Nov. 10, 1921
[1 Παυ̑λος ἀπόστολος Χριστοῦ Ἰησοῦ διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ τοῖς ἁγίοις τοῖς οὖσιν [ἐν Ἐφέσῳ] καὶ πιστοῖς ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ, 2 χάρις ὑμῖν καὶ εἰρήνη ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρὸς ἡμῶν καὶ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ.]
1 Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus by the will of God, to the saints and believers in Christ Jesus. 2 Grace be with you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Ephesians 1:1–2 is the letter’s “preface” and consists of an identification and brief description of the author of the letter and its recipients.
Παῦλος. The first word of our epistle has attracted more attention and certainly more interest than all the other words in the letter put together during the era of historical-critical research of the Bible, which has certainly not yet run its course. The question is raised whether the apostle Paul is actually the author of the epistle or whether an unknown student of Paul placed the famous man’s name on his own work, a perfectly acceptable practice at the time. In contrast to the unanimity that still existed less than thirty years ago, when one camp of New Testament scholarship prevailed, the current consensus on the matter can be summarized as a cautious non liquet1 within which individual scholars defend a position, with more or less certainty, for or against the letter’s authenticity. The excursus that Martin Dibelius provides in his discussion of verse 4:16 reflects the current state of the debate.2 In addition to that discussion, I refer you to the clear accounts of the matter in the New Testament introductions by Adolf Jülicher3 and by Fritz Barth;4 and because I am not in a position to take up the cudgels in the controversy, which seems to have abated recently, I will limit myself to briefly identifying the main points in order to explain my own position on the matter, which is in no way original. The debate, if I am correct, can be reduced to two central points.
The first point concerns the close relationship between Ephesians and Colossians at the level of both vocabulary and ideas. Undoubtedly, this relationship is not merely accidental, as even a superficial comparison of the two letters reveals. It follows that if both letters are genuine, they belong to the same period of Paul’s life as Philippians, that is, the time of his Roman imprisonment. They form a closely related group and must be interpreted by continuously examining the parallel passages so that one serves as a commentary on the other. Now, it is claimed that because Ephesians appears to be dependent on Colossians, it could not possibly have been written by someone with a mind like Paul’s, but is the product of a redactor, who was a disciple of Paul. And because Colossians is shorter and its historical setting more certain, it has tended to overshadow Ephesians, which tends to be regarded with a certain suspicion or as less valuable. The decisive evidence against this view, in my opinion, is the impossibility of interpreting the alleged redactor without recourse to suspiciously complicated hypotheses, such as those advocated by Heinrich Holtzmann.5 Nothing is ruled out, resulting in an arbitrary configuring of the parallel passages, not to mention tendentiousness in the passages selected. It seems to me much more likely that one author wrote both letters, drawing from the same conceptual framework but expressing his ideas in different situations, freely adapting his own ideas the second time, repeating, paraphrasing, and occasionally modifying them, much as any of us might do today when we have lectured on or written about similar material to different audiences.6 The occasional use of the same term to express different ideas, a matter on which Dibelius places such great weight and which he demonstrates in reference to the terms σῶμα and μυστήριον, for example,7 does not seem to me to be sufficient evidence to refute this view, considering the extreme dialectical flexibility that Paul usually displays (for example, in his use of the term νόμος within Romans alone).
The second point is more difficult. It concerns the peculiar linguistic and conceptual material that is characteristic of Ephesians (some of which also appears in Philippians and Colossians and some of which is unique to Ephesians), compared to Paul’s so-called major letters. We must first examine the facts of the matter and then assess their significance. And in fact, if we come to Ephesians after reading the Corinthian correspondence, for example,8 we find material that differs in both style and content from the undisputed letters, while many of the normal Pauline features are conspicuously absent. In the very first paragraph (1:3–14), we encounter a variety of unusual terms, such as τὰ ἐπουράνια, καταβολὴ κόσμου, χαριτοῦν, and προελπίζειν; and in the same place, we are confronted with a sentence construction so convoluted that it is difficult to understand, let alone reflect upon. Closer scrutiny reveals a variety of curious gems in the same unusual, embellished, and ceremonial style (it has been called “solemn”),9 which is so characteristic of Ephesians; whereas we look in vain for the familiar, signature Pauline terms, such as δικαιοῦν, θάνατος, θέλειν, and φρονεῖν, just to name a few, as well as the short exclamatory phrases, such as τί οῦν and μὴ γένοιτο, and the edgy, agitated, and explicitly polemical style that we find in Romans and Galatians.
More importantly, we are confronted with significant material differences between Ephesians and the undisputed letters. Here, Christ is exalted to such a position or rank that interpreters describe recourse to the phrase “cosmic Christ”10 or to “metaphysical” language.11 Here, in curious juxtaposition with this so-called cosmic Christ, the theme of the church suddenly appears right at the center of things. Here, we catch a glimpse into the realm of good and evil spirits. Here, we see all of Christendom from the vantage point of the mystery, μυστήριον, which was long concealed but is now revealed, and thus in light of the characteristics of God, on the one hand, and the human characteristics necessary for salvation, on the other—the intellectual properties, the gnosis, which is related to them but exists on a higher plane.12 Here, in several passages the apostles are ranked with the prophets as historical personages, imbued with holiness—a particularly difficult point. Here, the great battle over the validity of the law has receded into the distance, now sounding like the rumbling of distant thunder. And where is the parousia expectation, which figures so prominently in Paul’s early epistles? Here, the church seems to attain perfection through a kind of natural evolution, without even a hint that a catastrophe of any kind is necessary to bring about its perfection.13 There is, to quote Holtzmann, “the notion of an assured and inexorable surging movement, which proceeds from Christ’s imbuing everything with the effects of his immanence.”14
Nevertheless, we should not overestimate the significance of these differences. They are striking but not unprecedented. The modified style that Paul uses here is understandable, given his new train of thought. Both his altered mode of expression and the partially new ideas can be explained by the letter’s different provenance, compared to the major letters. Ephesians is the product of the elderly Paul.15 I hope that you will not take this as a criticism, but if we consider the peculiar directions that, in their later years, Plato,16 Schelling,17 or even a contemporary like Paul Natorp18 developed their ideas, both formally and materially, we have a plausible analogy to the relationship of Ephesians to, say, Romans. There was truly a more astonishing evolution than we normally attribute to Paul if he was in fact the author of Ephesians. Even the scholars who currently regard the letter as unauthentic acknowledge that most of its vocabulary and contents is clearly Pauline.19 How we evaluate many of the things that at first glance strike us as either anomalous or conspicuously absent (here I am thinking expressly about parousia expectation) depends on the degree to which the reader or scholar is able to interpret dialectically and therefore not be thrown off course but to follow the thread from here to there and to discover the new in the old and rediscover the old in the new. How easily someone in a later century could mistake one of Natorp’s authentic writings as unauthentic. Such a mistake is possible if one merely reads the words and clinically establishes what is there rather than following the text and thinking along with it as it stands. Regrettably, even Holtzmann, such a profitable scholar in other respects, is slightly ponderous in this regard.
Personally, I would defend the authenticity of Ephesians. But frankly, I do not have any great interest in the question. As far as I am concerned, it could be otherwise. I have treated the matter this thoroughly in order to fulfill all righteousness (cf. Matt. 3:15). Bengel expresses my true opinion about it when he says, “Noli quaerere quis scripserit sed quid scriptum est.”20 Now that we have behind us this unavoidable matter of New Testament introduction, we can happily devote ourselves entirely to “quod scriptum est.” As for the authorship question, it is enough to know that someone, at any rate, wrote Ephesians (why not Paul?) thirty to sixty years after Christ’s death (hardly any later than that, since it is attested by Ignatius, Polycarp, and Justin),21 someone who understood Paul well and developed the apostle’s ideas with obvious loyalty as well as originality.
Ἀπόστολος, the author of the epistle calls himself. The literal meaning of ἀπόστολος is “ambassador.” Surprisingly, in classical Greek it was a technical term for “admiral,” according to Hans Lietzmann’s discussion of Romans 1:1.22 And even if this meaning of the word is not directly attested in the New Testament, we can certainly assume that at one time it had a military ring, which it no longer has for us. In the New Testament, initially only the twelve disciples were called “apostles.” Then Paul assumed the title, claiming God as his sole authority. It was used more generally for a while. Barnabas is so designated in Acts 14:4, 14. Second Corinthians 8:23 refers to so-called ἀπόστολοι ἐκκλησιῶν. Ψευδαπόστολοι also crop up (2 Cor. 11:13; Rev. 2:2). In the Didache and the Shepherd of Hermas, ἀπόστολος seems to be almost a synonym for “preacher.”23 Later, this general use is discontinued, and once more it is used as a designation of honor for the Twelve, including Paul.24 An apostle is a person with a mission and the power to carry it out. He is sent to enemy-occupied territory to break up a blockade, so to speak. We should think about the ἀπόστολοι as the messengers of the βασιλεία, of the royal rule. Certainly, no one is an ἀπόστολος by virtue of being a preacher—or anything else, for that matter, not even the greatest poet, thinker, or artist. As Kierkegaard says, “The vocation of apostle is a paradoxical fact” (Über den Unterschied zwischen einem Apostel und einem Genie).25 The apostolic vocation splits the person, so to speak. He is an apostle not on the basis of anything he is in and of himself but on the basis of what he is not. A demand of a very different order is made on him, and a demand of a very different order directs him to his fellow human creatures. There is something exceptional and impossible about him, but it is not his genius, his experience, his unmediated knowledge,26 or anything that can be accounted for psychologically as greatness or character. What makes him an apostle is his mission, his instructions, and the service he is to offer, which are not, from a psychological point of view, even his own matter27 but the matter that has him and sends him. That is the source of his burden [Bürde], and that is the source of his honor [Würde]. The order to which he submits imposes a limit, not only on himself but also on anything that might harm him, rendering him intrepid, secure, and unshakable, once and for all.
Ἀπόστολος Χριστοῦ Ἰησοῦ, Paul calls himself and thereby indicates the source of his authority.28 This phrase, Χριστὸς Ἰησοῦς, Christ Jesus, or with the reverse emphasis, Jesus, the Christ, contains and reveals the essence of Paul’s teaching—and not only Paul’s. Time does not permit a thorough discussion of the phrase here, and I can only briefly suggest its meaning. As you know, in this context Χριστός, “Messiah,” means “the anointed king of Israel,” an eminent historical figure from the bright but distant past who now personifies the eschatological expectation. He is the one from above, who brings and restores the kingdom. All of that is easy for us to say, but what an upheaval of heaven and earth must have occurred in the late Jewish period to generate such an expectation and such a concept! And how astonishing that when the gospel of Israel’s Christ was directed to the whole world, it displaced so many other rival claims at the time and met with such success! Most of all, how incomprehensible is the actual content of this gospel! An individual, particular, and historical man, Jesus of Nazareth, is this Χριστός. He is the κύριος, the Lord, to use the term that was common in both political and religious language of the period. A man is the man. All others are shadows of him. As they wait expectantly for him, they wait for their own fulfillment. The phrase Χριστὸς Ἰησοῦς means the unification of all that is inherently incompatible, the coincidentia oppositorum,29 and the complete riddle of Christology over which later centuries labored. But what are we saying? This phrase, Χριστὸς Ἰησοῦς, speaks to the most profound problem of life that confronts all of us. Is not your life in time, and mine, this particular, random, unique existence of ours, included in the demand that we should share as well as the promise that we may share in the source of ultimate truth and reality; not only partially, or spiritually, but down to the last detail; not only as parts of a whole but as a whole; not only as the member of a group but as an individual?
Moreover, the form of this announcement is determined by its content. Note well: “Christ” or “Messiah” means “king.” There is an unmistakable progression from king to ἀπόστολος, to envoys who are instructed and equipped with power. The message of the incarnation is not proclaimed as an idea, in the normal sense of the word; rather, the word from the peaceful kingdom enters the world as a battle cry, as a declaration of war. Here, the δύναμις τοῦ θεοῦ speaks.30 Here, the One God demands an acknowledgment, which initially is not acknowledged, then is acknowledged. Here, the One God determines to rule as monarch, and all other demands with which life confronts us are called into question by him. Here, it is a matter of God’s decisive battle against idols. And in order to assure that we take this battle seriously, to prevent us from turning it into a religious or philosophical truth, to impress upon us that the truth comes to us only in the eternal moment of knowledge, the concrete subject matter of this gospel and its most characteristic trait is a human face, the completely mysterious face of one who suffers, is rejected, and dies—the face of Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. Obviously, the office of ἀπόστολος must be understood as a parable. As with the master, so it is with the disciples. Paradox can be explained only through paradox. Immanuel! God with us [Matt. 1:23]! That is the meaning of the phrase Χριστὸς Ἰησοῦς. The existence of an ἀπόστολος is a repetition and variation of the same theme in a subordinate position, where it is possible to serve, to point, and to witness. To be an ἀπόστολος means to serve Χριστὸς Ἰησοῦς. But he can only serve him. To be Christ himself is out of the question. Think about the meaning of the pastoral vocation to which you aspire. The pastoral office has meaning only because of the existence of the apostolic office. And the actual theme of this office is that the unheard of event has become a reality in Christ. Consequently, it is a matter of serving in that office where one can only serve.
Paul adds, διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ, exactly the same phrase as in 1 Corinthians 1:1; 2 Corinthians 1:1; Colossians 1:1; 2 Timothy 1:1; and expressed more clearly and precisely in Galatians 1:1: oὐκ ἀπ’ ἀνθρώπων οὐδὲ δι’ ἀνθρώπου ἀλλὰ διὰ Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ θεοῦ πατρὸς τοῦ ἐγείραντος αὐτὸν ἐκ νεκρῶν. The will of God is what makes an apostle to be an apostle. This will of God is identified in the Galatians passage as the same incomprehensible will that awakened Jesus from the dead. For this reason, it necessarily includes negation in the form of renunciation. Paul renounces all natural protection. He abandons all the normal defenses that he or anyone might take advantage of. Anyone who risks saying what Paul had to say inevitably becomes open to the accusation of being presumptuous. Human society has always been, in principle if not in practice, a composite of well-ordered functions, which are recognized (more or less) as necessary and useful—as the organization of a university, for example, reveals on a small scale. But what gives a person the right to speak about God and about the last things? How does one justify the necessity and the usefulness of this function? We can appeal to people’s “religious” needs, of course. Such a human foundation for the apostolic office is, as we all know, the safeguard and defense that the church has always enjoyed in the fabric of human society. In that case, speaking about God is considered a legitima vocatio. This human basis for the apostolic office obviously played an important role even in primitive Christianity. Its definitive development occurred in the Roman Catholic Church, and analogous developments can be observed in all other religions. Basically, the idea is unobjectionable. How could religion not, either tacitly or explicitly, conform to the rules that govern all human affairs?
But what if someone has something to say that transcends “religion” and all recognized human needs and concerns so profoundly that it radically calls them into question, along with the fabric of society that is based upon them? What authorizes a Socrates, a Paul, or a Kierkegaard? Is it not obvious that people like this leave themselves open to the accusation that they are presumptuous or that they are enthusiasts or nihilists when they prefer not to cover up the facts, even as they seek accommodations within the shaky construction of human activities along with everyone else? Paul preferred not to cover up the facts. He never did so with the apostles, just as they never disguised their churchly authority. He renounces the shelter and protection that he was due by virtue of his human authority. With his appeal to διὰ θελήματος, he risks being taken for a fool, and that is precisely what happened. He will not assume any authority that is not granted to him by God. In this light perhaps his God-given authority is best understood as humility. He renounces self-honor precisely because he seeks honor from God alone. Most of all, by appealing to this διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ, he negates himself. Receiving honor from others is surely the subtlest form of attributing honor to ourselves. And because he is basically not afraid of offending anyone with his claim, he has become impervious to the accusation of being presumptuous. In the case of the apostolic vocation, no one except God and God alone can say to a person, “You are [an apostle], not an enthusiast!” Consequently, he must accept the humiliation that may be laid upon him, and in most cases is laid upon him, because he can do no other.*
Nov. 17, 1921
The phrase ἀπόστολος διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ is dialectical: it has two different meanings that are contradictory but at the same time define each other and therefore point beyond themselves. The meaning of the phrase is found in that to which they point. Is it supreme self-confidence or profound humility that Paul demonstrates here? Is the cause of Paul’s supreme self-confidence precisely that humility with which he refuses to claim any human appointment, appealing instead to the fact that God has appointed him? Or is it the other way around? Is true apostolic humility precisely what gives him the self-confidence to lower his guard? Can we really say conclusively that it is either one or the other?
When arrogance is humility and humility arrogance, then clearly there is another factor at work. We need to gain a wider vantage point where self-confidence and humility are equally appropriate and even necessary. Paul is referring to the sphere where the word seizes us, neutralizing and bypassing both our exemplary behavior and our bad habits, that which is commendable as well as that which is reprehensible about us. When he calls himself ἀπόστολος διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ and addresses his readers on this basis, it is not in order to draw attention to his personal attributes, not even his so-called religious personality, or to flaunt his experience or experiences,31 or to impress them with his knowledge. He has no reason to linger on these human factors, be they good or evil. His relationship to his readers is determined by his office. He has an objective message to convey, and on the basis of the phrase διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ he appeals to his hearers to receive it objectively. Listen to what Calvin has to say about this passage in a sermon delivered on May 15, 1558:
For one of the common artifices which the devil uses to diminish reverence for God’s Word is to place before our eyes the person who brings it. Now it is certain that we are frail vessels and of no value, yes, of no more worth than broken pots. What is there in those whom God has ordained to be the ministers of his Word? But the treasure is inestimably great at all times, despite the contemptibleness of the vessels [2 Cor. 4:7]. Let us take note then that when men come to bear testimony to the forgiveness of our sins and the salvation we ought to hope for, our faith must rise up higher and not stand questioning whether such a man is worthy to be heard or not, or enquiring what manner of person he is. Let us content ourselves with the thought that God by that means intends to draw us to himself.32
A true bearer of the divine word would not dare disqualify himself by preaching another gospel (1 Cor. 9:27). He, most of all, stands under the purifying judgment of this word. Certainly his human nature, what we tend to refer to as his “personality,” including his religious personality, is affected by this purifying judgment. How could it be otherwise? But what is purified and refashioned by the word remains human; and this refashioning and cleansing take place through judgment, the repeated judgment of the word. The human creature is a mortal bearer of that word. Remembering this judgment prevents the bearer of the word from confusing God’s questions and answers with any other theme, with his own being, having, and doing—even his supremely religious being, having, and doing. This recollection should also prevent his hearers or readers from becoming preoccupied with the messenger instead of the message. “For our boast is this, the testimony of our conscience” (2 Cor. 1:12). However, “We do not preach ourselves, but Christ Jesus as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake” (2 Cor. 4:5).
We now turn to the description of the letter’s recipients, whom Paul describes as τοῖς ἁγίοις . . . καὶ πιστοῖς ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ. The words τοῖς οὖσιν (and subsequently ἐν Ἐφέσῳ) were added later.
Ἅγιοι is first, both in sequence and in order of importance (as in Col. 1:2). Paul does not use the phrase ἁγίοις . . . καὶ πιστοῖς to describe his readers in Galatians or 1 and 2 Thessalonians, referring to them simply as ἐκκλησία θεοῦ (or ἐκκλησίαι θεοῦ, Gal. [1:2]). It is only in Romans 1:7; 1 Corinthians 1:2, 2 Corinthians 1:1; and Philippians 1:1 that he uses the term ἅγιοι. The addition of πιστοί, here and in Colossians 1:2, is distinctive of the mature style of Paul’s later epistles, in which he develops concepts more fully. In these salutations πιστοί never occurs without ἅγιοι. This fact alone tells us that ἅγιοι is the more important term: it is not defined by πιστοί; rather, πιστοί must be understood in light of ἅγιοι.
In the Old Testament, which is clearly the background for Paul’s use of the term here, ἅγιος signifies a place, object, or person, which, although situated in the known world, belongs not to this world but to the rule of God’s power and splendor. Therefore, ἅγιος describes a negation, a cordoning off, the imposition of a blockade, an attack that creates a void, like the crater formed from an exploding shell.33 This negation is strictly paradoxical. By creaturely standards of thinking and experience, the person or thing that is hallowed remains unchanged. The one who makes them holy, the cause of this negation, does not appear as such, occupying time and space. The sanction, the demands, and the threat that this event introduces cannot be perceived; neither can the void that occurs in a creaturely object or a person and by virtue of which they are what they really are not. Strictly speaking, ἅγιος means that a = (-a). Only God can guarantee that this determination is divine and therefore real. There is no way to directly identify the state of holiness as such! Holiness that is conspicuous, tangible, or perceptible (humanly speaking) is not holiness. Apart from God, nothing is holy by virtue of what it is or is not in and of itself. None of us is holy by virtue of what we believe or do not believe, by what we do or do not do. God is the one who makes holy what will always remain unholy. And God reveals what is holy as he makes the creature holy. Only the holy of God exist in the sphere where God himself is holy and has plans for them that they cannot thwart; any holiness based on human effort would be our own rather than the holiness that is uniquely and completely God’s.
Holiness is a relationship with God. This relationship is established by God. It is never simply a given. It is never a finished event. For the human creature, it will always remain a quest and goal; but as free grace, it becomes more than a quest and goal. It exists wonderfully, moment by moment, on the basis of God’s eternal election; and absolutely no law could possibly be at work, above or apart from God’s beneplacitum,34 diverting the course of this election. To call a person holy is to say that God eternally disturbs him and fills him with joy, that God has laid his hand upon the creature. The creature is attacked and wounded where he is most vital, in his subjectivity, his existence. Existentially, he is no longer his own. He himself no longer lives. He resembles an off-centered wheel, which no longer revolves around its own center. As God first appeared to Abraham (cf. Gen. 18:1–15), God appears at his dwelling like a stranger, making promises and demanding obedience. Has a miracle occurred? No, there is no miracle. Everywhere we turn, all we can see is the creature, living in sin and death. God remains hidden—fundamentally hidden—after he has revealed himself to the creature. Precisely because he has wrapped himself in the impenetrable mystery of his divinity, he has revealed himself as the creature’s God: as the creature’s God because he is infinitely near those who are utterly lost, destitute, and lonely, whose gods and idols lie shattered before them. But he has also revealed himself as the creature’s God because unlike all gods and idols, he draws near while maintaining his infinite distance; in sovereign freedom, he draws near the creature while remaining utterly unapproachable. When God claims a person as his holy one, what occurs is not a miracle but a wonder, the wonder of the act of knowing.35
Ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ, which follows πιστοί, refers first and foremost to ἅγιοι. In Christ, the human creature is sanctified (Eph. 5:25–26; 1 Cor. 1:2; Gal. 1:4; Col. 1:22). Remember what we said about Christ in the previous lecture. Christ is the claim that God makes on a person, the hand laid upon him, the ultimatum addressed to him, God’s declaration that this sinful, mortal creature belongs to the jurisdiction of God’s authority and glory. In this context, the Old Testament claim that our God is a consuming fire takes on new significance (cf. Exod. 24:17; Deut. 4:24; 9:3; Heb. 12:29). Christ is the place in which the question about God becomes so acute that it must be simultaneously God’s answer. Here, everything appears to be a riddle from the human point of view; therefore, precisely here we find the divine solution to all riddles. Here God’s holiness speaks the final, shattering word—mercy. In Christ, the human creature in all of his spectacular incompetence is a holy person—he is holy as his God is holy. I am speaking about Christ, crucified and risen, as Paul did, not about the pious man Jesus or about a psychological relationship between us and this pious man, a path that leads somehow from him to us or some particular experience that we could have of him. Paul certainly did not address his readers as holy on the basis of their experience or their condition—past, present, or future. What is at stake here is the human creature’s eternal relation to God, the relation in which the person is eternal and will become what he certainly never was and becomes what he eternally is: God’s possession, instrument, servant, and child. This relation is real only because it begins where everything comes to an end, in the life that comes from death. As the Old Testament continues to teach us, life after death would be a heathen illusion without this ultimate foundation. To address a person as holy in Christ Jesus requires a vantage point wide enough to encompass time and eternity, law and grace, heaven and earth—both in their distinctions from each other and in their relations to each other. Today we are probably only beginning to realize how much we lack this vantage point. No wonder that what we preach as the word of God rarely approaches the heights of the message of Ephesians, in spirit or in truth.
We turn now to πιστοί, the second word that Paul uses to designate his readers. It is often said that, in contrast with ἅγιοι, πιστοί denotes the subjective state of the readers; and of course to a certain extent that is correct. Nevertheless, we should treat the concepts “subjective” and “objective” with care when using them to describe the relation between God and human creatures, particularly when interpreting Paul. In this context, what could be subjective that is not also objective? In its most complete sense, ἅγιοι denotes the subjective state of man in the sense that Kierkegaard means when he says that the subjective is the objective.36 Conversely, the meaning of πιστοί is so closely associated with the object of πίστις that in Romans 3:3 and in many other places in Romans and Galatians it inevitably coincides with this object—without, of course, ceasing to be a human disposition as well. The idea of polarity, equipoise, or balance between divine and human action is absent from Paul’s thought; wherever “faith” is spoken of in such a fashion, it leads to simplistic and false dogmatics.
We can avoid this error if we interpret πιστοί in close connection with the more important term ἅγιοι: it refers to those who recognize the divine demands with confident hope. As such, it refers to a truly subjective human state. But keep in mind what is being described here! Where and when do we actually find such recognition, so full of hope? Where, when, and how could faith be a psychological or historical event? Who at any moment could say about oneself, “I believe!” without adding in the same breath, “Dear Lord, help my unbelief?” [cf. Mark 9:24].† Who could answer the question that is put to a person who has been chosen to be God’s holy one? Truly, faith is just as much a paradox as holiness is. Faith is the action of the new person in me, the person I am not, the new person whose identity within me is the source of the greatest possible honor. Faith is a fundamental and eternal event that is beyond all temporal processes. Faith is God’s work in us. It takes place in us, to be sure; it is not some invisible metaphysical reality, independent of our recognition of God’s mercy, enclosed in his holiness. But it takes place only as God’s work, as the eternal moment hidden within the temporal moment; it is one with what occurs in us. Faith is as pure and original a creation as God’s first creation, creatio ex nihilo, or it does not deserve to be called πίστις or to be spoken in the same breath as the holiness that Calvin refers to when he says, “De re infinita nihil potest dici imodice.”37 Faith denotes human action, but we must avoid thinking of it as a finite resource, like an expense account that must be replenished when we have spent it.38 The faith we have to spend is nothing less than this “res infinita.” According to the text, a person is ἐν Χριστῷ Ἰησοῦ. With this statement, the text erects the narrow gate of critical negation, through which no one may pass. The Forward! command here is preceded by the command Halt! The life that opens up before us is preceded by death. This faithfulness comes at precisely the moment when a person is in self-despair—and this includes the religious person. Then, of course, the promise is certain. God remains loyal to his holy ones. This promise is heard only when people recognize God in Christ Jesus as the Lord of life and death, the Lord of lords, the sure foundation and the unfailing hope of those who put their trust in him [cf. Rom. 14:9]. But only in Christ Jesus. In him, the incomparable is spoken.
From this close reading of the text, we are now in the position to understand why Paul dares to refer to his readers as ἁγίοις and πιστοῖς. No historical or pragmatic reasons can adequately account for this risk. It is either foolishness or the ultimate insight into that which gives coherence to human life.
With the phrase τοῖς οὖσιν ἐν Ἐφέσῳ, which stands between ἁγίοις and καὶ πιστοῖς, we venture from terra firma to far more uncertain ground.‡
Jerome:39 τοῖς οὖσιν, those who exist in the metaphysical sense.
Bernhard Weiß, Hermann von Soden: the saints, who are also faithful, in contrast to the covenant community of the Old Testament.
J. T. Beck: those in various congregations who remained loyal in a dispute between Jewish Christians and those following Paul.
All of that is dubious, given the parallel passages in 2 Corinthians 1:1; Romans 1:7; and Philippians 1:1.
Nov. 24, 1921
At the end of the previous lecture we considered the various possible ways of interpreting the phrase τοῖς οὖσιν ἐν Ἐφέσῳ.¶ With the newer interpreters, such as Meyer41 and Haupt, one can accept the phrase ἐν Ἐφέσῳ as authentic, despite the counterevidence of certain early documents and intertextual difficulties. And given the inadequacy of alternate proposals, I confess a certain yearning for this solution. With the ancient church theologians cited by Jerome as well as Hofmann, Beck, Weiß, von Soden, and F. Barth, one can maintain that ἐν Ἐφέσῳ is simply an insertion and try to find another way to deal with the resulting awkward phrase τοῖς οὖσιν καὶ πιστοῖς. One can maintain, with Marcion and Harnack, that the original text read ἐν Λαοδικείᾳ. One can conjecture, as do Bengel42 and Olshausen,43 that in the original manuscript the space now occupied by ἐν Ἐφέσῳ was left empty because it was a circular letter. One can maintain, as Jülicher does, that we are dealing with an old manuscript copy, which had been originally addressed to a circle of gentile Christian congregations and accidentally lost. With Dibelius, one can regard the entire epistle as inauthentic and the phrase ἐν Ἐφέσῳ as the work of a redactor, citing 2 Timothy 4:12 as evidence.44 Finally, as in our recent discussion [Besprechungsstunde!],** one can maintain, with Kühl, that a fragment in verse 1 was lost and that τοῖς οὖσιν is a corruption of κλητοῖς οὖσιν (as in Rom. 8:28), in which case ἐν Ἐφέσῳ could be deleted without further difficulties. I believe that I have discharged my duty by making you aware of all these possibilities, and I leave it to you to decide which of them is the least improbable. Because of the inherent problems, the older theologians at any rate avoided extravagant claims about either their methods or their conclusions.
Our greatest difficulty in understanding the familiar apostolic greeting χάρις ὑμῖν in verse 2 is that we know it far too well, or we think that we do. Perhaps if it were censored in all churches for fifty years, we could once again hear it as it was originally intended. The same thing could be said about many other “familiar” Bible words. It is not insignificant that Paul originally coined this formula and used it nearly word for word in all of his letters. Neither the familiar χαίρειν from Greek epistolary salutations nor the formula “grace and εἰρήνη,” the latter of which was roughly equivalent to the Hebrew שלם, were mere conceptual materials for Paul. By changing χαίρειν to χάρις and, more importantly, by linking both terms to the phrase ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρός . . . , Paul created a characteristically new phrase. His intention was not to form impressive liturgical cadences but to say something of supreme importance, which in fact summarizes his entire message. Χάρις and εἰρήνη both describe conduct that is completely unexpected—God’s conduct as well as the creature’s. The realities to which these terms refer cannot be taken for granted or assumed. Rather, Paul repeatedly longs for Christians to have a share in these realities. Χάρις is not a state of being; it comes and must come ever again. Εἰρήνη is not something we possess like a commodity; we receive it and must receive it ever again.
Already in the greeting we are at the heart of Paul’s message. His greeting to his congregation, his proclamation to them, is a reminder, a prayer for them. It is a reminder of precisely what the finite creature always fails to see, what is always lost on him, what he perennially forgets, but what is always supremely near, always present, always offered so freely and reliably that one need only remember it. In this prayer Paul brings to bear his entire personality in order to confront his listeners with this reminder, to say to them what they actually know already, because in the last resort, it is only by personally appealing to God on their behalf that he can tell them the simplest thing of all, which is also the hardest thing of all. (Remember how all the other Pauline letters begin with εὐχαριστῶ τῷ θεῷ or a similar phrase;45 take a look at εὐλογητὸς ὁ θεός in verses 3–14, the first section of our letter, and you will discover that for Paul the requisite word of remembrance directed to the human creature and the word of prayer directed to God are inextricably related and fundamentally one.) Right in his greeting Paul says everything. As he greets his readers, he points to what is beyond both him and them, what they both lack, and what they can only pray for (and may pray for). Even so, his greeting is a true greeting, an indication of the community that exists between them. Because human community exists only on the basis of what is beyond our grasp, a reality for which we can only pray. Nothing self-evident or contingent is an adequate basis for community—only the hidden God and the noncontingent are adequate.
Χάρις refers to God’s singular and completely unexpected conduct toward the human creature. God, whom the human creature cannot know at all—because anything that the creature can know is not God; God, who dwells in unapproachable light [cf. 1 Tim. 6:16]; the God, from whom Isaiah recoiled (and with good reason), saying, “Woe is me! For I am lost” [Isa. 6:5]—this Deus absconditus is the Deus revelatus.46 Despite ourselves and the fact that we can speak about God only in the form of negation, God nevertheless says Yes to this familiar creature, in all his sinfulness, creatureliness, mortality, and absolute godforsakenness. The Absolute is present to this human creature, who possesses no potential, no disposition, and no capacity for the Absolute. (What after all is our “religious instinct” except a question mark that hangs over human existence without providing an answer? Indeed, how can it be anything other than the realization that we are not able to take the first step toward God, not even the smallest baby step? What do we discover from the heights of religion except that the human creature is human?)
On the contrary, what no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, what no heart has imagined—that is what God has prepared for those who love him (1 Cor. 2:9). Let us be clear about this: they become the ones who love him because he has prepared them! It is essential to keep in mind what Rom. 5:5, 8:28, and 1 Corinthians 8:3 say about the source and origin of our love for God. Grace is the grounding of the creature in God. But this grounding is ungrounded; otherwise it would not be grounding in God.47 Grace is the reality of forgiveness, which has no continuity whatsoever with anything that we can grasp (apart from the continuity that is established by God’s will and God’s alone!): this human creature, who is fallen and without exception fails to recognize God, is recognized by God as his child. If we really want to think about what the term χάρις refers to, it means that we cannot do enough: we cannot elevate God enough in our thoughts, be sufficiently amazed at the unfathomable mystery of his will, or give him enough honor [cf. Deut. 32:3].48 But then, the divine Nevertheless! Despite our most reverent thoughts, our deepest fear, our most genuine amazement, which never even come close to being adequate, despite all this, the surprise, the completely unexpected, unforeseen, incalculable, surprise—incomprehensible (even through the logic of conversion) and unprecedented—as surprising as seeing with our own eyes someone raised from the dead, the wonder of the reality of God, in contrast to everything that we think about God: that is grace. Paul sees his readers in the light of this great possibility. Grace is with them. They really are the ἅγιοι καὶ πιστοί.
Can we say more? Can we say that they are given grace, that they have grace, and that they stand in grace? Actually, we can say all that, provided we are clear that we can only remember the reality of grace and pray for it. “Grace be with you!” I think that Luther hit on something quite original here in his use of the preposition “with.”49 Grace is not poured into a person so that it becomes a possession or an attribute. Grace can only be with and accompany a person. The person continues to be what he is, a human being with all that is questionable about him. How could he recognize grace as grace without continually recognizing his own godforsakenness?50 What makes grace graceful51 is that God in his majesty is with the human being in his creatureliness. If we try to say more than that, we end up saying less.
Likewise, εἰρήνη refers to the human creature’s equally singular and unexpected conduct with God. Χάρις and εἰρήνη, which Paul repeatedly and emphatically links, correspond to each other; Paul sees them as the two endpoints of the relation between God and the human creature and the human creature and God, a relation that is infinitely real and therefore never contingent. Εἰρήνη is also a divine Nevertheless!, the removal of a barricade, a breakthrough, a victory. Although the conditions for peace do not exist, a peace settlement is established (cf. Rom. 5:1ff.). Even though the creature remains human, even though the sin that separates him from God is infinite and absolute, even though there is no creaturely mediation, bridge, or way to God, even though from the summit of his existence—I am thinking again about religion—the only thing he learns about himself is that he is a rebel against God, nevertheless the human creature is reconciled with God. The unrighteous person we know so well is reconciled with the holy God, whom we do not know! God stands before the creature and the creature before God. God has established a relation with the human creature. Here, the incomprehensible has occurred:52 time and eternity meet. The human creature is willing, ready, and able to have a renewed [?],†† restored, and peaceful relation with God. There comes a point when God, whose hand is raised against the human creature with the power to crush him, relents because he brings the creature’s revolt against God (the only thing we can know about our relation to God) to a forceful end. The impossible becomes possible. There is an objective53 relation between God and the human creature because the infinite distance between the creator and the creature is acknowledged; and precisely because it is acknowledged, it becomes ultimate proximity.54 That is εἰρήνη, peace.
In the commentaries, peace is often interpreted as a feeling that accompanies a relation with God. One can say that. However, while I have no interest in entering into a dilettante debate about psychology, any more than I do about history, one must avoid saying too little. Anyone who says that peace with God is a feeling must add: a feeling that we cannot recognize and that we never experience as such, a feeling that absolutely transcends all other feelings. In any case, I must warn you about equating this feeling with what Schleiermacher called “the feeling of absolute dependence,”55 by which he meant the final and highest human possibility. What feeling, known or imagined, is adequate to grasp this matter? It will necessarily be grounded in what Paul refers to in Philippians 4:7 as the εἰρήνη τοῦ θεοῦ—another all-too-familiar biblical phrase—which he prays will guard, preserve, and keep the hearts of his readers as a soldier guards prisoners, the peace that ὑπερέχουσα πάντα νοῦν. The νοῦς, above which this εἰρήνη towers—and we must add, towers absolutely—includes even the most soaring feelings imaginable. Indeed, the essential elements of εἰρήνη are the thought of God and the thought of eternity.56 We can only know what “peace” is on the basis of “grace.” As Calvin said, God’s acts of creation and redemption are “the opposite of any capricious, carnal certainty,”57 the opposite of any pretentious or romantic illusions we may have about grasping the divine fullness, which would amount to seizing what does not belong to us. We have peace with God in the knowledge that God is God and remains God, in the knowledge that we can only believe in God.58 We can only wait and hope without seeing, and this will always be the case. But because the object of our waiting and hoping is God, waiting and hoping constitute our peace with him. Peace with God cannot be attributed to a particular kind of temperament, human attitude, or school of thought. Peace with God can inspire the luminous simplicity of Blumhardt’s sermons and prayers59 just as it can the severity of Kant’s Critique of Pure Reason; it is neither simplicity nor severity but the meaning that God can give to what is profoundly childlike or extraordinarily sophisticated, and which those who are either childlike or sophisticated lack until God creates this meaning; consequently, they must continually receive it. Notice that God is the one who sets out the terms of the peace settlement that this victory has achieved and that it is a true and lasting peace only because God establishes his rule according to his good pleasure. Again, if we tried to say more, we would end up saying less.
Ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρὸς ἡμῶν καὶ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ come both χάρις and εἰρήνη, Paul adds, emphatically. And a few minutes ago, if you were silently wondering how I could say all that I said about χάρις and εἰρήνη, I will tell you: on precisely the same basis as Paul, when he prays for his readers—on the basis of what he expressly brings to their attention. It is God we are dealing with here, if these words address us as the author intended. The realities about which they speak are hidden in God, and God himself guarantees that they are genuine realities. First, we know that we grasp the meaning of the Pauline concepts, and second, we are assured of the reality behind them by following the course indicated by Paul, namely, by listening to and interpreting what is said about God. If we know what we are doing and take the risk of giving to God what is God’s, as consistently as possible [cf. Matt. 22:21 par.],60 we cannot entirely go astray, even though we will, of course, err in certain details.
The most important thing to note for now about the phrase ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρός . . . I have already pointed out in my explication of χάρις and εἰρήνη. Precisely because Paul attributes the coming of grace and the receiving of peace to God’s initiative, he relates the words χάρις and εἰρήνη to God exclusively and radically—or, in terms of our own horizon of experience, unnatural and otherworldly. This is why we must draw attention to the incomprehensible Nevertheless! at the heart of both terms. Despite God’s holiness, Grace! Despite human sin, Peace! This is why Calvin’s observation “de re infinita nihil potest dici immodice” applies to both.61 I would like to emphasize just two other matters.
1. The phrase ἀπὸ θεοῦ πατρὸς ἡμῶν demonstrates in the clearest possible terms that when Paul refers to God as the giver of grace and the source of our peace, he is not thinking about a conspicuous metaphysical object. When he calls God our “Father,” he is using the ultimate parable to express the inexpressible and unimaginable, namely, our origin. Our origin:62 we human creatures, although thoroughly human, are related to him, who is most wonderful, who is not and never will be simply a contingent object, who is unknown, who is holy, the Deus absconditus. When we speak about this God, we are speaking about ourselves, about our fundamental existence, about the invisible mystery of our visible life, about the θεωρία of our existence, which can never be accounted for by mere πρᾶξις, about the answer that comes from our deepest question. God, who meets us in such an unnatural and unworldly fashion, whose χάρις and εἰρήνη, which must feel to many of you more like a clenched fist than God’s generosity and goodness, permeate our daily lives and our individuality—this God is our Father. We all come from him, who is the most distinctive, personal, and universal presupposition of each of us. He, the most wonderful and inaccessible One, appears before our eyes the moment we think of him. It is only as a stranger that we actually know him; it is only when we fear him above all things that we actually love him. Paul’s hope is that all these things may actually take place in the lives of his readers: χάρις and εἰρήνη.
2. The phrase καὶ κυρίου demonstrates that the event between God and the human creature, designated by the terms χάρις and εἰρήνη, is not a logical a priori that can be accounted for rationally through terms used in logic, such as “The Not-Given,” “ἀνυπόθεσις,” “the origin,” or any other term one could choose. Instead, it must be described as an event. God is God. God is free. God acts. God reveals himself. There is knowledge of God only in light of the revelation of God. This action and self-revelation of God are indicated by the strange καί standing between the words “God” and “Jesus.” Paul calls God our Father and the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, lest Jesus appear to be a second God or half-God alongside the Father. Paul is speaking about the same God in both cases, referring first to his work as God and then to the significance of his work. Because the significance of God’s work, namely, the mystery of the creation and redemption of humanity, is the mystery that Paul simultaneously veils and discloses in the expression κύριος Ἰησοῦς Χριστός, here we stand before the final riddle and the final solution that arises from the historical appearance of Christianity and from the problematic of our own life.‡‡
*Barth deleted the following paragraph but incorporated the contents, worded slightly differently, in his second lecture, delivered on November 17:
Last time we ended with the Pauline phrase διὰ θελήματος θεοῦ and established that with this expression the author consciously both opens himself to and frees himself from the reproach of presumptuousness. It is an expression of his self-confidence and his humility. If his honor as ἀπόστολος were established through people, even the best people, this apparent humility would actually be arrogance for him, a form of seeking his own, human honor. By appealing to the will of God, this apparent arrogance is actually humility for him, because by it he renounces all that is considered valuable by people. The visible manifestation of this expression is that the writer becomes neutral and indifferent.
†The German critical edition includes bracketed scriptural cross-references that were added by the editors. These have been retained in the present edition.
‡At this point, the typescript is set out in the form of notes rather than in complete sentences, as the translation and layout reflect.
§A pencil notation on the margin reads: “6:23–24!”
¶In the typescript of the German text, the following is crossed out in pencil: “Χάρις is the unheard of conduct of God. God is with us despite us. And εἰρήνη, to be reconciled by the unfathomable will of God, is just as much of a paradox! It is not a matter of divine capacity in the first case and human feelings in the second, but truth through God’s act, established by God and Christ.”
**The reference is to one of the weekly seminars that Barth offered in connection with the lectures.
††The German critical edition uses bracketed question marks to single out words in Barth’s manuscript that are difficult to decipher. These have been retained in the present edition.
‡‡The following notes are crossed through in pencil: “Abmachung mit Lempp. 25% Christ in der Gesellschaft, Biblische Fragen. Zur inneren Lage. Dostojewski. (Römbr.) stud. Hagemann Testatbuch.” Albert Lempp (1884–1943) was the owner of Christian Kaiser Verlag in Munich and Barth’s publisher for the Romans commentaries. The marginal note refers to interest in Barth’s and Thurneysen’s published material, which was still selling briskly at the time. In a letter to Thurneysen on November 27, three days after the lecture was delivered, Barth jests that copies were selling so fast that the publisher could not keep them in stock. See Karl Barth – Eduard Thurneysen: Briefwechsel II. 1921–1930, hg. Eduard Thurneysen (Zürich: TVZ, 1987), 14. Barth here refers to his lectures “Der Christ in der Gesellschaft” (1919) and “Biblische Fragen, Einsichten und Ausblicke” (1920). For the English translation of these lectures, see “The Christian’s Place in Society” and “Biblical Questions, Insights and Vistas,” in The Word of God and the Word of Man, trans. Douglas Horton (London: Hodder & Stoughton, 1928), 272–327 and 51–96, respectively.