Scripture-ish

I recently read the book called Disciples and the Bible (1997) by Eugene Boring, owing to my interest in biblical interpretation within the Stone-Campbell Movement. Boring, who died a couple years ago, was a part of the Disciples of Christ all his life. I myself am a lifelong member of the Churches of Christ. It is obvious from reading this book that Boring was glad he was not within the Churches of Christ, and I myself am glad I’m not in the Disciples of Christ. We’re both content with our own location. Still, we’re both heirs of the Stone-Campbell Movement, and so in the comments below I sometimes use the first-person plural pronoun “we” to signal the heritage that Boring and I share. The “official” date when the two groups parted ways (i.e., the split in the Stone-Campbell Movement) is 1906.

Review of Eugene Boring, Disciples and the Bible (1997)

First things first: I love this book. I love Eugene Boring’s approach to the role of Scripture in the church. I love his respect for historical criticism, and his point that historical criticism is ecumenical. I want to think about that point, and I want to think about it in light of the criticisms leveled against historical criticism from the church, from those who are concerned historical criticism is insufficiently theological to be a Christian reading strategy (for examples from within Churches of Christ, see Brad East and Keith Stanglin). I think I agree that it is insufficiently theological, but the location from which I agree with that point is from Team Boring. I love other things about the book, not least his historical approach—that is, the conviction that to figure out where we are and where we need to go, we need to understand how we got here—and as a part of that historical approach I love his account of the development of the Five-Finger Exercise. I love the view of the biblical canon that he explicates in the final chapter (pp. 423–26).

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My favorite part of the book may be his fourth prescription in the final chapter, on the meaning of our pre-baptismal confession, and my least favorite part of the book may be his fifth prescription, his suggestion for a new five-finger exercise. But before continuing in this vein, let me tell you about the book.

Author and Book Basics

First, the author: M. Eugene Boring died as an old man on June 27, 2024. He retired as a New Testament professor from Brite Divinity School at Texas Christian University. He earned his PhD from Vanderbilt.

The book, published by Chalice Press—a denominational publishing house connected to the Disciples of Christ—covers biblical interpretation in the Stone-Campbell Movement, from the days of Stone and Campbell, until Boring’s own day (so, about 200 years), with some hopes and direction for the future.

I’ve owned Boring’s book for 15 years, and it has languished on my shelf. Finally I can say that I’ve read it, and I’m glad I did. I learned a lot.

The Main Point of the Book

This is a different book than what I expected, but I should have expected what it is. I thought Boring’s book would be something like the more recent book by John Mark Hicks on biblical interpretation. I guess they are somewhat alike, but the two scholars certainly care about different aspects of the history of interpretation. Hicks is a historical theologian with expertise in the post-Reformation period, and he is great at tracing the intellectual currents influencing Alexander Campbell and others and especially their hermeneutical approaches. More to the point, Hicks is a lifelong member of the Churches of Christ and—not to put words in his mouth, but I imagine he might say—a recovering legalist. He is interested in how a movement aimed at church unity and renewal based on a fresh reading of Scripture became bogged down in legalism.

Boring is a biblical scholar, and more to the point, a lifelong member of the Disciples of Christ, which is self-consciously a mainstream Christian denomination. and thus a much more liberal group than the Churches of Christ. As you know if you’re at all familiar with the Disciples of Christ, and as Boring documents, for a century now the Disciples have essentially been fully integrated into the Academy and have played the game as well as anyone. The game is critical biblical scholarship, and the only rule is that you should not allow your faith to influence your reasoning. Boring didn’t grow up in a legalistic church; he grew up in a church—I imagine—that barely believed in Scripture, that openly expressed disagreement with the Bible, that harbored, and vocally expressed, serious misgivings about the resurrection of Jesus. Boring set himself the task of trying to figure out how a movement aimed at church unity and renewal based on a fresh reading of Scripture gave birth to a denomination whose leaders sometimes seem more committed to a historical reading of the Bible than to a theological appropriation of life-giving Scripture.

That this framing accurately describes Boring’s project becomes clear late in the book, starting especially in chapters 9 and 10, when he describes the Fourth Generation of Disciples in the middle of the twentieth century, the time when critical biblical scholarship fully dominated biblical interpretation in the denomination. In chapter 9, Boring describes—among others—the New Testament scholar S. Vernon McCasland as someone who had a genuine faith that could not be detected from his writings on the Bible. His faith and his biblical scholarship are in separate categories, and never the twain did meet. In the same chapter, he briefly describes Jack Finegan, another New Testament scholar. Boring says about Finegan:

He fits the McCasland type that threatened to become the dominant paradigm in the Fourth Generation. Whether it will continue to prevail remains to be seen. (347)

In chapter 10, Boring describes a mid-century committee of denominational scholars called The Panel of Scholars, that published a significant trilogy of books in 1963, charting a course for the Disciples of Christ. Again, this was 1963. Boring was ordained as a Disciples pastor in 1957, and he began teaching New Testament at Phillips University in Tulsa in 1967, so this Panel of Scholars was happening right at the time that Boring was launching his career. According to Boring, the Panel of Scholars affirmed the authority of the Bible, “not in terms of propositional revelation or verbal inspiration, but in terms of personal encounter with the God who speaks through the Bible” (357). Most of these scholars adopted a neo-orthodox view of Scripture, whereas, says Boring, “most of the denomination remained locked in the false alternatives of the older liberalism (many of the denomination’s leaders) and the older conservatism (many laypeople and pastors)” (358). He continues:

The authority of the Bible is genuinely affirmed [by The Panel of Scholars] but no longer functions in the same central manner as it had in previous generations. Though the Bible is quoted relatively often, there is remarkably little exegesis, and no exegetical essays as such. Symptomatic of the Disciples mind is the phenomenon that there is a fairly complete index to the three volumes of names and topics, but there is no scripture index. (358)

This is the situation Boring sought to explain. And it is the situation he sought to correct. Boring is not a fan of doing historical criticism of the Bible without reference to faith. He parenthetically and snarkily comments that the believing church is positioned to do historical criticism better than Christian “insiders who pretend to be ‘objective’ outsiders” (358). In the final chapter of the book, the following sentences appear all in italics, to emphasize “the centrality of the Bible.”

This is the central issue. Disciples have always assumed or affirmed that the content of the faith is identical with or inseparable from the message of the Bible. This centrality of the Bible for articulating the meaning of the faith is especially crucial for a denomination that has distanced itself from creeds and tradition. (p. 417)

This is not a book about command, example, and necessary inference (mentioned briefly a few times, e.g., pp. 229, 243). If that’s the book you want, you’ve got options. I’d probably recommend starting with the book by Hicks mentioned earlier. Boring’s book is about how historical criticism came to be the dominant mode of biblical interpretation in the denomination called the Christian Church.

Structure of the Book

Boring chronicles five generations of Disciples interpreters, and he gives an overview in the brief introduction. The first generation is a double-generation, lasting 60 years, from the Last Will and Testament of the Springfield Presbytery (1804) to the death of Alexander Campbell (1866). I find it interesting that Barton Stone goes unmentioned in the introduction, though the whole movement is dated from the demise of the Springfield Presbytery. Stone’s name is the first one in the title of the first major chapter.

Anyway, the fifth generation started in 1968, so this book came out at the tail end of that generation, and Boring wonders whether there would be a sixth. Well, we’re in the sixth.

The generations that would be most interesting to people in Churches of Christ would of course be the first, second, and third.

Historical Criticism in the Stone-Campbell Movement

As I said, our author is a biblical scholar and his concern is with comparing biblical interpretation in his faith tradition over the past two centuries to the approach taken by biblical scholars, which is (in his mind) the right approach. According to Boring, Alexander Campbell was fully on board with biblical scholarship to the extent that he understood it.

Boring takes a somewhat teleological perspective in tracing the evolution of the Disciples’ appropriation of the Bible in terms of resistance or embrace of higher criticism. In other words, we have now gotten interpretation right (= historical criticism), and we can trace the history of how we came to this correct view. It reminds me of the saying I heard somewhere, “The arc of history is long but it bends toward us.”

Aside from teleology, Boring is also engaged in a project of restoration: making the Stone-Campbell Movement great again. The first generation of restorers was the best, especially Alexander Campbell; the second generation a step removed, and the third generation inferior still. You might recall Hesiod’s generations in Works and Days, first gold, then silver, then bronze. It is in the third generation, the bronze generation, the worst generation, where we get J. W. McGarvey, the great villain of Boring’s account.

As in Hesiod, so also in Boring’s account, the fourth generation represents an improvement, a return to Campbell’s principles of critical biblical interpretation, and Boring himself is in the fifth generation, which represents a further restoring of Campbell’s ideals. Boring ends the book by looking forward to the sixth generation, the one in which we are now living.

I cannot comment on what all Boring might have misinterpreted about the history of the Disciples. It is outside my field. It is also outside his field, so I suspect that he got some things wrong, or, let us say, that the way he framed some issues would not be how the majority of Stone-Campbell historians today would frame those same issues. But that’s my guess.

I can say that I found his discussion of McGarvey to be interesting, mostly because of how negative it was. When I was a student at Freed-Hardeman, McGarvey was a hero, and I acquired several of his books at that time. Boring even accuses McGarvey of anti-German xenophobia (235 n. 14), which is a charge not borne out by the citations provided by Boring. And I can correct one comment Boring made about the reception of McGarvey’s commentaries on Acts, but I’ll save that for a later post.

I found it interesting that Boring had an altogether more positive interpretation of Alexander Campbell than did Richard Hughes in the original edition of his magisterial history of Churches of Christ, called Reviving the Ancient Faith, that was published nearly simultaneously with Boring’s book. Boring the liberal Bible scholar and member of the liberal denomination Disciples of Christ seems to represent Alexander Campbell as the forerunner of liberalism, whereas Richard Hughes the American historian and a progressive member of the traditionalist Churches of Christ seems to represent Alexander Campbell as an ornery conservative and the fountainhead of all that is wrong with Churches of Christ.

This distinction between different ways of receiving Campbell’s legacy arises explicitly at the end of the chapter on the Churches of Christ (p. 303), where Boring says that Tom Olbricht misinterpreted Campbell’s “facts” as something that Olbricht himself was abandoning. According to Boring: “Actually, Olbricht’s emphasis is something of a recovery of Campbell’s ‘facts’ understood not merely as objective data that can be used as grist for a rationalistic mill, but the ‘mighty acts of God in history’ as the content of faith rather than theories and doctrines.”

Boring on the Churches of Christ

The chapter on biblical interpretation in Churches of Christ (ch. 8) is about 35 pages long. It is the last chapter of the section dealing with the so-called Third Generation of Disciples scholars.

Let me tell you what Boring does in this chapter. He divides the nineteenth and twentieth century into four periods, or, actually, he divides the twentieth century into three periods and sets it alongside the nineteenth century. Since the nineteenth century of the Churches of Christ is shared with the Disciples of Christ, he spends little time on it in this chapter, discussing only David Lipscomb for a few pages.

Lipscomb cannot be dismissed as an ignorant bigot, but his approach to the Bible does represent that sectarian mentality that will not enter into discussion with denominational and academic outsiders, looks only at the Bible as though its meaning were transparent, unaware of his own hermeneutical lenses through which he interprets, and tends to regard the Bible as a book of law by which every Christian act must be “authorized.” (277)

This shows where Boring’s interest lies when he examines biblical interpretation in Churches of Christ. Even here he barely mentions command, example, and inference. What he wants to know is whether a particular person, such as Lipscomb, is insular, in the sense of talking only to members of his own group, or whether he writes for a wider world. Boring wants to know whether an interpreter perceives the problems in the text of the Bible that have become obvious with the rise of historical biblical criticism. In other words, Boring views publications through two sets of lenses: the historical-critical lens, and the Stone-Campbell lens. He asks: does a particular specimen of biblical interpretation address only a Stone-Campbell context, or is it speaking competently to the wider world, whether people of faith or not?

After the 1906 split, the next forty years for the Churches of Christ are labeled by Boring “Isolation,” and the period is addressed in merely two pages, attempting to show that the concerns addressed in the period were specific to Churches of Christ, concerns such as the use of instrumental music in worship.

Then we have seven pages covering the quarter century leading up to 1970, which Boring labels the “Beginnings of a Renaissance.” At the beginning of this period, Lemoine Lewis, with Harvard PhD in hand, took up a post at Abilene Christian University and started encouraging his students to pursue graduate studies at elite universities. “This development, which had occurred a long generation earlier among the Disciples, and was one of the contributing factors to the split, now occurred among the Churches of Christ on a grander scale than had been the case among Disciples of the 1890s” (282).

But it’s only the beginnings of a renaissance, and the major example chosen by Boring for this period is J. D. Thomas, another ACU faculty member with a PhD from an elite university—the University of Chicago—who comes off as fully committed to the traditional style of interpretation with which he grew up, as if his graduate education merely conferred a credential without shaping his approach to the Bible.

Finally, the last thirty years of the twentieth century are labeled “Entering the Mainstream,” and Boring takes fourteen pages summarizing and critiquing the work of such scholars as Everett Ferguson, John Willis, Tom Olbricht, and Allen Black. Again, he wants to know how Church-of-Christ-y they are, or how open they are in accepting the dominant critical views that would seem problematic to a fundamentalist. For each of the named writers, Boring finds that they disguise their Church-of-Christ-iness but they are often insufficiently critical for Boring’s taste.

We’re now thirty years on from Boring’s evaluation of scholarship in Churches of Christ, and I wonder what he would make of the situation today. I wonder how he would evaluate my own writing. I’m not sure that I would come off any differently than the great names of the previous generation, but I think a difference might be that I am comfortable mentioning difficulties in the biblical text for which I have no solution. It seems to me that people in the pew, at least the ones who might read my books, accept that such difficulties exist. The scholarship of the generation of Ferguson and Willis and Olbricht has filtered down, I suspect.

In 1997, Boring began his “Concluding Observations” in ch. 8 with the comment:

While it is unclear to what extent the theological renaissance among scholars has permeated or will permeate the bulk of pastoral leadership and local congregations, the intellectual leadership of the Churches of Christ have rediscovered and reaffirmed theology, tradition, and a critical approach to biblical interpretation. (p. 303)

Yes, and the process continues.

Tracking Down Thomas Campbell’s Self-Identification as Calvinist

One interesting quotation of Thomas Campbell appears on p. 241. Unfortunately Boring does not provide a citation of a writing of Campbell himself, but of a secondary source, the 1954 book by Lester G. McAllister called Thomas Campbell: Man of the Book (St. Louis: Bethany). That is disappointing of Boring because the quotation from Campbell is inherently interesting to any reader of Boring’s book, and it would have been helpful to have a direct citation of Campbell to facilitate checking the original context. For this is the quotation where, in 1828, Thomas Campbell says: “I am a Calvinist,” and he disavows being a “restorationist” (on this latter word, see Boring’s note).

A trip to the library showed that McAllister himself did not directly cite Thomas Campbell but another book, one published by A. S. Hayden in 1876 and called History of the Disciples in the Western Reserve, Ohio (p. 168). Actually it is mis-cited by McAllister; the book was published in 1875 and it is called Early History of the Disciples in the Western Reserve, Ohio. There I see that the original source of this quotation by Campbell seems to be a letter, dated April 6, 1868, written by Aylett Raines to the book’s author, A.S. Hayden, to describe his participation in the 1828 meeting of the Mahoning Baptist Association in Warren, Ohio. So, not a direct source for Campbell, but a report of an 1828 conversation between Aylett Raines and Thomas Campbell, and the report is from Raines in a letter written forty years later. I’m not saying that Aylett Raines misrepresented Campbell, but it’s possible.

Concluding Chapter

I love Boring’s last chapter, 50 pages diagnosing the ills of biblical interpretation within his denomination and prescribing some remedies. Boring has uncovered aspects in the Disciples tradition of Bible reading that he thinks have rightfully been abandoned in his denomination (pp. 412–13), other aspects of the tradition that are in good health among the Disciples (pp. 413–16), and some things that are struggling for survival (pp. 416–17)—and then he writes some prescriptions, which takes up the final 30 pages. These would all be good conversation starters for believing Bible students.

Rightfully abandoned:

* uncritical views of the Bible

* the particular brand of restorationism dependent on uncritical views of the Bible. Here, Boring cites somebody named Colbert S. Cartwright, who in 1987 wrote about the, in Boring’s phrasing, “liberating effect of abandoning restoration that now opened the door to the history of the whole church as our own history and tradition.” Yes, I love that, and this resonates a great deal with Leonard Allen, In the Great Stream (2021). I myself don’t want to abandon restorationism, and Boring himself not only critiques the concept of restorationism but also gestures toward a helpful way of appropriating the impulse, for which he cites Mark Toulouse.

* Church = Kingdom

* Imprisonment of the Holy Spirit within Scripture

* the traditional Disciples “plan of salvation” as the key to reading Scripture

Preserved in Good Health:

* Unity, ecumenism

* populism

* love of God

* critical

* historical emphasis. Here he sees a recent emphasis (Leander Keck, et al.) on the historical Jesus rather than simply the Gospels

* “Disciples canon”

Struggling for Survival:

* churchly orientation of biblical study (as opposed to purely academic)

* holistic view of Scripture

* centrality of the Bible in the church

Each of these points deserves much more thought and discussion, which will be—Lord willing—never-ending. We can be grateful to have Boring’s own contribution to that conversation in such a helpful, well-presented, and provocative volume.

I have more to say about this book, so expect another dispatch on it. (Part 2 is now here.)

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In this post—the last in the series—we cover the ancient evidence that some ancient people did, indeed, consider Psalm 2 (as we call it) the first psalm. How could they do such a thing? Either because Psalm 1 (as we call it) was considered a preface, or because Psalm 2 was considered the second half of Psalm 1.

Get caught up on the series with Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, and Part 4.

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Rabbinic and Hebrew evidence for variability in psalm numbering

The Midrash on the Psalms 3.2 (sefaria) briefly discusses the reason that the psalms are not in their proper order. In other words, there is a recognition in this text that the Psalms are ordered strangely. The text gives a simple answer for this issue: that’s the way God wants it.

Among the sayings attributed to R. Joshua b. Levi, is this one that assumes that there are 147 psalms in the Psalter. This paragraph is from the Jerusalem Talmud (y. Shabb 16:1, Neusner’s translation, but see also sefaria at §7).

The hundred and forty-seven psalms included in the book of Psalms correspond to the number of years of the life of Jacob, our father [Gen 47:28]. This teaches that all the praises which Israel offer to the Holy One, blessed be he, correspond to the number of years of the life of Jacob, our father. What is the scriptural basis for this view? ‘Yet you are holy, O you that are enthroned upon the praises of Israel’ (Psa 22:3).

So, 147 psalms? In our Bibles, there are 150 psalms, and our English Bibles are translations of the Hebrew book of Psalms, so there should be (one would think) 150 psalms in the Hebrew Psalter. But, according to scholar William Yarchin, medieval Hebrew manuscripts present quite a bit of variation in the presentation of the psalms, even though the actual content is the same across all the medieval manuscripts.

In the quotation below, Yarchin uses the term “TR” for textus receptus, that is, the received text, or the traditional text of the Psalms (traditional for us). The number refers to the psalm number in what we regard as the traditional Psalter, i.e., TR 78 = the psalm we call Psalm 78 (according to the Hebrew, not the LXX).

This observation extends well beyond the commonplace that, for example, the occasional medieval Hebrew manuscript will show TR 1 and 2 as a single psalm, or that some manuscripts divide TR 78 into two psalms. There is much more here. The total body of evidence reveals at least twenty-five different attested conjoinments of what TR presents as two or more discrete psalms and at least thirteen different attested divisions of what TR presents as complete psalms. Moreover, these various conjoinments and divisions appear in a great variety of configurations. The result is that sēper tәhillîm [i.e., the book of Psalms] comes to us comprised of varying psalms totals ranging from 144 to 156, depending on which manuscript is in question. (Yarchin, p. 781)

Yarchin hints at something that we will examine more closely in a moment: that the first two psalms are sometimes treated as a single psalm. In the previous post (part 4 of the series), I mentioned that the Church Fathers occasionally attest to this aspect of the Hebrew Psalter.

Before getting to the Hebrew biblical manuscripts, let’s look at one more example from rabbinic literature in regard to different psalm numbers, and this passage is longer. It’s from the Babylonian Talmud, tractate Berakhot, and it argues from several angles for the combination of Psalms 1–2. The translation below is taken from the Soncino edition, but you can check out the text and translation at sefaria.org, where the passage begins at Berakhot 9b §25. The point of the passage is that the end of Psalm 19 (“let the words of my mouth…”) should be considered the conclusion of the eighteenth psalm, because in that way there would be a parallel with a famous Jewish prayer called the Amidah, a.k.a., the Eighteen Benedictions, a.k.a. the Tefillah. The importance of this passage is shown by its repetition in a briefer version in the Jerusalem Talmud (y. Taanit 2:2; in the Neusner translation at vol. 18, p. 185; or §3 at sefaria).

Here is the Soncino translation of the long passage from the Babylonian Talmud.

See that this verse ‘Let the words of my mouth be acceptable etc..’ [Psa 19:14, English version] is suitable for recital either at the end or the beginning [of the tefillah], why did the Rabbis institute it at the end of the eighteen benedictions? Let it be recited at the beginning?—R. Judah the son of Simeon b. Pazzi said: Since David said it only after eighteen chapters [of the Psalms], the Rabbis too enacted that it should be said after eighteen blessings. But those eighteen Psalms are really nineteen?

Let me pause here just to make sure everyone is following along. Again, the point of the passage is that the words “Let the words of my mouth…” should be considered the conclusion of Psalm 18, even though in our Psalter those words come at the conclusion of Psalm 19. So in the excerpt above, the rabbinic passage raises that objection. It’s “really nineteen” psalms, right? Not eighteen. Here’s the answer:

—‘Happy is the man’ [Psa 1:1] and ‘Why are the nations in an uproar’ [Psa 2:1] form one chapter.

So, the answer is that the first two psalms are combined. Now the text cites an authority as making the same point in a different way, some Rabbi called R. Judah the son of R. Simeon b. Pazzi.

For R. Judah the son of R. Simeon b. Pazzi said: David composed a hundred and three chapters [of Psalms], and he did not say ‘Hallelujah‘ until he saw the downfall of the wicked, as it says, Let sinners cease out of the earth, and let the wicked be no more. Bless the Lord, O my soul. Hallelujah. [Psa 104:35] Now are these a hundred and three? Are they not a hundred and four? You must assume that ‘Happy is the man’ and ‘Why are the nations in an uproar’ form one chapter.

So, again, the only way R. Judah son of R. Simeon b. Pazzi could have been correct in his statement is if he thought that the first two psalms were combined.

Now, here is the conclusion of the passage, presenting one further argument for their combination.

For R. Samuel b. Naḥmani said in the name of R. Joḥanan: Every chapter that was particularly dear to David he commenced with ‘Happy’ and terminated with ‘Happy’. He began with ‘Happy’, as it is written, ‘Happy is the man’, and he terminated with ‘Happy’, as it is written ‘happy are all they that take refuge in Him’.

That is, Psalm 1 begins with the word “happy” (or “blessed”) and Psalm 2 ends with a verse beginning with the word “happy,” and so actually Psalms 1–2 must be a single psalm.

Do I think those are good arguments? Um, no. But the passage does show that some Rabbis considered Psalms 1–2 to be a single psalm. And that explains what is going on with those manuscripts of Acts—and, more importantly (because more of them), the Church Fathers—that cite Psalm 2:7 as coming from “the first psalm.”

Psalm 1 as a preface to the Psalter

This is a pretty common idea in scholarship today: Psalm 1 forms a preface to the Psalter. Scholars usually don’t tie this idea to the psalm numbering, just to the interpretation of the book of Psalms. Gillingham’s 2018 study has an extensive discussion in this vein—or, actually, she argues that Psalms 1–2 both serve as a preface to the Psalter. If we’re looking for evidence that Psalm 2 counted as Psalm 1, Gillingham’s idea (which is not unique to her) wouldn’t work. Willgren’s 2016 study pushes back against the “preface” idea. At any rate, there is a common thought in modern scholarship on the Psalms that Psalm 1, and maybe Psalms 1–2, serve as an introduction or preface. Wenham (2012: 78) says matter-of-factly: “Psalm 1 is the introduction not only to the Psalter but also to the third section of the Hebrew canon, the Writings.” That doesn’t necessarily mean that Psalm 1 shouldn’t be numbered.

But that is what we find in some medieval Hebrew manuscripts: an unnumbered Psalm 1, and the psalm numbering starting at Psalm 2, assigning to it the number 1 (or aleph, א, the first letter of the Hebrew alephbet). Apparently, then, these manuscripts treat Psalm 1 as a kind of preface, and when users of these manuscripts wanted to find Psalm 1, apparently they would find the psalm beginning, “Why do the heathen rage?”

Which medieval manuscripts? Well, I haven’t actually seen any myself. The evidence that is cited comes from two scholarly works produced near the turn of the nineteenth century. They are both basically multi-volume collections of variant readings in Masoretic manuscripts. One of them was produced by the Englishman Benjamin Kenicott, and the other by the Italian Giovanni Bernardo de Rossi. They are still standard reference works. Fortunately, (at least some of) these volumes have been placed online. Unfortunately, they have their own citation methods, so I’m not always sure about the identity of the manuscripts they reference. But I do know that all of these manuscripts are medieval Masoretic manuscripts.

Kennicott provides notes for many medieval manuscripts, and on at least two of them—the ones he calls codex 157 and codex 168—he says that the numbering of the psalms starts with our Psalm 2, where there is an aleph (א), indicating that it is considered the first psalm. (You can see Kennicott’s notes on these manuscripts, in Latin, here.)

As for de Rossi, I paste here an image from his notes on the beginning of the Psalter (here, p. 1). He has two notes, and the first concerns the prefatorial function of Psalm 1, while the second will concern us in our next section. The first note says: “Psalm 1 is not numbered, as if a prologue, as in some Greek codices, and number 1 begins from Psalm 2, in my codices 234, 879.”

There are some relevant patristic comments (surveyed by Willgren, cited earlier). For instance, in his commentary on the Inscriptions of the Psalms, Gregory of Nyssa discusses why some psalms (such as Psalms 1–2, but also others) do not have superscriptions. He suggests that “in a sense, the first Psalm is an inscription of the second” (2.8.75; translation by Heine, p. 144). But this statement should not be pressed too far, and it is improbable that Gregory thought that Psalm 1 should be unnumbered.

Psalm 2 as the second part of Psalm 1

John T. Willis begins his 1979 article “Psalm 1—An Entity” by reminding readers that several scholars had a few years earlier argued that the first two psalms (as we consider them) were originally one. Willis names Lipinski, Brownlee, and Bardtke. The point of Willis’ article is to establish the opposite position.

But the idea that Psalms 1–2 might be one has precedent long before the twentieth century. Indeed, some medieval Hebrew manuscripts present them as a single psalm. We have just seen that a lot of different numbering schemes and combinations were happening in medieval manuscripts of the Psalms, and even though the Rabbis had the same Psalter as we do in terms of content, they didn’t take it for granted (as we might) that there were 150 psalms in the book. We shouldn’t be surprised if Psalms 1–2 occasionally get combined, as they did.

The combinations in the medieval manuscripts are reported, again, by Kenicott and de Rossi. I have not actually seen these medieval manuscripts themselves, just the reports about them by Kenicott and de Rossi.

First, Kennicott. Here is his note (the first note on the left):

“This psalm is written as part of the preceding one: 17, 37, 216, 409, 505.” That’s the first part of the note, and the only part that interests me at the moment. But I am not an expert in medieval Hebrew manuscripts, and I’m not sure of the best way to track down these manuscripts. Kennicott does describe them in the first volume of his work, so at least you can learn where (in what city) they are located, but I’m not sure of the library always. The first two of these manuscripts are in the Bodleian, but they are not digitized yet, as you can see here. Anyway, I haven’t seen images of any of these manuscripts. (See also Kennicott’s description of manuscript 164, which also combined Psalms 1–2.)

Now for de Rossi. Earlier I pasted an image from de Rossi’s volume, and now we focus on the second part of that image (the part numbered II, signaling that the discussion now concerns Psalm 2). De Rossi says about Psalm 2 that it is considered a part of Psalm 1 in Kenicott’s manuscripts (already named, except that de Rossi omits 409) and de Rossi adds a few more: “my 554, 596, 782.” He also says that there was such a manuscript known to Origen (see my previous post), and some more in the time of Kimchi.

(Wilson, 204–5 n. 8, also says that de Rossi, in his volume 5, pointed to some additional Hebrew manuscripts that combined the first two psalms. I have not been able to locate de Rossi’s fifth volume online. According to Wilson’s translation of de Rossi, there are four further manuscripts that mark our Psalm 2 with an aleph: codex 1117, Erfurtensi 5, Haalens Bible, MS. I Erfurtensi Jarchiani Commentarii)

Willis also adds a further manuscript (based on Bardtke): Wiener Nationalbibliothek ms no. 4 (12th cent.).

Conclusion

Let’s draw our thoughts to a close. I do think the correct reading of Acts 13:33 is “second psalm,” and I do not think it is best to read Psalm 1 and Psalm 2 as a single psalm—they are best read as separate compositions—and while I do think that Psalm 1 (and maybe Psalm 2) forms some sort of preface to the Psalter, that does not mean that it is not itself a psalm that deserves its own psalm number. I am not arguing that we should renumber the psalms in the book of Psalms. In that sense, perhaps this 5-part series has been a giant nothingburger.

But the matter is worth pursuing because it shows us how certain things we considered settled about the Bible—simple things, like psalm numbering, and manuscript readings in the book of Acts—are somewhat more complicated than often considered. Things like this are part of what makes biblical studies so much fun, discovering that what you thought you knew, might end up being true, or probably true, but not as obvious as it had seemed. Learning to live with uncertainty is important for someone entering into biblical studies, or probably any academic field. Studying such small details as the numbering schemes of the psalms helps us understand what can be known and how we can know it.

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Near the end of her 1971 biographical book, The Hiding Place, Corrie ten Boom describes her time in the Ravensbrück concentration camp (northeast Germany, at the red bubble in the map below) with her sister Betsie, who was growing physically weaker by the day, though her Christian faith seemed to only grow stronger.

Though Betsie was now spared heavy outdoor labor, she still had to stand the twice-daily roll call. As December temperatures fell, the roll calls became true endurance tests and many did not survive. One dark morning when ice was forming a halo around each street lamp, a feeble-minded girl two rows ahead of us suddenly soiled herself. A guard rushed at her, swinging her thick leather crop while the girls shrieked in pain and terror. It was always more terrible when one of these innocent ones was beaten. Still the Aufseherin continued to whip her. It was the guard we had nicknamed “The Snake” because of the shiny dress she wore. I could see it now beneath her long wool cape, glittering in the light of the lamp as she raised her arm. I was grateful when the screaming girl at last lay still on the cinder street.

“Betsie,” I whispered when The Snake was far enough away, “what can we do for these people? Afterward I mean. Can’t we make a home for them and care for them and love them?”

“Corrie, I pray every day that we will be allowed to do this! To show them that love is greater!”

And it wasn’t until I was gathering twigs later in the morning that I realized that I had been thinking of the feeble-minded, and Betsie of their persecutors. (ch. 14)

I read this passage aloud to my daughter last night, and I paused for several seconds at the comma of that last line, because I saw the next five words and they slapped me across the face. I should have been expecting it. Throughout the last several chapters of Corrie’s book, describing her time in Nazi prisons with Betsie, Corrie has consistently represented herself as the less pious of the ten Boom sisters, the more selfish one, weaker in faith. Betsie ten Boom was ever selfless, the embodiment of Christ.

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(Is this how it really was? Was Betsie really so much more Christ-like than Corrie? Or is this Corrie’s own piety on display, self-deprecatingly representing her older sister—long deceased by the time this book was published—as always more saintly? Who knows? But it is certainly a selfless thing to do to represent yourself as more selfish than another.)

Corrie’s idea laid out in the excerpt above is itself noble and a lofty example for Christians: to create a residence for people with cognitive challenges, especially those who had suffered under the Nazis. Corrie displays the wonderful impulse to bless victims of abuse.

Betsie’s idea is something else. It is more noble, more selfless, even than Corrie’s idea. I don’t know whether Corrie ever created a residence for abuse victims [update (12 Feb 26): she did, as described in the last chapter of The Hiding Place], but I know that Betsie did not; she died at Ravensbrück. Her death is recounted at the end of the same chapter that includes the passage quoted above.

I know that some people today, reflecting on the events that happened at Ravensbrück and similar camps, would say that Betsie’s idea was, perhaps, a sweet thought but impractical and even dangerous. Abusers should not get more sympathy and more help than their victims. I agree with this, I think. Betsie’s idea is impractical and dangerous and abusers should not receive more sympathy than their victims.

It is a dangerous idea in part because help extended to abusers often enables further abuse. There are too many examples that have come to light in recent years for me to need to demonstrate it here.

Betsie’s idea is impractical because in many cases violent abusers don’t want to be helped, they don’t want to learn, in Betsie’s words, “that love is greater.” Abuse victims often will accept help, and I know of houses set up specifically for them to get back on their feet and learn life skills and maybe encounter Jesus. I suppose there are similar houses for convicted criminals. The security concerns must be intense, both for fellow residents and for neighbors.

In any case, from a Christian perspective (and, no doubt, other perspectives), Betsie’s instincts are right, that the abusers are worse off than the victims. Betsie had developed the eyes of God, who “seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the LORD looketh on the heart.” Betsie saw The Snake’s heart, that it was sick and twisted, that it was causing her misery. Betsie understood the truth of Augustine’s prayer, that “our heart is restless until it comes to rest in you,” and Betsie perceived that The Snake and her fellow guards were the most desperate for that rest.

What Betsie did was to pray, frequently, for her persecutors. There are ways in which helping perpetrators of abuse is dangerous and impractical, but prayer is never dangerous or impractical. While one who sought to create some sort of halfway house for former Nazis would need to mirror their love with truckloads of wisdom, lest disaster ensue, prayer avoids these problems, trusting in God the all-wise to do what is best.

Moreover, Corrie comes to understand that when standing before God she cannot claim moral superiority to her captors. Immediately after relating the story quoted above, Corrie tells of her own increasing selfishness (as she calls it), wanting to hoard extra supplies for her sick sister, not wanting to share a blanket with a fellow prisoner.

And even if it wasn’t right—it wasn’t so very wrong, was it? Not wrong like sadism and murder and the other monstrous evils we saw in Ravensbrück every day. Oh, this was the great ploy of Satan in that kingdom of his: to display such blatant evil that one could almost believe one’s own secret sins didn’t matter. (ch. 14)

Yes, victims should receive more help than abusers, but not because abusers don’t deserve help. If we’re talking about what we deserve, Corrie comes to recognize that, unfortunately, we are not so dissimilar from one another, whether we end up as a victim or a perpetrator. As a further example, read about the life of Irma Grese, the “Beast of Belsen,” and ask yourself what you would have done in her shoes. Just as Peter Bailey felt sorry for his nemesis Henry F. Potter (and “nemesis” is my word, not Peter Bailey’s), so Betsie felt sorrow for her prison guards, who were ignorantly hurting themselves and wandering so far from Christ, the only place of rest.

As I said, I should have expected as much from Betsie, because it’s not the first time Corrie mentions this characteristic of her sister. Earlier, when Corrie and Betsie arrived at a prison at Vught in the Netherlands in June 1944, Corrie became frustrated with the length of their confinement, having lasted months by now.

“Betsie!” I wailed, “how long will it take?”

“Perhaps a long, long time. Perhaps many years. But what better way could there be to spend our lives?”

I turned to stare at her. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“These young women. That girl back at the bunkers. Corrie, if people can be taught to hate, they can be taught to love! We must find the way, you and I, no matter how long it takes….”

She went on, almost forgetting in her excitement to keep her voice to a whisper, while I slowly took in the fact that she was talking about our guards. I glanced at the matron seated at the desk ahead of us. I saw a gray uniform and visored hat; Betsie saw a wounded human being.

And I wondered, not for the first time, what sort of a person she was, this sister of mine … what kind of road she followed while I trudged beside her on the all-too-solid earth. (ch. 12)

“I wondered … what sort of a person she was”—have you encountered such people, ones who display the character of Christ so clearly that you cannot look straight at them but must squint, or hide your eyes? In fact, Betsie had learned this way of being from her father; earlier in the book (ch. 5), Corrie told a similar story about Casper ten Boom, fully trusting in God’s justice and feeling pity for the German soldiers.

Of course, Betsie’s attitude reminds us of Christ, hanging on the cross. “Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.”

Yes, I know about the textual difficulty for this prayer from the cross. The new textual commentary by Houghton indicates, by the way, that the forthcoming UBS6 Greek New Testament has downgraded the confidence in the unoriginality of the passage, from A to B. For a helpful argument that the prayer is original to the Third Gospel, see Ehrman.

Even without Luke 23:34, we still have Matthew 5:44, and we still need examples of people, like Stephen in Acts 7, praying for their enemies. I’m grateful that Betsie ten Boom supplies such an example.

Betsie saw in her prison guards, including the one nicknamed The Snake, a remnant of humanity, something worthy of love. More than that, she perceived that if she had any hope of calling on God to extend mercy to her, that she ought to extend mercy to others, to those who most needed it. Betsie understood that she could take greater joy in the grace of God the more she imitated it.

“Betsie saw a wounded human being”—of course, Betsie was right. Even The Snake, try as she might, had not managed to rid herself of all human feeling, as the same chapter goes on to demonstrate. But I’ll let you, dear reader, discover that episode for yourself.

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In previous posts in this series (Part 1, Part 2, Part 3), I have looked at the history of numbering the psalms. The jumping off point has been Acts 13:33, where Psalm 2:7 (as we call it) was cited as coming from “the second psalm.” I have also looked at the few manuscripts that say in Acts 13:33 “the first psalm.” In this post, I expand that latter point, not looking at manuscripts of Acts but early Christian statements about Acts or about the psalms.

So let’s return to the reading of Acts 13:33, “first psalm” or “second psalm.” We have seen that almost all extant manuscripts of Acts have “second psalm,” but one of the standard editions of the Greek New Testament indicates some doubt that “second psalm” is the correct text. (It prints “second psalm” in the text, but it assigns this a “B” rating, indicating some doubt as to the correct reading. An “A” rating would indicate full confidence.) Actually, this is true of previous editions of this Greek New Testament, up through the fifth edition (2014); I’m not sure what the about-to-be-released sixth edition will show. But I do note that there is no discussion of this textual difficulty in Houghton’s textual commentary (2025), though its predecessor by Metzger (1994) had an extensive and helpful discussion (pp. 363–65). Moreover, Ropes (1926: 263–65) argues that “first psalm” is original in Acts 13:33.

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(Since Houghton’s commentary “covers all of the 1,008 variation units selected for UBS6,” I take it that UBS6 will not contain any reference to the ancient evidence for the reading “first psalm” at Acts 13:33.)

If almost all manuscripts of Acts—and early ones!—have “second psalm,” why would there be any doubt that “second psalm” is the correct reading? As Metzger says, the patristic evidence for “first psalm” is “very impressive.” What he means is that some early Christian writers in the second through fourth centuries talk about Psalm 2:7 as coming from the first psalm, and they say that Paul in Acts says that the verse comes from the first psalm. In other words, these early Christian writers must have had manuscripts of Acts with the reading “first psalm,” though these manuscripts—most of them, at least—have been lost to time.

What is this patristic evidence?

Patristic evidence for “first psalm” at Acts 13:33

This evidence is surveyed in several places: the works by Metzger and Ropes already cited, and Willgren (2016: 163–67), whose main concern is whether Psalms 1–2 function as a preface to the Psalter (on which see also Gillingham 2018: 11–43) and, an old article by John Willis (pp. 387–91) on whether Psalms 1–2 should be considered a single psalm or two separate psalms. Willis himself regarded Psalm 1 as a composition separate from Psalm 2, and he also provided patristic testimony to the same effect. So, the early Christians who report traditions about the two psalms being combined in Hebrew manuscripts, or who otherwise indicate that Acts 13:33 says “first psalm,” do not represent the totality of the patristic evidence bearing on this question. For the patristic evidence for “second psalm” in Acts 13:33, see Willis, and take a look at Gillingham (2013). Since “second psalm” is the expected reading (at least, for us) in Acts 13:33, I will not cover it here.

Now I survey the patristic evidence for “first psalm” in Acts 13:33, or patristic evidence that could be cited in support of this reading.

Justin Martyr, First Apology 40 quotes the first two psalms without any break. Did he consider them a single psalm? In that case, what we think of as the second psalm would count for Justin as part of the first psalm.

Tertullian, Against Marcion 4.22.8, introduces the words of Psalm 2:7 as “in the first psalm.” The manuscripts of Tertullian seem to be consistent on this point, though the printed editions differ. Evans (OUP, 1972) prints “first psalm,” while Kroymann’s older edition (p. 494, line 4) prints “second psalm.” (But on Kroymann’s edition, see this note from Kilpatrick.)

Origen has an interesting comment in his Selecta in Psalmos 2:1

“Why do the heathen rage, the people imagine a vain thing? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord and against his anointed,” etc. Reading two Hebrew manuscripts, in one we found these [words] as the beginning of Psalm 2, in the other they were combined with Psalm 1. And in the Acts of the Apostles, the saying “You are my son, today I have begotten you” is said to belong to the first psalm. “For as it is written,” it says, “in the first psalm: you are my son, today I have begotten you.” Now, Greek manuscripts indicate that it is the second psalm. But this should be understood, that in the Hebrew, a number is placed beside none of the psalms, whether first, or second, or third. (PG 12.1100c–d; on Origen, see also this work, pp. 9–10)

Cyprian, Ad Quirinum 1.13; 2.8; 2.29; 3.20; 3.56; 3.112; 3.119—at these passages (according to Willis, p. 388) some Latin manuscripts of this work have the reading “first psalm” for citations of our Psalm 2, whereas other manuscripts read “second psalm.” Willis cites an article by C. H. Turner in JTS 6 (pp. 264–65).

Eusebius of Caesarea (Comm. Psal., PG 23.73b) and Athanasius (Argumentum in Psal., PG 27.56) both say that the first and second psalm are combined in Hebrew (κατὰ τὸ Ἑβραϊκόν).

Jerome, Commentarioli in Psalmos, comments on Psalm 1 as follows.

(1a) Blessed is the man who did not depart in the counsel of the ungodly. Some say this psalm is a kind of preface of the Holy Spirit and therefore has no superscription; others that, because it is the first of its order, it has the first place and that it is an error of superfluity to say it is the first before which there is nothing. Otherwise: among the Hebrews both the first and the second are one psalm, which is proved in the Acts of the Apostles. In fact, because it began with a blessing, it closes with a blessing, saying, “Blessed are all who put their trust in him” [Psa 2:12]. (translated from Risse 2005; Latin also at PL 26.823)

What is clear from the patristic testimony is the widespread nature of the reading “first psalm” in Acts 13:33, or at least the idea that our Psalm 2 may be regarded as, in some way, the first psalm. Indeed, some of these church fathers who mention the reading “first psalm” in Acts 13:33 seem unaware of any textual problem with the passage, under the assumption that the reading “in the first psalm” is undisputed. This is true of Tertullian, Origen, and Jerome, and also Hilary, as we observe next.

Hilary of Poitiers

Because his discussion is long, I allot to Hilary of Poitiers (Latin writer, fourth century) a section of his own.

In his Commentary on the Psalms Hilary goes to great lengths to explain the meaning of Paul’s comment in Acts 13:33, specifically, how the apostle could have attributed to “the first psalm” the statement “You are my son, today I have begotten you.” The problem, for Hilary, is that in the Greek and Latin manuscripts of the Psalter that he has seen, this statement is in the second psalm. Why would Paul say it was in the first? He develops an elaborate theory to explain this problem, but it never occurs to Hilary to question the accuracy of his copy of Acts. He never thinks that maybe Paul actually did say “second psalm”; apparently he has never seen a copy of Acts with any other reading than “first psalm.” He thinks it more likely that the book of Psalms is mis-ordered than that his copy of Acts has suffered textual corruption. Hilary also is familiar with evidence among the Jews that the second psalm was considered the first—and, Hilary reasons, the apostle Paul was a Jew.

Hilary of Poitiers discusses the issue in his Commentary on the Psalms 2.1 (pp. 37–38):

Apostolic authority makes many of us unsure whether they should consider this psalm to belong to the first as if the last part of the first, or whether it comes later and they should count it rather as the second. For in the Acts of the Apostles we are taught in the oration by the blessed Paul that this psalm was considered to be first: “and we proclaim to you that promise which was made to the fathers, God has accomplished for our sons, raising our Lord Jesus, as also it is written in the first psalm [sicut et in psalmo scriptum est primo], ‘You are my son, today I have begotten you,’ when he raised him from the dead never to return to destruction.” So, because of this apostolic authority, it is believed to have been a scribal error that that psalm is enumerated as second in order, since it is known by the testimony of the teacher of the gentiles that it is first. Therefore that reason should be recognized why it should be understood by us to be second and it is shown by the apostle to be first.

The next part of the passage is a rather complicated bit on the authority of the LXX, a section of Hilary’s commentary that has formed the basis of an excellent article by my teacher Adam Kamesar. Hilary returns to the main point halfway through §3, where he is talking about the Seventy translators who (are reputed to have) produced the Greek translation of the Old Testament, the Septuagint:

Thus, these men, in the course of translating the Psalms among the other books, also numbered them, set them in order, and set divisions within them with diapsalmata; whereas all of the Psalms were and are in a confused state in the Hebrew text. (Kamesar’s translation, p. 272)

Before summarizing Hilary’s argument, let me explain the term diapsalmata. It’s a Greek word (adopted into Latin), a plural term, and the singular is diapsalma. It is a mysterious term translating a mysterious Hebrew term. The Hebrew term is selah (סֶלָה), and you’ve probably seen this term while reading the book of Psalms in English. It appears 71x in the Hebrew book of Psalms, the first time at Psalm 3:2, which is translated in the KJV as “Many there be which say of my soul, There is no help for him in God. Selah.” Translators of the English Bible usually don’t translate selah, they just give the Hebrew word, becomes no one knows what the word means. Prominent guesses are that it marks places where the singer is supposed to sing louder, or maybe it marks a “rest.” But one of the standard ancient Hebrew dictionaries says about this word only “perhaps a musical term.” At any rate, the ancient Greek translators apparently didn’t know what it meant either, and they rendered it by the term diapsalma, which has something to do with the word “psalm,” a stringed instrument. (Muraoka gives “musical interlude”; NETS has “interlude on strings.”)

Anyway, Hilary says that the LXX translators inserted these diapsalmata into the Psalter, apparently unaware that the word selah appears in the Hebrew Psalter. But Hilary is right that there are more passages in the LXX Psalter with diapsalmata than there are passages with selah in the Hebrew Psalter—the Hebrew Psalter does not have selah at the end of Psalm 2:2, but the LXX Psalter (at least, Rahlfs-Hanhart edition) does have diapsalma there. Maybe Hilary means that the LXX translators added in some extra appearances of diapsalma. (At any rate, those early Christians who paid some attention to the Hebrew text—such as Origen (pp. 11–12) and Jerome (Epist. 28)—were aware that the Hebrew text had an equivalent for diapsalma.)

Back to Hilary’s argument. The implication of Hilary’s view is that in Acts 13 Paul cited a Hebrew manuscript that was out-of-order, so that’s why he gives the label Psalm 1 to what for us is Psalm 2 (as the Seventy have correctly ordered the psalms). He goes on to say (§4):

So then the blessed apostle Paul, according to his own confession a Hebrew of Hebrews, also according to his Hebrew knowledge and faith said that this psalm was the first, he did not use the division of the translators; he had a great deal of enthusiasm in preaching to the leaders of the synagogue, to show from the teaching of the law that our Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, born, suffered, rising, reigns forever. So he preserved this manner, when preaching to Hebrews, to follow the custom of the Hebrews. But we need to follow the authority of the translators, who rendered the law not by the ambiguity of the letter but by the understanding of the doctrine.

So Paul cited the disordered psalm number, because he was a Jew talking to Jews, and the Jewish manuscripts of the Psalter are disordered, whereas the Seventy translators brought order to the Psalter. (For further comments on Hilary’s theory of psalm ordering, see Kamesar, pp. 281–84.)

Hilary had already introduced this idea in the introduction to his commentary (Instructio Psalmorum 8). Here he comments on the lack of any numbers at all in the Hebrew manuscripts of the Psalms.

We should not be ignorant that the number of the psalms is indistinct among the Hebrews, but they are written without the indication of order. For there, no first or second or third or fiftieth or hundredth is prefixed, but they are mixed together without any mark of order or number. For Ezra, as ancient traditions relate, collected and restored them in one volume, though they were disorganized and dispersed because of the diversity of authors and times. But the Seventy elders, remaining in the synagogue for the supervision of the teaching of the law in accord with the tradition of Moses, after the concern for translating the entire law from Hebrew to Greek was commanded them by king Ptolemy, understanding the significance of the psalms by their spiritual and heavenly knowledge, they rendered them in number and order, arranging the order of the perfect and effective psalms, all the individual numbers having been accomplished in accord with their own efficiency and completeness.

Hilary refers to a tradition, first attested in 4 Ezra 14, that the Old Testament Scriptures were collected and organized by Ezra after the exile. (Because of the exile, the Scriptures were scattered and in some cases destroyed.) But when Ezra collected the psalms, he did not set them in order. It was, again, the Seventy translators that brought order to the psalms, which means that only the Greek Psalter has the proper order.

Conclusion

With all this patristic evidence for the reading “first psalm” in Acts 13:33, we can understand why there might be at least a little doubt about the reading among modern textual critics, even if almost all of the early manuscripts Acts with “first psalm” have by now been lost.

Were there, indeed, Hebrew manuscripts displaying what is for us Psalm 2 as the first psalm? There are some, not many and not easily accessed. Besides that there is some rabbinic testimony to be considered. Next time.

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Phil Connors started February 2 as a jerk, despised by everyone who knew him, and he ended the day universally beloved, a town hero. What lessons can we learn from the transformation of this local weatherman?

1. Attitude

One of the ideas illustrated clearly in the movie Groundhog Day is that nothing is inevitable about your day. You have decisions to make. You take the same day over and over … and the only difference is your attitude … and that day can turn out any number of ways.

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The only difference is your attitude. It is otherwise precisely the same day. The only difference is your attitude. And that day turns out completely differently. The only difference is your attitude. You wake at the same time, in the same spot, after the same night of sleep. The only difference is your attitude. You encounter all the same people throughout the day. The only difference is your attitude. Today might be monumentally craptastic or unbelievably wonderful. The only difference is your attitude.

That lesson might take a while to learn. Practice makes perfect, and sometimes we need a lot of practice.

2. Purpose

What would you do if you were stuck in one place, and every day was exactly the same, and nothing that you did mattered?

One thing you would probably do is stop trying to climb the corporate ladder. In Groundhog Day, there is no corporate ladder. Near the beginning of the movie, Phil announces in his studio in Pittsburgh that “there is a major network interested in me.” He considers himself already a celebrity approaching a career breakthrough when people finally recognize his immense talent. But all of that is out when you’re stuck in Punxsutawney repeating the same day. It makes little sense to focus on your career when there is no opportunity for advancement. Groundhog Day is an ambition-killer.

Without a viable career path, what is the point of life? Eventually Phil figures out that he is able to make his life matter, even in this endless cycle of the same day, by pouring himself out into other people.

The only difference is attitude, and one aspect of that attitude is our focus: career vs. others. The option that comports with the Greatest Commands as articulated by Jesus is the one that we should pursue.

That’s not to say that vocation is unimportant. It can and should be very important, since it is what we spend most of our time doing. And, to be sure, the local weatherman performs an important function in helping people live with joy and security. While your job is certainly about providing income to yourself and your family, it should not be about self-aggrandizement but about fulfilling the Abrahamic commission to bring blessing to the world. A Christian in whatever profession should see his or her employment as a means of serving others and so fulfilling the law of Christ.

This is the second lesson: love your neighbor as yourself.

3. Gratefulness

It is in Punxsutawney that Phil Connors discovers gratefulness. The place on earth that made him the most miserable, he now realizes is the place that could make him the most happy. He has come to know these people, and he loves them. He is grateful for their presence in his life.

The only difference is attitude, and one aspect of that attitude is whether we are miserable or grateful for the events and personalities in our life. We can choose. This is the third lesson.

4. Kindness

In her book Where Goodness Still Grows, Amy Peterson opens her chapter on kindness (ch. 2) by talking about how she doesn’t like the word, because it seems weak, unobtrusive. It takes her a while to come to the point of finding value in this fruit of the Spirit.

A major turning point in Groundhog Day comes in Phase 4 when Phil whispers to Rita that she is the kindest person he’s ever known, and he is in awe of her kindness, as if he is only realizing now that it is a quality to be admired rather than despised.

The only difference is attitude, and one aspect of that attitude is whether we cultivate a basic posture of kindness toward others. Am I repeating myself? As Groundhog Day teaches us, some things need to be repeated.

This is the fourth lesson: cultivate a posture of kindness.

5. Service

We must not overlook that the day in which he befriends Rita is not the day that ends the cycle. Romance is not the goal of this time-warp, though romance does happen. The perfect day is the one in which he focuses neither on himself nor on Rita. That is the day in which he receives everything: the whole town becomes his. At the beginning of the movie, he wants to be adored. At the end of the movie, he no longer seeks adoration, and everyone adores him. He empties himself, taking the form of a servant, and it is for this reason that he is highly exalted. Seeking to be the slave of all, he finds himself in first place.

He decides to invest in other people without knowing whether he will derive any benefit. He does not know what will break the cycle. He doesn’t know if it can be broken. So, he reasons, if he is going to be stuck in a single day for all of eternity, he would enjoy not focusing on himself for all of eternity, but trying something new. This is most clear in his interactions with the homeless man. Without Phil’s help, this man is dead by the end of the day—but, like everything else that happens on that day, the death of this man is not permanent. He will be back the next day, and every day, begging for funds as Phil walks to Gobbler’s Knob. If ever a death did not matter, this man’ s death does not matter. It will last for only a few hours. But Phil makes it his mission to keep this man alive. In one of the early sequences in which Phil pays attention to this man, the man dies in a hospital bed, and the nurse tells him that there was no particular cause of death; sometimes people just die. Phil refuses to accept that fact: “Not today.”

This aspect of the film suggests that, instead of looking for the greener pastures elsewhere, what we might need to say is, “This place where I am is my place. These people that I see daily are the people I will continue seeing everyday.” For Phil Connors, no amount of ambition could take him out of Punxsutawney. (I almost said Bedford Falls.) He had always been looking for bigger and better opportunities, but those opportunities are now definitively denied him. Eventually, in Phase 5, he determined that he would invest in this community, which he came to accept as his community, his people.

Let me pause just a moment to reflect on the culture of church hopping. In many cases—and probably in your case, and in mine—changing churches without changing the city we inhabit constitutes a betrayal of Christ and his body. I know: people are annoying and stupid, and they’re hypocrites, and they are so very sinful. It’s obvious, isn’t it, that I’m describing all of us. But even if not, even if somehow in this instance I’ve got merely a speck in my eye and the plank really is in my brother’s eye, what should I do? What would Jesus do?

Or, to come at it another way: in Paul’s first letter to the Christians in Corinth, what did the Apostle say were the signs that it was the right time to find another congregation?

Again, church hopping is often—not always—a betrayal of Christ and his body. Fortunately for us, there is repentance and the promise of forgiveness.

The only difference is attitude, and one aspect of that attitude is whether our desires or the needs of others carry the most weight in our minds. “Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem other better than themselves. Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others.”

This is the fifth lesson: let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus.

6. Grace

What about God?

Is there any mention of God? Well, there is, yes. It’s in Phase 4, when Phil—for at least one day—imagines himself a god. He guesses that he is not the chief God, just a lower deity. It’s not an altogether unreasonable hypothesis. The way we define a god usually has something to do with immortality, and Phil through hard experience has proven to himself that he is not subject to death. In this conclusion, he is wrong, and I believe my evaluation coheres with the rules of the movie. Phil Connors has, for some reason, been granted a temporary reprieve from death while he endures a seemingly endless loop of Groundhog Day, which turns out to be for his moral improvement. Phil Connors is not, in fact, the God or a god or even immortal. He is just a man, granted the immense grace of repeating a day that he repeatedly refuses to get right.

I reiterate: this is grace. The best thing that could have happened to Phil Connors is that he be stuck in Punxsutawney, forced to experience the same 24-hour period until he stops screwing it up. How many times do we go through a day and completely mess it up? I don’t mean that the events that occur that day make it difficult or bad—a car wreck or a diagnosis or whatever. Usually our bad days do not involve anything nearly so catastrophic as a wreck or a diagnosis; they’re more like what Phil Connors endures in Punxsutawney. Rather, we botch our response to these events, mishandle our interactions with people—our kids, or spouses, or friends, or coworkers—and we wish we had a do-over. Of course, there’s no guarantee that we’d get the day right on the second try. We might need to repeat it again and again. What a blessing it would be for the mistakes we made that day, the people we insulted or ignored, the anger and resentment we caused—what a blessing it would be for all of that to have no permanent effect, to be completely forgotten the next day. Wouldn’t it be great if our sin didn’t follow us?

I’ve got good news and bad news. The bad news first: we don’t get second chances like that. When I make a flippant comment at someone else’s expense, they remember it. I can and should apologize, but there are no take-backs. The things we do each day have consequences.

Now the good news: what is impossible with men is possible with God. Wouldn’t it be great if our sin didn’t follow us? Hear the words of the prophet: “I will forgive their iniquity, and I will remember their sin no more” (Jeremiah 31:34).

This is the sixth lesson: grace.

7. Beauty

Phil Connors’ life becomes beautiful as he recognizes the beauty around him. Great storytelling helps to make the beauty of the spiritual life vibrant and stark. Think about Narnia, and how much we readers long to walk through that wardrobe—and much more than that, how much we long to behold that beautiful, fiercesome, good lion, to hear his voice, to wrap our arms around his neck so that our face is buried in his mane. Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead provides a striking example; the entire novel is beautiful, but near the end there is a scene of such overwhelming beauty that it makes my eyes water each time I read it. Groundhog Day accomplishes something similar, depicting the blessed life as so obviously superior to the selfish life that it inspires us to be better ourselves.

In a world in which teens overwhelmingly affirm that they’d rather be famous than happy, we need more depictions of people who flip that script. Phil Connors went from miserably pursuing fame to happily unconcerned about it.

And it was only then that his eyes were opened and he could see the beauty around him. One of the last lines of the movie is when Phil looks out at the snow-covered streets of this despised town of Punxsutawney and proclaims, “Isn’t it beautiful!” Phil has learned to see beauty, and we see in him a beautiful life.

Beauty—this is lesson #7, and our lessons are complete. Phil Connors teaches us about Attitude, Purpose, Gratefulness, Kindness, Service, Grace, and Beauty.

Phil has now taken on the character of Jesus, interested only in self-emptying, ambitious to invest in others. When he realizes that the cycle has been broken, he does not return to his selfish ways. Instead he asks Rita: “what can I do for you today?” And he has never experienced more joy.

We could do worse than learn spirituality from Phil Connors.

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This post is the second and final essay (for the moment) on the Holy Spirit. The prior post has a brief preface explaining the origins of these essays.

Introduction

A person without God’s Spirit is not a Christian. The New Testament is clear on this point, particularly the apostle Paul. “Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him” (Rom 8:9). In his rebuke of the Christians in Galatia, he used the expression “received the Spirit” to mean “became a Christian.” “Did you receive the Spirit by doing the works of the law or by believing what you heard?” (Gal 3:2). Paul (1 Cor 12:13) agrees with Peter (Acts 2:38) that believers receive the divine Spirit at baptism. When Paul encountered a dozen disciples in Ephesus, he asked them about their experience of the Spirit. When he learned that they didn’t have the Spirit, he knew something had gone wrong; it turned out that these people had not even been baptized into Christ (Acts 19:1–7).

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A follower of Jesus must be one who honors and cultivates—does not quench (1 Thess 5:19) or grieve (Eph 4:30)—the Spirit’s work in his or her life. After all, that’s what Jesus did. The Spirit descended upon Jesus at his baptism (Mark 1:10), and Jesus began his ministry by proclaiming himself anointed by God’s Spirit (Luke 4:16–20; cf. 4:1). It was the Spirit of God that empowered Jesus’ ministry of exorcism (Matt 12:28). Jesus rejoiced in the Spirit (Luke 10:21). The Spirit was involved in the resurrection of Jesus (Rom 1:4), just as he will be in ours (8:11). Jesus had no comforting words for someone who would blaspheme the divine Spirit (Mark 3:29).

Jesus told his disciples that they would be better off once he was no longer physically present among them. Can you imagine that? If we didn’t know that Jesus himself said it, we would declare such an idea undiluted hogwash. But Jesus said that his departure would be accompanied by the outpouring of the Spirit. “I tell you the truth: it is to your advantage that I go away, for if I do not go away, the Paraclete will not come to you; but if I go, I will send him to you” (John 16:7).

Going Deeper

The Holy Spirit makes intermittent appearances in the Old Testament. The particular term “Holy Spirit,” in fact, shows up in only two passages (Psalm 51:11; Isaiah 63:10–11), but God’s Spirit is mentioned several dozen times. Not only is the divine Spirit mentioned relatively infrequently in the Old Testament (compared with the New Testament), but there are indications that only select individuals benefited from the Spirit’s presence, not the people of God generally. In one particularly telling passage, Moses expresses the wish that “all the Lord’s people were prophets, and that the LORD would put his spirit on them” (Num 11:29). As the scholar Mark Boda has written, “The dominant feature of OT pneumatology is that the Spirit of God appears to be restricted to covenantal leaders, whether leader (Deut. 34:9), elder (Num. 11:25), judge (Judg. 3:10), king (1 Sam. 10:6), or prophet (Zech. 7:12), but does not appear to indwell the community as a whole (Num. 11:29).”

The Hebrew prophets—particularly Joel 2:28–32—envision a future moment when this would all change, when God would “pour out my Spirit on all flesh.” John the Baptist told the crowds of a coming one who would perform baptism in the Holy Spirit (Mark 1:8). In Acts 2, the apostle Peter announced that the promised outpouring of the divine Spirit had finally come to pass (Acts 2:16). And on the same day, he assured every baptized believer of the gift of the Holy Spirit (Acts 2:38).

As you know, dear reader, there are different ways of understanding these biblical statements about the Spirit. I think the easiest, most obvious interpretation is that every believer—every follower of Christ—from the time of Peter’s proclamation and forever after—enjoys the presence of God in their lives through the Spirit that indwells them. Christians are God’s temple (e.g., 1 Cor 3:16; 6:19), inhabited by God’s Spirit. Are we talking about the personal presence of God’s Spirit within the believer’s body? That does seem to me the simplest understanding. If you think it best to understand these promises in a different way, fine—as long as we all affirm that “anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him” (Rom 8:9).

Application

How do you know that a believer has the Spirit of Christ? One way of answering the question is to say simply, “The Bible says it. I believe it. That settles it.” I like that answer, because I trust Scripture. But perhaps we can say more about the Spirit’s work in our lives.

Here we encounter disagreements. The promise in Joel that we quoted earlier entails that “your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions” (Joel 2:28). Indeed, we find something close to this in the New Testament descriptions of the spiritual gifts distributed to believers. To be sure, there are visions and prophetic dreams described in the New Testament (e.g., Acts 9:10; 10:3; 16:9; 18:9), but these are not listed among the spiritual gifts enjoyed generally by believers (cf. 1 Cor 12:4–10). Instead, other gifts are mentioned: wisdom, knowledge, faith, healing, tongues, and more. In fact, Acts 2:17 is the only verse in the New Testament containing the word “dream” (ἐνύπνιον, enypnion). My point is that we should not press the language of Joel 2:28 too far; even in the earliest days of the church, when it was obvious that Joel’s vision had—at least, partially—come to fulfillment, the details of that vision did not strictly apply. The Spirit was at work in a new way, just as Joel had promised, and the Spirit’s activities exceeded Joel’s imaginings.

What about supernatural gifts? A first-century Christian could say that they knew they had the Spirit of Christ, in part, because of the spiritual gifts they enjoyed. In Galatians 3:5, Paul essentially equated the reception of the Spirit with the working of miracles. And today the fastest growing segment of Christianity is charismatic, claiming to have received the empowering from God’s Spirit to perform the same spiritual gifts that we read about in the New Testament. (The Greek word for “gifts” in 1 Cor 12:4 is χαρίσματα, charismata, whence the description “charismatic.”) Some of these groups declare that the gift of tongues is the initial sign that one has been accepted by God.

I myself have not experienced these gifts, and neither have most of the Christians I know. Are we missing something? We should remember that when it comes to the spiritual gifts, it is the Spirit “who allots to each one individually just as the Spirit chooses” (1 Cor 12:11). According to Paul’s primary account of the spiritual gifts, not everyone receives the same gift (1 Cor 12:4–10, 27–31), and no particular charismatic gift is the sine qua non of the Spirit-filled Christian.

In the same context, Paul does name a sine qua non of the Spirit-filled Christian. “If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Cor 13:1). Without love, I am nothing (v. 2) and I gain nothing (v. 3). Love of God and of neighbor are the greatest commandments (Matt 22:34–40), the fulfillment of the law (Rom 13:9–10), and the first of the fruit of the Spirit (Gal 5:22).

Let me point out that the fruit of the Spirit is unlike the charismata (the spiritual gifts). The fruit of the Spirit are not “allotted to each one individually just as the Spirit chooses.” The fruit are not gifts given to different believers. While Christians sometimes wonder about which gifts the Spirit has given them, and sometimes they take a spiritual gifts inventory, there is no need to wonder which fruit the Spirit is developing in me. The answer is: all of them. It’s not that my fruit is peace and yours is self-control. No! When the Spirit indwells someone, the Spirit of Christ cultivates the fruit of the Spirit—the character of Christ—in that person. The Spirit cultivates love and joy and peace and patience and kindness and goodness and faithfulness and gentleness and self-control in that individual believer.

This is the primary, the fundamental, sign of the Spirit’s presence. How do you know you have the Spirit of Christ? Spiritual growth, that’s how. You become like Christ, which is the whole point of Christianity (Rom 8:29; Eph 4:15). The Spirit’s work in you—always, for everyone—is the development of the Spirit’s fruit. Are you more loving today than when you were baptized, or than a few years ago? Joyful? Patient? If not, you are quenching the Spirit, grieving him. It’s time to dedicate yourself to prayer and meditating on Scripture and service to others and corporate worship and other spiritual disciplines by which you can develop the soil of your heart (cf. Mark 4:1–9). The Spirit, an excellent gardener, can grow his fruit in a prepared heart.

Conclusion

Without Christ’s Spirit, you do not belong to Christ. Without the Spirit of adoption, you are not God’s child (Rom 8:15–16). The primary work of the Spirit in the life of the believer is to accomplish the primary goal of the Christian: to become like Christ. This entails exhibiting love (just like Jesus), and joy (just like Jesus), and peace (just like Jesus), and patience (just like Jesus), and all the other fruit of the Spirit (just like Jesus). Your job is to open yourself to the Spirit’s work by engaging in the spiritual disciplines of, among others, prayer and meditation on Scripture and Christian community. In this way, the One Spirit indwelling Christians binds us to Christ and to each other. This is how we “keep the unity of the Spirit in the bond of peace” (Eph 4:3).

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I recently wrote this brief lesson on the Holy Spirit, for a church Bible class book that will appear later this spring or summer. That book will be the 2026 edition of the Berean Series, published by HCU Press, so look for it in a few months. The theme this year is the Seven Ones of Ephesias 4:4–6, and my topic was “One Spirit.” Each author wrote two chapters, one on the overall concept (be it “faith” or “baptism” or “Lord” or, in my case, “Spirit”) and the other on Paul’s emphasis in the passage on the singular nature of the concept (i.e., “one faith” or “one baptism” or “one Lord”). Below is my first chapter, and later I’ll post my second one. But this is just the main text; you’ll have to get the book if you want the footnotes and discussion questions.

Introduction

The Holy Spirit is mysterious. I think it’s supposed to be that way. His purpose is not to tell us about Himself. Jesus told his disciples: “But the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you everything, and remind you of all that I have said to you” (John 14:26). And again: “When the Advocate comes, whom I will send to you from the Father, the Spirit of truth who comes from the Father, he will testify on my behalf” (15:26). Rather than testifying about himself, the Spirit testifies about Jesus. He reminds the disciples of Jesus about what Jesus has said. When the Spirit has done his work, the disciples of Jesus might not have a great understanding of the Spirit, but they will have a better understanding of Jesus.

In Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis suggests another reason that the Spirit might be less distinct than are the Father and Son. “Do not be worried or surprised if you find it (or Him) rather vaguer or more shadowy in your mind than the other two. I think there is a reason why that must be so. In the Christian life you are not usually looking at Him: He is always acting through you.” As Lewis says, we might think of the Father as in front of us and the Son as beside us while the Spirit is within us or behind us.

Though much of the life and work of the Holy Spirit is unclear to me, we can grasp some things from the evidence of Scripture. One of those things is what we just read from Lewis: the Spirit dwells within us. Paul’s letters are especially insistent on this point, and especially Romans 8, the chapter in the New Testament with the most number of occurrences of the word “spirit.” One example: “But you are not in the flesh; you are in the Spirit, since the Spirit of God dwells in you. Anyone who does not have the Spirit of Christ does not belong to him” (Rom 8:9). More on this later.

For now, what is this Spirit that dwells within Christian believers?

Going Deeper

The Greek word translated “spirit” is pneuma (πνεῦμα), appearing 379 times in the New Testament, including every book except 2–3 John. It mostly refers to God’s Spirit (275x), but can also refer to the human spirit (e.g., Luke 8:55) or a demonic spirit (e.g., Luke 8:2, 29). The standard dictionary for the Greek New Testament discusses this word across four and a half pages, supplying eight different major definitions, starting with “air in movement.” The word sometimes means “breath” or “wind” (cf. Heb 1:7), which allows for the different nuances of the word in Jesus’ speech to Nicodemus: “The pneuma (wind) blows where it chooses, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes. So it is with everyone who is born of the pneuma (Spirit)” (John 3:8).

The relevant Hebrew word is similarly broad in meaning, but references to the divine Spirit are much less frequent in the Old Testament. Our word is ruaḥ (רוּחַ), and it appears 389 times in the Hebrew Bible, but a rather low percentage of these appearances are in reference to God’s Spirit (only about 75x). One of the standard dictionaries of ancient Hebrew uses thirteen pages to define this word, but there are only three major definitions: wind, breath, and the divine Spirit.

While the Old Testament supplies crucial information about God’s Spirit, especially its work of empowering people—Bezalel in his artistry (Exod 31:1–5) or Samson in his feats of strength (e.g., Judg 14:6)—it is the New Testament that depicts the Spirit with greater clarity. According to the New Testament, the Spirit belongs in company with the Father and the Son. For example, Jesus commanded his apostles to baptize people “in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit” (Matt 28:19). Peter addressed his first letter to believers “who have been chosen and destined by God the Father and sanctified by the Spirit to be obedient to Jesus Christ and to be sprinkled with his blood” (1 Pet 1:2). Paul ended his second letter to the Corinthians with this blessing: “The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with all of you” (2 Cor 13:14). And, of course, among the seven Ones mentioned by Paul in Ephesians 4 are One God, One Lord, and One Spirit (Eph 4:4–6).

These passages show that when one speaks of the Christian God, one should speak of not only Father and Son but also Spirit. Traditional Christian theology has pressed further, describing the Christian God as one essence in three persons. While the Apostle’s Creed and the original Nicene Creed (325 AD) included belief in the Holy Spirit as a fundamental doctrine, the expanded Nicene Creed (381 AD) elaborated somewhat on the Spirit’s being and activities and the responsibility of believers to “worship and glorify” him together with the Father and the Son. The New Testament does not provide examples of Christians worshiping the Holy Spirit, but it does provide evidence—beyond the threefold descriptions of God reviewed above—that the apostles conceived of the Holy Spirit as God. A classic example is the twin statements from Peter in Acts 5, who first accuses Ananias of lying to the Holy Spirit (5:3), and then of lying to God (5:4). The divinity of the Spirit would also explain why Jesus regarded blasphemy of the Holy Spirit as such a serious offense (Mark 3:29). Christians in the early centuries considered it appropriate—necessary—to offer worship to the Spirit since he is God. I myself have sung few songs directly addressed to the Spirit, but one such song I have sung many times in my life: “Spirit, we love you, we worship and adore you, glorify thy name in all the earth!”

There are also indications in Scripture that the Spirit is personal, that he has thoughts and desires and agency. Paul and Barnabas undertook the first missionary journey in the book of Acts because the Holy Spirit called them to that work and spoke about his choice (Acts 13:2). Larry Hurtado points especially to the Farewell Discourse in John’s Gospel as offering such testimony about the Spirit. In this passage, the Spirit is depicted as an Advocate or Counselor (paraklētos; John 14:26; 15:26; 16:7), a personal representative of Jesus (14:16–20), who will remind the disciples of Jesus’ teaching (14:25–26; 15:26; 16:12–13), bring glory to Jesus (16:14), and rebuke the world for sin (16:7–11). “This frequent use of verbs of agency has the effect of giving the Spirit a considerably more personal character than we find in the OT and the Jewish tradition of the time, in which the Spirit is often referred to in ways that can connote more simply a divine power/force (e.g. 1 Sam 10:9–13).”

What about the Spirit’s pronouns? If the Spirit is personal, does that mean we should refer to the Spirit as “he” and not as “it”? Many Christians insist on using the masculine pronoun for this reason. Others use the feminine pronoun, “she,” which does, in fact, correspond to the grammatical gender of the word “spirit” in Hebrew (ruaḥ is usually feminine). Look, gender is such a controversial topic in the twenty-first century that we run the risk of inserting modern categories and concepts into ancient and timeless texts by bringing up the issue. Without advocating for a particular approach, I will note a few facts. The Greek word for “spirit” is neuter, and neuter pronouns (i.e., “it”) are sometimes used in the Greek New Testament in reference to the Spirit (John 14:17; Rom 8:16). Some modern believers think that masculine (or feminine) pronouns are too “human” for the Deity, who is beyond gender. And some believers do not use pronouns at all in reference to God, instead repeating the word “God” where others would use a pronoun. I myself tend to speak about the Spirit as “he,” sometimes “it.”

Application

“Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, which you have from God” (1 Cor 6:19). Other New Testament passages describe the believing community as God’s temple (1 Cor 3:16–17; Eph 2:21–22; 1 Pet 2:5), but at the end of 1 Corinthians 6, Paul applied the image to the bodies of individual Christians. Perhaps Paul stole the idea from Jesus, who once referred to his own body as God’s temple (John 2:21). Just as God’s presence filled the tabernacle (Exod 40:34–35) and Solomon’s temple (1 Kings 8:10–11), the same is true for the body of Jesus (Col 2:9) and the Christian believer. The Holy Spirit—the presence of God—dwells within our bodies. God has marked us with his seal (2 Cor 1:22; Eph 1:13; 4:30), designating us as his territory. (A different image: he has planted his flag in us.) This is exactly the point Paul was making in 1 Corinthians 6. Because my body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, I do not belong to myself, but I have been “bought for a price,” and as God’s temple I should be bringing glory to God in my body (1 Cor 6:20). Since “no one will see the Lord” without sanctification (Heb 12:14), I should allow God’s Holy Spirit within me to guide me toward holiness. That is what it means for God to be at work within me (Phil 2:13).

Conclusion

We might not know as much about the Holy Spirit as we would like–or as much as we know about the Father and the Son—but this we can know, both from the New Testament and from early interpretations of the New Testament: the Holy Spirit is God. Moreover, the Holy Spirit dwells within us, so that we are temples for God, individually and collectively. This is both an incredible privilege and an incredible responsibility. God has claimed us as his territory; we should act like it.

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