limit is set down; it is for every church always. Even when he uses the word ‘church,’ he often means every church. The tradition, or ordinance, is one of Paul’s ‘ways which be in Christ, as I teach every where in every church’ (4.17.) And notice that he addresses the men: ‘if any man seem to be contentious.’ He addresses the men; it is for them to enforce what the apostle has laid down, and to not be prevailed upon, or dominated, by women. There is little point in arguing with contentious women about the validity of Scripture. Paul knew that; and so he closes what he has to say on the matter by addressing the men. They have the mandate from God to be in charge and to take charge. The men are the principal ones to be confronted; the women are to be corrected and taught. Our churches are populated with chicken-hearted, henpecked men—weak men who are in cahoots with contentious women. They need to strengthen their weakened knees, for they are obliged to enforce the symbol of power. They are duty-bound to know it, to teach it, and to make sure that it is carried out. Militant feminism is in the visible church. This is abhorrent to members of the militant church, who, thankfully, upon becoming members of the church triumphant, will be separated forever, as wheat from chaff, from militant feminists and hypocrites generally. Weak-kneed pastors should remind themselves of this; they should be strengthened by the prophecy that all chaff will soon be driven away forever (Psalm 1.4.)  

Most men no doubt believe that they uncover their heads in church for no better reason than that a man is supposed to do it upon entering a room, like a library or a café, for example. But this is not a matter of etiquette; it is a matter of authority and glory. If a man uncovers his head for the right reason in church, and beside him sits a woman who has her head bare, he is dishonored, and the tradition, and therefore God, is disobeyed. If a man refuses to uncover his head in church, he is no more at fault than a woman who refuses to cover hers. Because churchgoers are ignorant, though, the covered man would be upbraided, while all the uncovered women would be let alone. But what about after it is known what this passage of Scripture teaches and requires? Churchgoers who are in the habit of being contentious will not receive the doctrine. But they ought to judge in themselves; that is, we hope, with their enlightened reason, whether or not the custom of debating what the Holy Ghost has written through the Lord’s apostle is holy conduct. 

Why are churches of God powerless today? Has it not got something to do with their disobedience to—even ignorance of—the symbol of power? Will authority proceed from pulpits when something as basic as God’s designated pattern of authority is in disarray? Will a church make mountains move when its faith won’t even heed God’s ladder of authority? How can a church move forward when its members won’t even line up in proper order? What kind of an army is that? ‘Onward Christian soldiers’ indeed! Churches that won’t march at God’s command are contentious; they need to be chastened more than blessed. Blessings must come through chastening when the church’s temperature is lukewarm. “I have no need of this symbol of power!” What is this attitude but the Laodicean claim to be in ‘need of nothing’? (Revelation 3.17.) Churches need what God says they must obey. This passage in 1 Corinthians on the symbol of power is so minutely explained by God’s apostle that it may be understood, I think, better than it was understood by Aaron that he had to wear a bonnet on his head during holy ministrations. He didn’t question the need of that; we should not question our need of this.  

In this marvelous, though neglected and even hated, passage of Scripture, the apostle has argued from the present to the past, delving back in time a little farther with each argument. He began with culture in verse 6, receded to the creative order of man and woman midway, then back still more to angels in verse 10. By verse 13 he was all the way back to reason, and challenged the Corinthians to use that to judge whether or not his position on this matter conformed to human nature (verses 14, 15.) The only argument we should need is the one in verse 13, the one that appeals to common sense: “Judge in yourselves” (verse 13.) By reason alone we should know that it is proper for a woman to wear long hair and that this hair is given to her as a glorious covering. From this common sense knowledge it should be easy to see that the veil is as spiritual as the woman’s hair is natural. The apostle’s arguments from creation, angelology, nature generally, and reason particularly, collapse the house that heretics have built on the foundation of culture. The symbol of power may not be dismissed on the basis that it is passé. If the matter were confined to first century culture, there would be no reason for the arguments that are used, and there would be no reason for the Holy Ghost to include the passage in the New Testament. 

One cannot go farther back than Saint Paul did in support of what he was moved by the Holy Ghost to commission. He argued in the sequence that he did in order to stack his arguments up in the most convincing manner possible. His main arguments for the maintenance of the tradition are not limited to culture nor epoch, for man is still made in the image and glory of God, the natural order still obtains, angels still exist and observe, nature still teaches, and human reason still informs us of what is proper. What is fundamental to each argument is the fact that the hierarchy established by God has not changed: God, Christ, man, woman. Until it changes, the symbol of power should be in effect. The apostle’s intention was to cement the tradition in the churches of God until the end of the age. There are great themes in this passage: honor, glory, equality. But the main theme is authority. Will the churches of God submit to their Almighty Father by respecting his order of authority? By having ‘power on her head,’ God’s authority design is honored, his glory is exposed and uplifted without rival, the angels are not offended but taught, and the churches of God are humbly bowed before the God that they owe adoration to. “In the sculptures of the catacombs the women have a close-fitting head-dress, while the men have the hair short” (Marvin Vincent.) This is the picture that the first half of 1 Corinthians aims to paint in all the churches of God.