Revelation 8 Explanatory Notes

Albrecht Dürer woodcut,
angel sounding trumpet

I started this pot back in October 2020 when I was doing my "Through the Bible in Ten Years" in the book of Revelation. I'm now trying to finish my Explanatory Notes in the form of a 30 day devotional.
______________________
8:1 And when he opened the seventh seal, a silence came about in the   sky of about a half hour.
In Revelation 6, the Lamb opened six of the seals, beginning the days of judgment that coincide with the end of the great tribulation. Then in Revelation 7, there was an intermission in the opening of the seals. We saw what was happening in heaven as the final judgment was beginning on earth. Revelation 8 then returns to the final seal, the seventh seal, which represents the completion of the judgment.

Again, this is not a literal picture of what will happen. Revelation is an apocalypse. It uses fantastical imagery that gives us the feeling of tribulation and judgment, not a literal movie. For example, the number seven is symbolic. It signifies completion. The half an hour of silence, like the intermission, builds up to the end. We are getting ready for the end. It’s like a runner taking a deep breath before the gun goes off.

2. And I saw the seven angels who have stood before God, and they gave to them seven trumpets.
In Revelation 1, the seven angels are the angels of the seven churches (1:20). There, these angels probably do not just represent the seven churches of Asia Minor. They probably are meant to represent the entire worldwide church. Revelation 8 does not explicitly connect its seven angels with the angels of Revelation 1, but the fact that seven angels are mentioned in both places could imply that they are the same. If so, it would suggest the earth is about to experience judgment not least for the way it has treated the churches of God.

However, other interpreters see them as the seven highest archangels. In Tobit 12:15 (which many Jews at the time considered Scripture), the archangel Raphael speaks of seven holy angels who present the prayers of the saints to God. Similarly, 1 Enoch 20:1-8 mentions seven archangels: Uriel, Raphael, Raguel, Michael, Saraqael, Gabriel, and Remiel. Jude 14-15 quotes from the same section of 1 Enoch, suggesting that at least some early Christians may have considered it Scripture.

It does not have to be one or the other. However, the similarity in the function of the archangels to what happens in this chapter may suggest that we should view the angels of Revelation 8 as different angels from those in Revelation 1.

Just as there were seven seals, there are seven trumpets, blown by these seven angels. When the seventh seal is opened, the seven trumpets commence. And the vindication of God’s church begins.

3. And another angel went and stood upon the altar of incense, having a golden censor. And was given to him much incense so that he will give [it] with the prayers of all the saints upon the golden altar that is before the throne. 4. And the smoke of the incense went up with the prayers of the saints from the hand of the angel before God.
The presence of the altar of incense in heaven implies something that has not been made explicit thus far in the vision. The throne room of heaven is none other than the heavenly Holy of Holies. The vision of Revelation 4-5 is in the heavenly sanctuary.

The sermon we call Hebrews in the New Testament builds on this same common understanding within Judaism. The earthly sanctuary was actually patterned on the true, heavenly one (Heb. 8:1, 5). Interpreters of Hebrews debate how exact a replica it is. I personally believe it is not an exact representation. For example, I do not believe there is an outer room in the heavenly sanctuary and that the heavenly sanctuary is more or less equivalent to the highest heaven. [1]

In both Hebrews and implicitly here in Revelation 8, the altar of incense is inside the Most Holy Place. This is interestingly different from the description in Exodus 30:6 and suggests that both were tapping into a common tradition in the late first century. It is fairly clear here that the altar of incense was associated with the prayers of God’s people.

Although it is perhaps a strange image to us, these verses draw on the common ancient sense that God delights in the smell of sacrifices. In this case, wafts of the smoke from the incense from the altar go up to God. Presumably, they fill his nostrils to his delight. Of course, this is merely a picture. God does not have a literal nose.

What he is smelling is the prayers of the saints, the holy ones set aside to him. Believers, in other words. The content of their prayers is presumably a cry for justice in the face of their persecution. “How long, O Lord?” was the cry of the souls under the altar in Revelation 6:10. The angel burns incense on the altar to initiate judgment finally to the earth for their mistreatment.

5. And the angel has taken the censor and filled it from the fire of the altar of incense, and he cast it to the earth. And thunders and sounds and lightnings and earthquake took place.
What is the result of the burned incense? It has first gone before God. Now, it comes to the earth.

We can see easily enough what is happening here. The prayers of the saints have risen to God for justice. As a result, the fire of justice is cast down to the earth. After all, the seventh seal has been opened. Everything to this point is preparation. Now the final act begins.

Thunder, lightning, and earthquake remind us of God’s descending on Mt. Sinai (Exod. 19:16-18). The audience of Revelation would recognize them as the imagery of theophany. It is not just the fire that is coming down to the earth. God himself is descending.

6. And the seven angels who had the seven trumpets prepared them in order to sound. 7. And the first angel sounded the trumpet, and hail and fire having been mixed with blood was cast to the earth. And a third of the land was consumed and a third of the trees was consumed and all the green grass was consumed.
Revelation 8 starts with four trumpets. There will be three more trumpets when we get to chapter 9. The trumpets thus follow a similar pattern as the seals. Remember, the first four seals involved the four horsemen, and then there were three more.

Similarly with the trumpets, we have the first four trumpets. Then there is a pause of the first four trumpets at the end of the chapter. Then the final three trumpets come in a group.

And of course, things get worse and worse as it goes along. The events that accompany the trumpets echo the plagues God sent on Egypt. For example, the hail and fire of the first trumpet is like the seventh plague that falls on Egypt (Exod. 9:24). God is delivering his people from the new Egypt, which is Rome.

In verse 6, the seven angels with the seven trumpets get ready to sound. In verse 7, the first angel sounds, and hail and fire fall. These are mixed with blood, again echoing the seventh plague on Egypt.

It is cast upon the land. A third of the land is burned up and a third of the trees is burned up and all the green grass is burned up. This is probably not a literal picture, but we’re getting a clear feel for the great devastation that is coming. The final judgment has begun.

8. And the second angel sounded the trumpet, and [something] like a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea and the third of the sea became blood, 9. and the third of the creatures in the sea died, the ones having life, and the third of the ships was destroyed.
The second angel sounds, and something like a great mountain burning with fire is cast into the sea. Again, given the general nature of apocalyptic, we probably shouldn’t assume that something like a meteor will fall into the sea during the final judgment. While such things are of course possible, that’s probably not how the imagery works. It’s the Gestalt, not the literal image.

The sea turns to blood. Once again, this is a fairly clear allusion to the first plague on Egypt in Exodus 7:20-21. As God judged Egypt, so God will judge Rome.

We are seeing that all the parts of the creation are experiencing a kind of sympathetic judgment. It’s not that the trees have sinned. It’s not that the water has sinned, although water usually does have the connotation of negative chaos in ancient culture.

However, in this case, there is a sympathy between the waters and the plight of humanity. Creation currently groans for redemption with us (Rom. 8:19-22). Soon, there will be a new creation. The old creation will be removed, and that is part of what this sequence symbolizes here.

10. And the third angel sounded the trumpet, and a great star fell from the sky, burning like a lamp. And it fell upon the third of the rivers and upon the springs of waters. 11. And the name of the star is called, "The Absinthe." And the third of the waters turned into absinthe. And multitudes of humans died from the water that was made bitter.
Next, the third angel sounds his trumpet. Now a star falls from the sky, a great star burning like a lamp. It falls on a third of the rivers and upon the springs of the waters. These are now the inland waters rather than the sea.

The name of the star is called “Absinthos.” That is to say, “Wormwood.” Wormwood is a bitter plant, absinthe in Greek, and it turns a third of the waters into absinthe, into wormwood. Many people die as a result from the waters. The bitter water is poisonous.

This time, the imagery is not a plague but may allude to two other Old Testament texts. One is the bitter waters of Marah in Exodus 15. They need to be sweetened before Israel can drink them. Here, of course, God makes the waters bitter.

Alternatively, the wording is very similar to the Greek of Jeremiah 23:15, where God threatens to feed Israel “wormwood” and “poisoned water” as judgment. While Rome is the primary target of the judgment, we might remember that it is quite possible that Jerusalem has also just been destroyed as part of God’s judgment.

The star in Revelation 9 is a heavenly being, possibly Satan. Here, however, there is no clear indication that Wormwood is a demon or a fallen angelic being. The Old Testament passages mentioned above seem more likely background for the image.

12. And the fourth angel sounded the trumpet, and the third of the sun and the third of the moon and the third of the stars was struck. And the third of them so that the third of them might be darkened and the day might not appear--the third of it and the night similarly. 
The fourth angel sounds. Now, a third of the sun, a third of the moon, and a third of the stars are darkened. Day does not appear for a third of its normal time.

Craig Koester notes that some of these objects have already been subject to God’s judgment.[2] The sun was already darkened in Revelation 6:12. The moon has already turned to blood (6:12). He reminds us that the visions of Revelation are not linear. We are getting the same images from different perspectives. And none of them are meant to be taken literally.

The visions are much more like a kaleidoscope, where we get a picture from one side and a picture from another. But none of it is meant to be taken as exactly the way that the judgment will happen. Nevertheless, with the fourth trumpet, all the cosmos has been affected. We’ve seen the seas affected. We’ve had the lands affected.

And now the sky itself has become part of the judgment. The stars, the moon, the lights—we see all the realms of creation are now part of the judgment. This is the destruction of the world as John pictured it.[3]

13. And I saw and I heard one eagle flying in the middle sky, saying with a mighty voice, "Woe, woe, woe in relation to those dwelling on the earth from the rest of the sounds of the trumpets of the three angels about to sound the trumpet."
8:13 is the pause mentioned earlier that comes between the first four trumpets and the last three. The first four trumpets repeat the judgment of the whole cosmos. Now, as the judgment intensifies, three woes will accompany the final three trumpets.

The eagle speaks from the “middle sky” or the “middle heaven.” We remember that Paul once mentioned being taken up into the “third heaven” or the “third sky” (2 Cor. 12:2). We know from the Jewish literature of the time that some Jews thought that there were three layers to the heavens above as you ascended to God in the highest heaven (e.g., The Testament of Levi). God was in the third sky. The first sky was the sky immediately above us, leaving the middle sky for angelic beings.

This will not be the last time that a heavenly being speaks from the middle sky. In the second vision, three angels speak to the earth from the middle sky (Rev. 14).

The eagle can speak. Its words are a preface to the last three trumpets. In effect, it is saying, “You haven’t seen anything yet.” We should note that the word for “eagle” can also be translated as “vulture.” Robert Mulholland argues that vultures might be a better translation because they are associated, after all, with carrion and death. They hover over things that are dying or about to die.

Either way, the imagery is ominous. [1] See Kenneth Schenck, Explanatory Notes on the Sermon of Hebrews (Cascade, 2023).

[2] Craig Koester, Revelation and the End of All Things (Eerdmans, 2001), 97.

[3] John didn’t think of there being galaxies in the universe. Alpha Centauri is not being judged in the book of Revelation. Such an idea would have been completely foreign to John. Distant black holes are not being judged. The whole universe is not being judged. Our earth is the scope of this judgment.

Notes Along the Way: Durham 2.2 -- The Summer of Schindler's List

Continued from the previous post
__________________________
6. The summer of 1994 featured two movies that related to the problem of evil and suffering. I'm sure you know the drill. If God is all powerful, then he is able to stop evil and suffering. If God is all good, you'd think he'd want to stop evil and suffering. Then why does evil and suffering continue to exist?

This question had really begun to trouble me in my final years in Wilmore. It's not that I faced either great suffering or evil. I never have thus far. My mother and father both lived long lives and both passed as peacefully as I would want to. Have I had struggles and disappointments? Of course, but none beyond what is fairly normal for a mortal on this earth.

I have mentioned my struggle with the seeming silence of God. I've mentioned my decade of torture from about the age of 10 to the age of 20. I cried out to God repeatedly for a sense of peace and forgiveness, but most of the time did not sense any clear answer.

In my last couple years in Wilmore, my study of Scripture kept revealing how little my church circles really understood about the Bible. If you have been reading this series, you'll have a sense of that journey. And so, perhaps it is no surprise that I began to long for some sort of direct sign from God of his presence.

7. My final year in Kentucky, I was the facilitator for a small Sunday school class at Stonewall Wesleyan Church in Lexington, where I attended. The two daughters of Gary Cockerill of Wesley Biblical/Hebrews fame were in the small group. Because I had the subject on my mind, we read Philip Yancey's Where Is God When It Hurts. 

To be honest, it just didn't satisfy. Frankly, I have never heard an explanation that entirely satisfies. The two main explanations are the free will theodicy (God gives us freedom, which means some are going to freely do the wrong thing) and the soul making theodicy (suffering gives us the opportunity to grow). They both are helpful but still not entirely satisfying.

Over the years, I've engaged a few books on this topic (even took a shot at writing one). At IWU, our Monday reading group read Satan and the Problem of Evil by Greg Boyd. Steve Horst really likes this book. Its biggest move is to give substantial blame to Satan. In Boyd's view, Satan provides a bigger context for the evil and suffering of the world than just the two main explanations.

I actually found The Shack to be somewhat helpful. However, I've never been able to bring myself to be a universalist. I would say it is the free will theodicy on steroids.

This past year, a reading group I'm in with the Horsts and the Varadmans read Tim Keller's, Walking with God Through Pain and Suffering. Again, I didn't find any silver bullets in the book. There was a line that I resonated strongly with. He suggests that all the different explanations taken together help quite a bit, but there is no one explanation that seems to fully satisfy nor do they all add up to a comprehensive explanation.

That final year in Kentucky, I would shout out to God (silently) during prayer. During the pastoral prayers at Stonewall, I was silently screaming to God, begging for some sort of word that was definitively him. I even asked him to punish me somehow just so I would know he was there. I bought Hans Kung's huge book Does God Exist? As usual of course, it didn't hold my attention.

8. So the summer of 1994 seemed like a gut punch. First, there was Schindler's List. As Keller has pointed out, the real challenge is not your run of the mill suffering. Yes, that absolutely can keep us from becoming morally flabby--no pain no gain. It builds character. It shapes our moral muscles

But the Holocaust was "over the top" evil. It is "gratuitous suffering" that is the challenge. Six million Jews--how much character does that build? Yes, Hitler was defeated. But how many times in history were the Hitlers not defeated? How many times--so many times, maybe most of the time--did the "Hitler" in question win?

If that wasn't enough, Shadowlands came out later in the summer. This is the story of C. S. Lewis' struggle with the cancer and death of his wife. That story in itself wasn't so difficult to handle. It was that story as a follow up to Schindler's List that was forceful. It was a one-two punch.

Lewis looks foolish in the movie when he presents the problem of pain. The movie means to portray him that way. I love the look of complete puzzlement on one lady after he talks about suffering as God's chisel whose blows hurt so bad but make a fine sculpture out of us.

In the movie, Lewis is on a journey to knowledge. At the end of the movie, he still has faith, but he is much wiser than when he gave his lectures. He's sure God has his reasons, but he's still the vivisectionist. He shouts at a priest giving him the kinds of responses he himself has given in the past. The son, meanwhile, decides not to believe in God.

"Pain is the megaphone God uses to rouse a deaf world." I'm not sure I like that. Lewis, who accepted evolution most of the time and didn't necessarily see Adam as a literal human, mostly relied on the soul making argument to answer the problem of evil. Like most explanations, it helps a little but still leaves one wanting more.

9. I remember having some friends over to dinner in my flat that summer. One of the friends was an atheist, a PhD student in philosophy. "You know the best answer to the problem of evil and suffering is that God just doesn't exist to stop it." I told him I understood all his arguments. 

"Then why do you still believe," he asked.

"I don't know," I responded. "I just do."

10. To me, most of the core questions about God have fairly easy, rational answers. The cosmological argument, the fine tuning argument--these make a lot of rational sense to me. The resurrection of Christ can be argued for on the basis of historical evidence.

To me, the problem of evil and suffering require more faith. God gave us a choice, so some are going to make the wrong choice. Makes sense. Makes a whole lot more sense than hyper-Calvinism, which makes God responsible for every last evil thing that has ever happened in the world.

Suffering gives us an opportunity to grow and express moral character. Yes, makes sense.

But there is a point where the suffering and evil are so great, that these explanations do not seem satisfying. That's when I have to press the mystery button. We have to believe God is in control. We have to believe that God loves us and is good. As the priest in Shadowlands says, "We see so little here."

We don't see the whole picture. That's the best we can do to fill in the gap between the explanations that make sense and what is left to mystery.

11. After decades of reflection on the question, two insights seem likely to me, although I welcome the Lord or someone else to show me otherwise. One is that death and suffering in themselves don't have any moral significance. Death is not bad. Suffering is not bad. Pain is not bad. The agents that cause them are what can make those events evil.

One of the biggest realizations I've had in the last five years is that not only in Genesis but likely in Paul as well, death was part of God's creation. It wasn't meant to be the end game, but it was the beginning. Eternal life was always a modification, an addition, to our natural state. The tree of life adds eternal life. 

Death was not the intention for humanity, but it was our created state. That suggests that death is not bad in itself.

A second insight is that, while we can see God at work everywhere if we orient ourselves that way, it is highly unusual to receive direct and unambiguous words from him. Again, it is not that we cannot see and hear him continuously. It is that all of these moments could be taken differently. They are a matter of interpretation most of the time. 

If you believe that God is speaking, you will hear him. But rarely will you have a speaking that is direct in an indisputable way. Faith is always involved in hearing God.

I can see God constantly at work in my life. Am I absolutely certain in each case that it is God? No. And that's ok. I'm thankful all the same.

Notes Along the Way: Durham 2.1 -- 1994 Summer Travels

Continued from previous post
_______________________ 
1. I was in Britain for most of the summer of 1994, although it's possible I took a short trip home to Florida to visit. John's did slow down after the exam term, but there still needed to be staff around in case of fires or conferences (I can't remember there being many conferences).

But the summer was a time for exploring. For example, Rachel Leonard talked me into doing a 2000-foot parachute drop. It was a still line pull. You climbed out onto the wing. They turned the propeller off. You let go.

It all looked very easy from the ground. When it was my turn, I wondered why I was climbing out of a perfectly good airplane. But when they said to push off, I dutifully did so. It was nice. The chute opened.

As I descended, I watched as Rachel must have been climbing out on the wing. The engine cut. The engine started back up again. She didn't jump the first time. I guess the second time he shouted and startled her into letting go.

2. There was also a two-day, 200-mile bicycle race from Belfast to Dublin and back the next day. I bought an orange bike for 100 pounds and had been training (gave or sold it to Phil Burns when I left). Several of us flew on a small plane to Dublin with our bikes. I think Ceri Huws was on that trip. She was a Welsh harp player of some skill. Maybe Emma Houghton and David Fox too. 

Those were the days when the unrest in Northern Ireland with the IRA was in its twilight. There were still military vehicles that wandered up and down the streets of Belfast with machine guns pointed at the sidewalks (that was a little startling to me). In the subways, you were warned to report any backpacks or other things sitting unattended on the platforms.  But the violence was pretty much over by then.

It was a fun, exhausting two days. I remember devouring a Snickers bar at the border to Ireland -- and I don't like Snickers. I remember the bus passing a Subway on the way to dorm rooms that night at Trinity College, Dublin (it could have been University College). So close, yet so far away.

3. Another highlight of that summer was a backpacking trip around Scotland with Rachel Leonard and James Quirk. James was doing his degree in Geography, I believe, which was something quite different than what we think when we say that in the US. It involved some pretty serious stuff, including engaging some post-structuralist thinkers like Levi-Strauss. He would eventually become an Anglican priest and is living in Canada.

We went to Edinburgh, then to Inverness, then to the Isle of Skye, and back. Passed Lindisfarne of course on the way up. You can only drive over and back at low tide. At high tide, the road is under water.

I've always thought that Edinburgh was a two-day visit. My daughter Sophie did an MA there and I warned her. But she loved it. Arthur's Seat, the Royal Mile. That cursed John Knox. I went with her over, and then we went to her graduation. All lovely.

Later that summer, Neil Evans and (I think) Alistair Kirk and I went to the Edinburgh Art Festival in August. I tried Haggis and blood pudding (Mark 7:19 permitted me). You just have to. Forgive me but I also tried Guinness. It's Irish (it decreases in quality the farther you get from Dublin, apparently). These all seemed necessary to get the full cultural experience.

I must confess that, after trying beer there, I didn't like it. I get the sense that alcohol is an acquired taste.

4. The bus rides passed some incredibly beautiful mountains, especially from Fort William to the Isle of Skye. There's a castle on a lake when you're almost there. It features I think in some movies. This was before they built the bridge over. We had to take a ferry.

I can't remember at what point of this trip that Rachel declared quite rightly that I was crap. She wasn't too angry, just making an observation. I had a tendency to wing it back then. In the words of Indiana Jones, "I don't know. I'll think of something." But as you know, "assumption is the mother of all screw ups."

When we finally got on the island, it was getting late. I had booked a hostel on the south side of the island, but as it was a Sunday, there was no public transportation to get there. I believe we somehow arranged a taxi, but by the time we got there, they had given away our reservation, which didn't seem very nice to me.

There was a man across the way who apparently wanted to get into the hosting business, and thus began our adventure. It was quite a bizarre experience, and unfortunately, this well-intentioned man, like me, was crap. 

Thinking we were doing Rachel a favor, we let her sleep in the house. But, as it were, the man had her sleep in his daughter's room -- with the unhappy daughter sleeping in the room too! She was not happy.

Meanwhile, James and I slept in some kind of a camper that apparently had at some time been under water. The man managed some cereal or some such in the morning, and we couldn't have been happier to get away.

5. These were precious experiences. By the end of my first year, I had swept a good deal of Scotland. I had been to Ireland from Belfast to Dublin. I had been across London and hit most of the sites there. 

I believe on my way to visit home either that first Christmas or perhaps in the summer, I took a day to visit Oxford. To be frank, I didn't really like the city. For me, it was both too cramped and too ostentatious. As I said in my previous post, Cambridge was much more to my liking, more laid back and rural in feeling.

But I got my pictures of Oxford. I think I was still using a real camera that my father gave me. I think it had been his originally. It had a red strap and all. Soon we would transition to those throwaway cameras that you could get developed at Walgreens and CVS. Man, how times have changed.

NAW Durham 6 -- The Secret to my Genius :-)

Notes from my days at Durham continue...

38. I mentioned that Helen Fox was another one of the Residential Tutors in John's. She was from the Isle of Wight and I forget how far removed she was from the throne. It might have been in the high 90s. They track these things. How many people are in line to the throne ahead of me?

I joked to her once that she had helped me understand the French Revolution. She actually was quite nice and unpretentious. But there was also something about her that made saying she was 98th or something from the throne make a lot of sense to me.

She told me a story about some extended family member on the Isle of Wight that seemed to express it all. Apparently, some men were working on the sewer system that ran in front of this relative's house. But the aunt (or whatever the relation) was afraid that if she used the restroom while they were working, they would see the results.

So she invited them in for tea and "biscuits" (bread sweets) so she could use the restroom in peace.

39. At some point, I believe she had invited Neil and me to her flat up the Bailey. I'm not even sure if I was serious, but I said something like "I'll just make up my own definitions for the words in my own private language."

"Ah, but isn't that exactly what Wittgenstein said you couldn't do -- have a private language? Meanings come from the language games we play in a certain form of life." Something like that.

I'm not sure how much I knew about Wittgenstein at that time. But I didn't really know much about Wittgenstein at the time, and there's nothing like feeling embarrassed to get you to do a little research. I think I may have also had conversations with David Mossley about Wittgenstein after that (PhD student in philosophy).

40. Wittgenstein blew me away. He had lived in the first part of the twentieth century and died in 1951. A very colorful figure. Almost certainly on the spectrum. Think Sheldon.

His early life is quite amusing at points. Wealthy but gave away his inheritance. Had himself put on the front (Austrio-Hungarian) lines of WW1 to see if his philosophy could take it. Argued with Bertrand Russell at Cambridge over whether there was a rhinocerus (in the room?). Wrote a treatise in seven points that he thought had solved all the problems of philosophy. Then wanted to go work in a factory in communist Russia (They would have been glad to take him as a professor, but weren't interested that he work in a factory.)

His seventh point was interesting, "Whereof one cannot speak, one must be silent."

At some point, Russell wanted him to come to Cambridge. Unfortunately, he didn't have a doctorate. As an indication of his personality, he suggested that if his Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus was really that good, they should give him a doctorate for it. OK, fine. Just write a preface. Wittgenstein refused. They gave him a doctorate anyway.

41. It's really his later work, though, that brought such insight. Wittgenstein's earlier work assumed something he called a "picture theory of language." It is essentially the way most people think about language -- including most pastors. Going back to Augustine, it assumes that words picture things. I say "house"; you picture a house.

This works to a point. Words often do relate closely to things. But you might say that's only a portion of our language. For example, what does "is" picture? What does "righteousness" picture? What does a "wild goose chase" picture? (Don't say someone chasing a wild goose, because almost no one pictures that when they use that expression.)

The Wittgenstein story is typical. An Italian friend of his said, "Hey Ludwig, picture this" and playfully gave him a rude gesture. But alas, Wittgenstein couldn't say what the equivalent of giving someone the finger pictured. Its meaning is not some "thing" it pictures.

42. That was the beginning of a revolution, and the secret to much of my insight is that I know it and you don't. :-) The meaning of language is in how words are used. Words don't have meaning "in them" per se. They take on meanings in "language games" we play in different "forms of life."

Take the word fire. You light a fire and your Augustinian picture theory seems to work. I say, "fire," and you picture red stuff.

But what if a solider says "fire"? What if a boss says, "You're fired"? What if I play a song called, "Come on baby light my fire"?

Each one of these expression is playing a different "language game" in a different setting. And the meaning is different. Since Wittgenstein, these insights have been extended. Words don't simply inform. They do things. If I yell "Fire!" I'm probably suggesting that you're in danger and should probably leave the building quickly. If a couple says, "I do," they are marrying each other.

By the way, this is why I always roll my eyes when someone says, "Don't say, 'How are you?' unless you really want to hear the answer." The words "How are you?" perform a social function in most cases. Sure, if someone starts to answer, listen to them. But when that happens, the language game has changed. The normal game for that phrase is social and affective, not cognitive or "logos."

Sheez. 

43. This secret knowledge has tremendous implications for understanding the Bible and all sorts of things. When you take a Bible study course and you learn about word fallacies, they mostly are simply playing out these insights on language. Has anyone ever told you that the church is made up of the "called out ones" because ekklesia comes from ek and kaleo.

Nope. The meaning of ekklesia at the time of the New Testament depended on how people were using the word at the time. It doesn't have to have any obvious relation to the history of the word or the parts of the word (etymological fallacy). Baptizo doesn't have to mean immerse just because its root meant to dip (root fallacy). The meaning of words wanders over time and space.

Frankly, half the things preachers say about Greek and Hebrew words from the pulpit are wrong because they don't understand this principle. Kittel's theological dictionary -- not only spearheaded by a former Nazi but riddled with word fallacies that don't understand how language works. Ironic that the philosophy of a Jewish man would unravel it.

44. You might see how this problematizes a narrow understanding of sola scriptura and explains why there are thousands of Protestant denominations. Words don't have fixed meanings in them. When Luther said, "The authority for Christian belief and practice alone," he set in motion the inevitable fragmentation of Christianity. Since texts can have many meanings, the Bible has taken on countless different meanings not only for all the different Christian groups but all the individuals reading the Bible.

Gödel's incompleteness theorem also comes to mind here. I first learned about Gödel from Paul Herman I think in high school. Certainly didn't understand him then and may not even now. By the way, I saw Paul maybe three years after high school graduation. He told me Kant changed everything in philosophy. As with Helen Fox, I was a bit embarrassed inside because I didn't really understand Kant. I really learned Kant my first year of teaching. 

And I more or less agree with Paul now. Don't tell him. I responded something about Aquinas at the time.

Gödel's theorem suggests to me that no system can internally provide its own foundations. An ideological system requires grounding principles from outside it. 

This is especially true with Scripture. Scripture does not and could not tell me what the canon is. That is a decision that must be made from outside the text. I need a set of language games and at least one form of life to interpret the words of the Bible. "Orthodoxy" presents a set of such. Denominations often do. 

Bible scholars generally try to read each biblical text in relation to its original languages games and forms of life. But this also results in a fragmented text because there are so many of them. This is why some in the past have said that it is not even possible to identify a biblical theology. (It also seriously threatens the idea of a biblical worldview.)

So much is going on under the hood of our Bible reading, and most of us -- including most pastors -- don't have a clue. Again, Wittgenstein is my secret weapon to see such things.

45. These insights also undermine what I have come to call the "Platonic fallacy." This is again the notion that ideological systems are real.

Let me share Wittgenstein's sense of "family resemblance." Let's say you came to a Schenck reunion, and I ask you what the essence of a Schenck is. You say, "Well, some of you have big noses. Some of you have big ears. Some of you talk pretty loud."

But then I push back. "Well, some noticeably have big ears or big noses, but not everyone does. Some are loud but some aren't." What Wittgenstein noted was that there isn't really an essential Schenck here. What there is, is a collection of traits or "family resemblances." Not every Schenck has all the characteristics. Two Schencks might not have the same characteristics at all but have some of the characteristics from the grab back of Schenckness.

When we apply this to Marxism or Wesleyanism, we see that two Marxists might look quite different from one another. Two Wesleyans might look quite different from each other. They each would likely have some features from the common cup, but they might not have all.

You can see how this wreaks havoc with the argument that says, "You have this piece in your thinking that is also in communism; therefore, you are a communist." That doesn't follow at all. Both cyanide and bread have carbon in them, but one is deadly and the other isn't.

Wittgenstein has been my secret weapon, mainly because most people are unreflective in the way they read the meaning of the world. Thanks, Witty.

46. I might note that my first year in England I learned that there was a group of Anglicans who called themselves "non-realists." Don Cuppitt's Sea of Faith was the key work here. The Anglican church was fascinating because it was held together more by the liturgy than by belief system. There were Anglo-Catholics that were high church. There were evangelical Anglicans like St. John's. There were even charismatic Anglicans.

Speaking of the charismatic Anglicans, that was the moment when the "Toronto Blessing" was taking place. An Anglican church in London--Holy Trinity Brompton--was part of the movement. So there were tongues-speaking Anglicans.

The non-realists, on the other hand, didn't believe that God was literally real. Rather, they believed he was real in the "language game" of Christian religion. They took this idea from Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein believed that religious language performed a different function than traditional ontology. God was not "out there" literally.

But God was real! God was real because the idea of the existence of God "did things" among Christians. God existed in the language game in the religious form of life. In that sense, God is real even though they didn't literally believe God was real. I'm not expressing it well, but it was a spin on Wittgenstein.

At the time, I thought, "What's the point of that?" It seemed to me that if you didn't believe God was really real, why even believe in him at all? It seemed like sentiment trying to cling onto something you had lost. I wondered this about many non-realist pastors out there (e.g., some in the United Church of Canada). Why stay with the form of Christianity if you don't believe its heart is real? 

47. In my final year in England, Neil Evans was kind enough to go on a drive about England and Wales to several places One of them was Cambridge. We went down the Cam to the Orchard Tea Garden that Wittgenstein had once frequented. If I could have taught at any unversity in the world, I think I would have picked Cambridge.