Bible

On Turning a Page, Part 4: Trust

June 9, 2025 by Dan Olinger 1 Comment

Part 1: Obedience | Part 2: Plan | Part 3: Presence

God makes, and keeps, promises for his people. How do we respond to that? In his opening words to Joshua, God has some imperatives—commands—to follow up his indicatives—his statements of truth, his promises.

⁶Be strong and courageous, for you shall cause this people to inherit the land that I swore to their fathers to give them. ⁷Only be strong and very courageous … 

Is this just “suck it up, buttercup”? “Keep calm, and carry on”? “Keep a stiff upper lip”?

No, it’s not. This is verse 6—which means it’s been preceded by the 5 other verses we’ve just surveyed. How can Joshua “be strong and courageous”? Courage results from the truth of God’s promises, and, importantly, our mindful acceptance of them as true. God told Joshua he would be with him and bring victory in his battles; and if Joshua believes him, putting on armor and leading his troops into battle is a natural consequence. He can approach the otherwise daunting task not with fear or anxiety—“I sure hope this works!”—but with confident anticipation—“This is gonna be great!”

And so can we. Most of us are not strapping on battle armor—though my military chaplain friends could tell you stories—but we too can anticipate victory because we believe God’s promises to us. As commentator James E. Smith notes, “Fear and anxiety are tantamount to unbelief.” 

Note the precision of God’s words here. Joshua’s army will not “take,” “seize,” or “occupy” the Land; they will “inherit” it. The Land is their right because God, who owns all the earth (Ps 24.1), has designated it to them in promises to Abraham (Gn 13.14-17), Isaac (Gn 26.3-5), and Jacob (Gn 35.12). They already own it, and its current residents are occupiers, not owners. They are squatting on Israel’s land, in direct opposition to the Real Owner’s wishes and express orders.

Sometimes, during a pep talk before a basketball game, the home team’s coach will shout, “These people are not going to come into our house and defeat us!” It’s no fun to lose—but it’s especially irking when you lose at home. We have status on our home court that we do not have on somebody else’s.

Joshua has an obligation to restore visibly God’s sovereignty on Israel’s Promised Land. Similarly, we have an inheritance that is ours by right and which we shall certainly receive:

“³Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, ⁴to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, ⁵who by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time” (1P 1.3-5). 

Recall that “hope” in the Bible is not wishful thinking but confident anticipation of a certain future outcome. Christ’s resurrection has guaranteed for us a rightful inheritance that will not die, that will not be damaged, that will not expire. And God is reserving it securely for us in an impenetrable vault called heaven and guarding it by his own inexhaustible power.

Uncertainty about this is simply impossible.

What has He promised us? 

He has begun a good work in us, which He will certainly finish (Php 1.6).

He has promised us that His body will be brought to maturity in Christ (Ep 4.11-16). He will shepherd us corporately along the way.

He has promised us rest (Heb 4.1-3): we will certainly arrive, glorified, in His presence.

Believe it.

Next time: next step.

Photo by Nathan McDine on Unsplash

Fables Again, Differently

September 20, 2018 by Dan Olinger 4 Comments

A week ago I posted about possible lessons from Aesop for weather forecasters. This time I’d like to broach the subject again in a very different context.

In my university’s chapel program today, my colleague Eric Newton briefly referred (about 16:30 minutes in) to my experience of having my faith rescued through the study of OT genealogies. Since others may find the story helpful, I share it here.

In seminary I had to study a lot of theology, including aberrant theologies. Those included the first major theological innovation of the 20^th century, neo-orthodoxy, tied to the thinking of Karl Barth. Barth’s system and writings are complex, but the feature that got my attention was his “two-story” hermeneutic. There are two kinds of history, he said. There’s the stuff that really happened, which he called by the German term Historie. That’s the first story of the house, where we live. But there’s an upstairs too, with another kind of history, Geschichte. That’s the stuff that we believe. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t; that doesn’t matter. What matters is that our belief helps us make sense of a confusing world and, more importantly, it energizes an existential experience with God, which is the whole point of being. There’s no staircase in the house; we can reach the second story only by an existential leap of faith.

Neo-orthodox thinkers make this kind of thinking clearer to the average guy by calling the Scripture’s early history “fable.” They don’t intend the term to be an insult; in their minds, it’s a great compliment. Fables are delightful and artful literary works, and they play an important role in our education and broader culture. For example, Aesop told a story about a boy who cried “Wolf!” It teaches us that we shouldn’t lie. That’s important.

Now. In what country did this boy live? In what century?

Ah, my friend, by asking these questions, you’re indicating that you completely miss the point. It doesn’t matter where or when he lived—in fact, it doesn’t matter if he lived at all. The point is the lesson, and historicity is irrelevant. Just learn from the story. Recognize the literary technique, and don’t be such a knuckle-dragging literalist.

Well. That concept hit me pretty hard. What if Barth’s right? What if we’re completely missing the author’s intent? (Authorial intent is a really big deal in biblical interpretation, right?) What if none of it’s true? And then, what’s the point of Jesus being the Second Adam to solve the problem of human sin (Rom 5), if there was no First Adam to originate the sin in the first place?

Maybe it’s all just stories.

At that point in my thinking I made a really foolish mistake. Being too proud to ask any of my teachers—or fellow students—for help, I determined to push through this on my own. That was foolish for a couple of reasons—first, because human beings aren’t designed to suffer alone, and second, because, as I later realized, I was surrounded by people who could have given me the answer without my having to spend weeks in the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

But, foolishly, I spent some time as a doctoral student at BJU wondering whether there’s even a God, and whether there’s light at the end of this dark valley.

Well, there is light. God is gracious; he knows and loves and cares for his children, and as he always has, he overlooked my foolishness and treated me with grace instead of giving me what I deserved.

I was seeking the answer to the question of authorial intent: did the narrators of early biblical history intend for me to read their accounts as fable, or as Historie? Is there evidence in their literature that would answer that question?

Yes, there is. One day it hit me like a brick. It’s the genealogies.

You see, when you tell the story of the boy who cried “Wolf!” you don’t tell how he grew up and had a son, and then a grandson, and then a great-grandson, and how his 200-greats grandson is the mayor of Cleveland. It’s fable; you leave it in the world of fiction.

That’s not what the authors did. They tied those very early people to the people of their generation. And later authors recognized that and extended the genealogical record through 4000 (or so) years of history to the central figure of history, Jesus Christ himself.

Barth was creative, but he failed to analyze the literature carefully. He missed clear evidence of the obvious answer to the most basic question—what did the author intend to say?

Postscript

Paul tells Timothy that all Scripture is profitable (2Tim 3.16). All of it. Even the boring parts. Even the parts you tell new believers to skip.

Don’t do that. It’s all profitable. It’s there for a purpose. Recognize, embrace, and live in the light of that purpose. My 200-greats grandfather, Adam, would tell you the same thing.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Reading Leviticus: Grace in the Details, Part 2

February 26, 2018 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

Last time we noted that the details in Leviticus remind us that the Law is impossible to keep; we’re going to need help. This time we’ll note another principle the Law teaches us, and where to go from here.

The Law Doesn’t Work

The Bible sometimes seems to be ambivalent about the Law. Paul criticizes the Law in Galatians and Romans—“the very commandment that promised life proved to be death for me” (Rom 7.10)—but in the midst of that he says that “the Law is holy, and the commandment is holy and righteous and good” (Rom 7.12). David sings that “the Law of the Lord is perfect, reviving the soul” (Ps 19.7), but God himself says through the prophet Ezekiel, “I gave them statutes that were not good and rules by which they could not have life” (Ezek 20.25).

Well then. Which is it?

One thing you notice about all those sacrifices in Leviticus is that they don’t seem to work—not really. Every fall there’s a big Day of Atonement (Lev 16), when the high priest goes through special preparation and then, alone, disappears behind the veil of the Tabernacle / Temple. There he sprinkles blood before the very presence of God himself, who declares that he resides in the space between the cherubim on the “mercy seat,” the solid-gold cover of the ark (Isa 37.16). And in doing that, he cleanses the Temple from the sins of the whole nation (Lev 16.16, 19).

But next fall, the high priest is going to have to do it all over again. The old sacrifice will have worn off. It didn’t work. Oh, it achieved cleansing for a time, but in the final analysis it didn’t take care of the problem it’s addressing. The problem is still there.

Every morning the priest goes to the altar and offers the morning sacrifice, for the sins of the people (Ex 29.38ff). By late afternoon it’s worn off, and we need an evening sacrifice to take care of the continuing failures of the day. It didn’t work.

Every time you sin, you go to Jerusalem and offer another sin offering. But when you sin the next time, you have to do it again. It didn’t solve your problem. It didn’t work.

The Law would be great, if only it worked.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a priest who could offer one sacrifice for sins forever?

The Law Is Good. Really.

Have you ever tried to use a slot-head screwdriver with a Phillips-head screw? You try to get the job done one-eighth of a turn at a time, and the screwdriver keeps slipping out of the slot that it wasn’t designed to fit, and you tear up the screw head so much that you’re never going to be able to get it in or out, and you throw the screwdriver across the room in disgust. “Stupid screwdriver!”

No, not stupid screwdriver. Unwise tool user. A slot-head screwdriver isn’t designed to drive a Phillips-head screw. That’s not what it’s for. Don’t blame the screwdriver.

God designed the Law for a purpose. If God is God, then the Law accomplishes that purpose perfectly. If you’re frustrated with it, then maybe you’re trying to use it to do something it was never designed to do.

Why would God make a Law that’s impossible to keep? Why would he make one that keeps driving us back to the same altar, day after day, year after year?

Because the Law isn’t designed for us to keep. It’s designed to show us that we can’t keep it (Rom 3.20). It’s designed to drive us to God for mercy. And it’s designed to showcase the remarkable way he’s chosen to show that mercy.

The only way to avoid the frustration of living on the road to Jerusalem is to live in such a way that you never need to go there to offer a sacrifice for your own sin. Because we can’t do that, God himself, in mercy, steps into a human body and keeps the Law perfectly in precisely the ways we have not. He dies to become the perfect sacrifice, effective for all time, for all sin, for all who believe (Heb 10.12). And then he comes to us, broken by the Law—that’s what it was for—and invites us to receive the benefit of his atoning sacrifice and the righteousness that he has lived out for us (2Co 5.21).

The Law has done exactly what he designed it to do. It has broken us, frustrated us, and in our frustration it has driven us to the Christ (Gal 3.24).

Perfect.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

On Reading Leviticus: Grace in the Details, Part 1

February 22, 2018 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

If you’re following a plan to read through your Bible in 2018, chances are you’re in Leviticus or have just finished it. Maybe it was a hard slog for you. All those sacrifices, all those procedures, all those animal parts. When do we start learning about the Gospel? About Jesus?

Let me encourage you to take a closer look—or perhaps to sit back in your chair and think about the implications of what you’ve been reading. Let me suggest a couple of life-changing principles that spring from what you’ve just read.

The Law Is Impossible

Let’s take a high flyover view of the Law for a moment.

God says that the penalty for sin is death (Rom 6.23). Specifically, he told the Jews that payment for sin required shedding of blood (Lev 17.11). But then he said, graciously, that you could offer the death of an animal in the place of yourself. That’s a huge relief, and it’s a glorious grace.

But here’s the thing. You can’t just go out in back of the house and kill a lamb. No, you have to offer the lamb to God. And in OT times, that means you have to take the lamb to where God is—in the place where he has placed his name (Lev 17.4, 9; Dt 12.5ff). During the wilderness wanderings, that meant wending your way through thousands of tents to the center of camp, where the Tabernacle was illuminated by the pillar of cloud, the sign of God’s presence. During the period of the judges it meant going to the Tabernacle’s more-or-less permanent location at Gilgal or Shiloh or Bethel or Nob or Gibeon or, finally, Jerusalem. And under Solomon and the divided monarchy, it meant going to the Temple in Jerusalem.

During the Babylonian Captivity, when there was no Temple—that was the greatest tragedy of the exile—there could be no sacrifices. But when Judah returned to the Land, the Second Temple, again on the Jerusalem site, served as the location until the Romans destroyed it shortly after Christ’s earthly ministry.

So. You live in Dan, in Galilee, and you sin. You have to offer a sacrifice. You saddle up and head for Jerusalem. It takes two days—longer if it’s after the Assyrian action of 722 BC and you’re too bigoted to go through Samaria. On arrival, you purchase a lamb at the Temple—that’s a lot easier than bringing one from home—and present it at the top of the steps, where you lay your hands on its head, symbolizing the transfer of your sin, and the priest takes it to the altar, where he executes it according to those instructions in Leviticus.

Done. Forgiven. Time to go home.

Saddle up and head north. You get home in two days.

The trip has taken at least 4 days. When’s the last time you went four days without sinning?

Houston, we have a problem.

You’d better move to Jerusalem, my friend, because if you don’t, you’re going to spend your entire pitiable life on the road.

It’s impossible.

You can’t do this, even if you’re a detail person. Especially if you’re a detail person.

You’re going to need help.

Next time we’ll look at a second life-changing principle, and at the solution to which both of these principles point.

Keep reading Leviticus. It’s a book about love.

Part 2

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On Memorizing Scripture

February 5, 2018 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

This past Saturday evening I had the pleasure of seeing my friend and colleague Dr. Lonnie Polson actively recite—expound—the Gospel of Mark. I’d seen him do an excerpted version of it several years ago at my church. I’ve enjoyed seeing similar recitations; one of the pastors at my church, Abe Stratton, gave us the book of Romans some time back, and years ago I saw a professional presentation of the Gospel of John at BJU; unfortunately, I’ve forgotten the artist’s name. (Was it the Brad Sherrill production?)

There’s great benefit to reading, or hearing, large chunks of Scripture at a single sitting. For years now I’ve been requiring students in my Epistles classes to read any epistle at a single sitting; you notice things, particularly large-scale structural things and repetitive patterns and themes, when you read the whole thing that you don’t notice when you read it a chapter at a time.

This is not to say that micro-reading is a bad thing; it provides opportunity to notice details (all of which are important in a verbally inspired document) and particularly to spend time in meditation, which reinforces the impact of the concepts on your mind and eventually on your instincts and the resultant actions.

But we ought to eat large meals of Scripture as well. Big, fat feasts.

For similar reasons, we ought to memorize large passages of Scripture. There’s benefit to memorizing key verses, whether “fighter verses” or key doctrinal passages; BJU has students in its undergraduate systematic theology course memorize the key doctrinal proof texts for all 10 standard theological topics, so they’ll have them at hand when they need them.

But the Scripture wasn’t given to us in little pieces of unconnected thoughts. (OK, Proverbs is the exception that proves the rule.) It was given to us in great sweeping arcs, storylines and extended logical arguments (most obviously Romans) that support the even greater storyline that all the Scripture together forms. There’s integrity and wisdom in memorizing it that way.

The summer after my freshman year in college I started out on that road by memorizing the book of James, 1 verse per day. The experience was life-changing, and James has been my friend ever since; I have regular conversations with him in my mind, which I couldn’t do without having expended that effort all those years ago.

How did I do it? Well, I was living in a western suburb of Boston that summer, and working in a CVS downtown. I commuted on my bicycle. (For folks who know Boston, when I tell you that I rode in and out on the infamous Route 9, you’ll consider it a miracle that I lived to tell the story.) I had about 45 minutes each way, 90 minutes per day to just go over James’s words in my mind. That was more than enough time to review once what I had memorized of the book up to that day, and even to go over it several times. And the stress of doing all that in killer traffic, I suppose, increased my long-term retention.

As I’ve noted before, memorizing doesn’t have to require a lot of time; what it requires is day-to-day discipline. We memorize, or move material from short-term memory to long-term memory, by a simple process of regular, spaced repetition. In other words, you need lots of brief sessions rather than a few long ones. You say today’s verse until you can say it without error (the number of repetitions is different for different people—God made us all different—but you’ll find that for pretty much everyone, the required number drops as you get more experience), and then you review what you’ve memorized on the previous days. That doesn’t need to take long; you can say the entire book of James out loud in just 15 minutes. Then you put the whole thing out of your mind and do other things. Most people will need to do that again later in the day; when I’m starting out on a dramatic role, I’ll review lines 3 times a day, for just 5 or 10 minutes. Each session goes a little faster, because you’ll retain more of what you did in the earlier sessions.

As little as 15 to 20 minutes a day. Just 5 minutes while you’re brushing your teeth in the morning, while you’re waiting for the microwave to heat up your meal at lunch, and while you’re waiting to fall asleep at night.

What can you accomplish with that?

In 3 months you’ll memorize Colossians, the greatest treatise on the headship of Christ ever written. In a month and a half, 2 Thessalonians, and in 3 more months, 1 Thessalonians, both on how to live while waiting for Christ’s return. In 3 more months, 1 Peter, on how to endure triumphantly while suffering. A new Psalm every week or two.

How much is that knowledge worth? How much difference would it make for you to have that kind of information stored in your head, part of how you think and who you are?

Maybe you’d be more consistent. Maybe you’d be more successful. Maybe you’d be happier.

I dunno. Worth a try.

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Christmas

December 18, 2017 by Dan Olinger 2 Comments

Every Christmas there’s a rash of articles about Christmas myths: Jesus wasn’t born in winter; there weren’t 3 wise men, and they didn’t show up at the stable; the angels didn’t sing.

It’s proper to insist on the accurate retelling of the biblical story, and it’s really important not to say God said things when he didn’t (Rev 22.18), but sometimes I get the idea that the Christmas Mythbusters are just getting their jollies from popping the children’s balloons at the party.

Pedants.

For starters, there may have been 3 wise men; we don’t know how many there were. And Jesus may have been born at any time of year, even in December; we just can’t think of a reason shepherds would have been watching their flocks by night other than lambing season in the spring. And sure, the text says that the angels “said,” but are you really going to insist that angels don’t sing because of that? “Glory to God in the highest” as monotone? Seriously?

Get the biblical story right; but get it right for good reasons.

May I offer a counterexample?

Back to those wise men. They came from the East, according to the oft-mocked song, “bearing gifts … following yonder star … westward leading, still proceeding.”

I beg to differ, and for what I hope is a good reason, an edifying one.

Whatever their names were, they came “from the East” (Mat 2.1), which we take to be Mesopotamia, and thus perhaps were Parthians. They “saw his star when it rose” (Mat 2.2) and consequently traveled to Jerusalem. There is no evidence that they “follow[ed] yonder star” to Jerusalem; in fact, it seems most certain they did not—

If you’re following a star, why stop to ask directions (Mat 2.1-2)? (Especially since men never … oh, never mind.)
If the star led you to Herod’s palace, why get all excited that it’s still there when you return outside (Mat 2.10)?

So back home in the East they saw some sort of celestial phenomenon, and they went to Jerusalem to see the newly born king.

Why get so excited about another prince being born? Princes were born all over the region all the time. They didn’t make pilgrimages for every prince, did they? And an expedition to Jerusalem was a difficult, time-intensive, and expensive proposition. What made this one worth it? What made this prince special?
And how did they know to go to Jerusalem, if the star wasn’t leading them?

We’re going to have to speculate a little bit. But there are reasonable speculations, based on evidence. Crime-scene investigators do that sort of thing all the time. Let’s try to do one of those.

These men were court astrologers from Mesopotamia. They would have been knowledgeable regarding the history of their region, and especially of the history of their craft of predicting the future. They would have known about their prophetic ancestors. And they had a couple of ancestors whose prophecies would likely have informed them when they saw the star.

The first was Balaam. He was from “Pethor” (Num 22.5), which is commonly believed to be Pitru, near Carchemish in northern Mesopotamia. He was a well-known prophet; records of his extrabiblical prophecies have been discovered at Deir Alla, a town in modern Jordan. The wise men could well have been familiar with his work.

And his work includes the following statement: “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near; a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel; it shall crush the forehead of Moab and break down all the sons of Sheth” (Num 24.17). He finishes this prophecy with these words: “Alas, who shall live when God does this? But ships shall come from Kittim and shall afflict Asshur and Eber; and he too shall come to utter destruction” (Num 24.23-24).

Hmmm. A star. Out of Jacob. Who will destroy kingdoms, perhaps including “Asshur.” I think the Mesopotamian astrologers might have been interested in that.

The other prophet is Daniel. He would certainly have been well known, as a high government official in Babylon who was so effective that Babylon’s Persian conquerors kept him on in their government too. He prophesied of an “anointed one” who would be “cut off” (Dan 9.26) along about, oh, 30 years from now, in the wise men’s day. They’d be interested in that too.

They see the celestial phenomenon. It disappears. They remember the star prophecy of the king from Jacob. They check the timing of Daniel’s prediction. Yep. They saddle up and head for Jerusalem, report to the palace, and ask where the prince is.

The king’s reaction puzzles them. He doesn’t know what they’re talking about. The prince is apparently not his son. Bethlehem, he tells them. Go there, and find the child.

How are they going to do that? Of course there will be children there; but which one is the Anointed? How will they know?

Shaking their heads, they head for the caravan outside in the courtyard. As they exit the building, a strange but familiar light envelops them. They jump for joy.

God’s Word is reliable.

And he clarifies it for those who want to know.

Photo by Inbal Malca on Unsplash

__________

I’m taking a break from blogging for the holidays. See you after the New Year.

Billions of Years? Part 1

September 11, 2017 by Dan Olinger 6 Comments

**Why I’m Still a Young-Earth Creationist, Even Though It’s Getting Increasingly Lonely over Here**

Once you’ve decided that the Bible is a supernatural book, I suppose the next step is to learn and evaluate the arc of its story. That’s especially important these days because the story starts with divine creation, and today’s culture completely rejects that idea. The peer pressure in academia is completely opposed to the biblical creation story, and believing it is pretty much suicide for a well-regarded academic career.

In the 1940s several leaders of evangelical Christianity made a considered decision to moderate their stance toward the academic community and to seek “a place at the table.” By the mid-1950s one leading evangelical scholar, Bernard Ramm, had publicly embraced old-earth creationism in his book The Christian View of Science and Scripture, and evangelical scholars quickly followed suit. Today it’s difficult to find anyone on the Bible or science faculties of the mainstream evangelical colleges and seminaries who takes the Genesis timeline at face value. Millard Erickson, a conservative Southern Baptist and the author of a standard systematic theology, views young-earth creationism as indefensible in the light of modern science; you get the idea he classes it with “lost cause” Southern sympathizers who are still saving their confederate money.

Even with the upswing in talk of “intelligent design” in recent years, academics are still overwhelmingly old-earth. The ID leadership such as Michael Behe and William Dembski hold to an old earth, as does the “progressive creationist” Hugh Ross and, most famously, Biologos founder Francis Collins, former director of the Human Genome Research Project.

For what it’s worth, while academia has embraced the geologic timescale, and while a great many conservative evangelical academics have as well (though they may quibble over the use of the term evolution), the American populace has not followed along. Evolutionists are generally dismayed to find that after decades of indoctrination through the public school system, according to Gallup, in 2017 twice as many Americans believe in direct divine creation as believe in atheistic evolution; and as recently as 1999, the ratio was more than 5:1.

But despite that, publicly embracing young-earth creationism is generally counter-productive to an academic career, and I find its ranks shrinking among my evangelical academic peers.

So what am I still doing in a rapidly emptying room?

I’ll observe, at the risk of sounding judgmental, that the primary reason for bailing on a natural reading of Genesis 1-11 seems to be peer pressure—or more precisely, the behemoth of “scientific consensus” that Darwinian evolution, or one of its descendants, has been demonstrated true in its basic propositions. (“The science is settled!”) After a while, you go along, or you feel like the guy on the street corner with the sandwich board announcing that The End Is Near. Nobody wants to be that guy.

I can’t judge motives. Ramm argued for his change of heart from the compelling scientific evidence—though I didn’t find his evidence compelling at all, and I finished his book thinking, “You bailed on Genesis for that?!” Perhaps some are just intimidated by the size of the crowd and the uniformity of the arguments. Perhaps others just don’t want to face the ostracism and go along for the sake of their salaries and their pension plans. And perhaps some of them work backwards from that to find the evolutionist arguments more compelling than they really are.

I can only speak for myself. But once I have determined that the Bible is a supernatural book, I’m going to take it as straightforwardly as I would any other literary work, fiction or non-fiction. I’m going to read history as history, and poetry as poetry, and visionary apocalypse as visionary apocalypse, and do my best to find out what the divine author of this remarkable book says.

And if something comes along that asks me to do a wholesale reinterpretation of what the book says, I’m going to need it to be seriously convincing, beyond the social penalty of Not Going Along With The Crowd.

So far, I just haven’t found the science, or the accommodating theology, compelling or even mildly believable. I’m not about to bail on The Book for a bunch of biased brains. Or a boondoggle.

So here I am, in the padded room our culture has graciously provided for young-earth creationist academics, watching the room get roomier by the academic year.

I’d like to take a series of posts to lay out my thought process, for what it’s worth. I’m not a scientist, but I talk to a lot of them, and I’ve skimmed a little cream off the brains of each. I’ll start explaining my reasoning in the next post. See you then.

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10

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Hard Evidence for a Supernatural Book, Part 8: On a Scientific Examination of the Data

August 31, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

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Part 1      Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7

Since we’ve raised the issue of Messianic prophecies, there are plenty of others worth adding to the pile:

That Messiah’s mother would be a virgin (Isa 7.14). (And yes, the Hebrew word there means virgin, as the choice of the Septuagint translators shows: they chose the Greek word parthenos, which unambiguously means virgin. The Septuagint translators were much more likely to know the nuances of a Hebrew word in their day than a modern scholar with naturalistic biases.) See Matt 1.22-23.
That he would be born in Bethlehem (Micah 5.2). You’ll recall that Herod’s advisors used this prophecy to tell the Babylonian magi (the “wise men”) where they could find the infant king (Matt 2.3-6).
That he would spend early years in Egypt (Hos 11.1). See Matt 2.15.
That one preparing his way would cry out in the wilderness (Isa 40.3). See Matt 3.3.
That he would bring light to Galilee (Isa 9.1-2). See Matt 4.12-16.
That he would heal people (Isa 53.4). See Matt 8.16-17.
That he would ride into Jerusalem on a donkey but also as a king (Zech 9.9). See Matt 21.1-5.
That he would be betrayed by a friend, one who ate bread with him (Ps 41.9). See Matt 26.20-25, 47-56.
That he would be sold for 30 pieces of silver (Zech 11.12-13). See Matt 27.9-10.
That he would be silent before his accusers (Isa 53.7-8). See Matt 27.12-14.
That he would be tortured (Isa 50.6). See Matt 26.67-68.
That he would be mockingly urged to let God deliver him (Ps 22.7-8). See Matt 27.39-40.
That he would be pierced (Zech 12.10). See Matt 27.35.
That his clothes would be disposed of by lot (Ps 22.18). See Matt 27.35.
That his death would be alongside both the wicked and the rich (Isa 53.9, 12). See Matt 27.38, 57-60.

Whew. That’s quite a list.

And did you notice a pattern?

All the confirmations I’ve listed are from Matthew.

Matthew is clearly writing his Gospel to demonstrate to his Jewish audience that Jesus is the Jewish Messiah. One of the clearest ways he does that is by demonstrating that Jesus fulfilled the Messianic prophecies; he’s constantly saying, “All these things happened so that it might be fulfilled which was written by the prophet … .” A study of those passages would be worth your time; I haven’t included all of them in the list above.

I began this series by saying that I’ve found two objective evidences that the Bible is not an ordinary book. We’ve looked—briefly—at both its literary unity and its prophetic accuracy. After a lifetime of study, I find those evidences compelling.

Perhaps you don’t. Fair enough. But I hope you’ll be intellectually honest enough—and scientific enough—not to simply dismiss evidences that don’t support what you’d like to believe. A pile of hard data calls for serious investigation.

You wouldn’t want to be unscientific, would you?

Hard Evidence for a Supernatural Book, Part 7: Trifecta!

August 28, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

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So we’ve seen that Daniel’s specific prophecy of the rise and fall of Alexander the Great was at best very unlikely to have been written after Alexander’s death in 323 BC; and if Daniel describes Antiochus IV in chapter 11, then the skeptic’s position is even less likely. Daniel is accurately predicting future events, not faking it.

What say we go ahead and dispense with the skeptic’s position? How about if we demonstrate that it’s just impossible?

OK, at your insistence.

Daniel makes another prophecy. He speaks of a series of “weeks” yet to come (Daniel 9.25-27). After 7 weeks, followed by 62 weeks, Messiah shall “be cut off” (v 26). Now, that’s a surprising statement, because Messiah is pictured in much of the OT as a victorious king (1Sam 2.10; Ps 2.2; 20.6; Hab 3.13); the term is metaphorically applied more than once to strong kings (2Sam 22.51; Ps 132.17; Isa 45.1). What’s this about being “cut off”?

And when will it happen? At the end of 69 “weeks,” Daniel says. Most interpreters take the word week (which is just the Hebrew word seven) to refer to a period of 7 years (compare Gen 29.27). That would make 69 weeks a period of 483 years.

So Daniel says Messiah will be “cut off” 483 years after something. After what? After “the going forth of the commandment to restore and build Jerusalem” (Dan 9.25). When was that?

Well, there were actually several events that he might be referring to. We already know that Cyrus gave the Jews permission to return to Jerusalem in 538 BC. That proclamation included the commandment to “build the house of the Lord God of Israel … which is in Jerusalem” (Ezra 1.3). So that could be it, though it doesn’t include a command to build the city itself.

In 458 BC, Artaxerxes gave Ezra permission to take more Jews back to Jerusalem (Ezra 7.11-26) and to set up the priestly (Ezra 7.17) and judicial systems (Ezra 7.25-26). Artaxerxes also doesn’t mention building the city, but he does specify that Ezra can use treasury money for anything else that seemed good to him (Ezra 7.18), including but not limited to “whatever else is required for the house of your God” (Ezra 7.20).

In 445 BC the same Artaxerxes also gave Nehemiah permission to return to Jerusalem (Nehemiah 2.5-8). We know that Nehemiah used this trip to rebuild Jerusalem’s walls (Nehemiah 2.17).

So which one is it?

There are well-regarded scholars who argue for each of these. But I’d suggest that the middle one seems most likely. Nehemiah’s rebuilding of the walls in 445 seems to presume that there’s already something worth protecting inside. And Ezra’s large group of returnees (Ezra 2.64-65) surely would have built sufficient housing.

So what’s 483 years after 458 BC? Somewhere around AD 35.

I say “somewhere around” because getting more precise than this is little difficult, for at least three reasons. First, we use a solar year (365.25 days), and most of the ancient world used a lunar year (360 days) with various adjustments as needed for accuracy, so coordinating our calendar with the Babylonian and Hebrew calendars involves some work. Second, there’s some discussion among scholars over whether the verb “cut off” might refer to an event other than Messiah’s physical death. And finally, scholars disagree over the year of Jesus’ death; common assertions range from AD 30 to AD 36. So this is as close as we’re going to get with any degree of certainty at this point.

But seriously. Are we going to ignore the fact that Daniel predicted the date of Messiah’s death? What are the odds of that?

And what about the skeptic’s standard fallback? Prophecy is impossible, so the passage must have been written after the fact and passed off as an earlier document. Not even the skeptics attempt that one here, because it’s just impossible. The book of Daniel was certainly in the Hebrew Scriptures before the death of Christ; Jesus even refers to this very passage from Daniel (Dan 9.27; also Dan 11.31) in his Olivet Discourse (Matt 24.15) and refers to another passage (Dan 7.13) in his trial before Caiaphas (Mat 26.64).

So. A specific, numeric prophecy of a significant event, fulfilled.

Again, you can reject the Bible if you want to. You can consider it merely an ancient writing of an interesting but misguided people. But you cannot do so—legitimately—without dealing with the evidence.

Part 8

Hard Evidence for a Supernatural Book, Part 6: On a Roll

August 24, 2017 by Dan Olinger Leave a Comment

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The study of fulfilled biblical prophecies is a book in itself. We’ve looked at Jeremiah’s “70 years” prophecy of Judah’s exile in Babylon; in this post we’ll look at a prophecy that came during the Babylonian Captivity from a prophet living in Babylon.

Daniel went into exile in Babylon as a young man during the first deportation about 606 BC (Dan 1.1-6). According to the story (Dan 2), God sent Nebuchadnezzar a dream that he did not understand. The king, apparently suspecting his regular seers as frauds, demanded that they tell him both what he had dreamed and its meaning. When the seers protested, he ordered them all executed. Daniel then stepped up and offered to fulfill the king’s demand, and God gave him the answer “in a night vision” (Dan 2.19). (I note that in the Scripture, dreams occur while the recipient is sleeping, and visions occur while the recipient is awake. Daniel was apparently awake all night, awaiting the answer from God.)

Daniel reports to the king the next day with the substance of the dream and its meaning. Nebuchadnezzar had seen a large statue, with a head of gold, a chest of silver, hips and thighs of brass, and legs and feet of mixed iron and clay. Daniel reported that the image represented coming world powers: Babylon itself (the head), then Medo-Persia (the chest), then Greece (the hips), and finally Rome (the legs).

Now, Daniel does not name any of these kingdoms except for the first, but their reference is unmistakable, especially in light of later visions given to Daniel himself (Daniel 7-8), where Medo-Persia and Greece are named, and where the king of Greece is said to be “broken” and replaced by 4 kings (Dan 8.22)—an event that you can read about in your world history book in the section entitled “The Death of Alexander the Great.”

No one questions the accuracy of these predictions, because it would be foolish to. They are precisely accurate. So what’s a skeptic to do? Well, all he can do is assert that such a prediction is obviously impossible—so the author must have written after the events occurred and falsely claimed to be Daniel.

Well, that’s theoretically possible, of course. I could write a history of World War II and put Rasputin’s name on it. But I’d have a really hard time passing it off as some kind of miracle and getting it broadly accepted as legitimate. And therein lies the problem with this explanation.

The view requires that the account be written after the death of Alexander the Great in 323 BC, and even 40 years or so later, when it became clear that the kingdom would be divided into 4 stable parts. And even that’s not good enough. Daniel appears to describe Antiochus IV (Dan 11), who didn’t begin to reign until 175 BC.

OK, so why couldn’t the book have been written after that?

That’s pretty simple—because Daniel is included in the Septuagint, the translation of the Hebrew Scripture (Old Testament) into Greek, which was done in the 200s BC. (We have manuscripts of it from that century, and it is cited by other authors of that century.) How did pseudo-Daniel write about Antiochus, who didn’t start reigning until 175 BC? How did he write about the division of Alexander’s empire, which didn’t occur until perhaps 300 or 290 BC, and get all Jewry to accept his fraud as Scripture in time to get it into the Septuagint before 200 BC at the very latest? Jews are pretty skeptical about adding to their Scripture, if you haven’t noticed.

Now, I suppose there might be just a liiiiittle bit of wiggle room for the skeptic in those dates. But we haven’t finished with the data yet. Next time we’ll look at evidence that the skeptic’s explanation simply cannot stand.

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