I noticed as my birthday was approaching that sixty-three is nine times seven.

Seven runs deep in Hebrew Scripture. God rested on the seventh day, not because He was tired, but because the work was complete. He stepped back to enjoy what He had made (Genesis 2:2). He built that rhythm into creation itself. Work six days, rest one. Work six years, let the land rest the seventh. Count seven sevens of years, and the fiftieth is Jubilee, when debts are canceled, captives go free, and the land returns to its original owner (Leviticus 25:8–13).

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The theology underneath is what matters. The message is this: nothing you have is really yours. The sabbath reveals an order of reality ordained by God. It was there before we were born and will be there after we are gone. You are a steward, not an owner. The rhythm exists to remind you of this before you forget.

Today I complete my ninth sabbatical cycle. Sixty-three years. Nine times seven.

I don’t know what to do with that except to stand inside it, look around, and give thanks.

The early cycles: childhood, then adolescence, that wilderness everyone crosses but no one crosses unchanged. Wandering aimlessly for vocational direction. Then the Marine Corps, the oldest remedy for a young man without direction. Followed by training in intelligence and cryptology, learning to find patterns in the noise and, ultimately, completing a bachelor’s in Computer Science.

The middle cycles: marriage and daughters, the slow revelation that family is not a possession but a gift on loan. The deepest work, it turns out, happens at the dinner and the communion table. As an entrepreneur, the startup years. I thought I was building something. But, I was mostly just searching.

The later cycles: helping to plant a church and watching it grow in ways I could not imagine. Then a three year journey, working on a theology degree at Westminster, learning to read Scripture redemptively, as one story from creation to restoration. At sixty, reading Herman Bavinck. At sixty-two, applying the Decalogue to the ethics of artificial intelligence. The ninth cycle was preparation. The picture is coming into focus.

And today, the tenth begins.

I don't know what completion means for a man entering his sixty-fourth year. The farm still needs tending. The work continues. My wife is still beside me. The old F100 is still in the gravel driveway. Murphy, the border terrier, still thinks he's my therapist. Some things endure.

But something shifts when you realize you’ve completed nine cycles of seven. The tenth isn’t yours to clutch. Actually, none of them were.

God told Israel they were only passing through: “The land is mine. For you are strangers and sojourners with me” (Leviticus 25:23). So are we. Dependent on God’s graciousness. Guests at a table we did not set, eating food we did not grow, in a house we did not build.

I have not kept the sabbath as I should. But the rhythm holds anyway. That’s the grace of it. God’s sevens keep coming whether I notice them or not.

Today I turn sixty-three. Nine sevens have passed. The Lord who numbers our days has numbered mine with a strange math that points beyond itself. They’re a sign pointing to something larger: God’s ordering of time, the rhythm He built into creation, the rest that awaits. "He has put eternity into man's heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end" (Ecclesiastes 3:11). The tenth cycle belongs to Him. As did the nine before it.

As did I, all along.

Augustine was right: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”

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What kind of Christian are you?

This question assumes there are different types of Christians, which is accurate in practice. Some view Jesus as a personal counselor, using faith to manage life’s anxieties. Others see Him as a life coach, focusing on moral improvement. For some, Christianity is primarily a set of traditions and inherited values. Finally, there are those who confess Jesus as Lord and King, allowing His kingdom and mission to define their lives and call them to allegiance.

Only one of these grasps the true narrative. This narrative is foundational; it is the very architecture of reality.

The Copernican Question

In the sixteenth century, Copernicus did more than revise a mathematical model. As a committed churchman, he revealed a fundamental error: humanity is not the center. For generations, people believed the cosmos revolved around us. Copernicus challenged this view, requiring a complete rethinking of our place in the universe. The earth is not the fixed point; it is dependent, held in orbit by a force beyond itself. The sun is the center and source.

A similar question lies at the heart of ultimate reality: the distinction between Creator and creature. God is the source and center of all being, while we are contingent and dependent. The key question is whether you see God as a character in your story or recognize yourself as a creature within His.

This distinction is significant. If you see yourself as the protagonist, God is reduced to a supporting figure who serves your personal goals. This perspective often leads to forms of faith such as the prosperity gospel, moralistic therapeutic deism, spiritualized self-help, or cultural Christianity that offers sentimentality without true commitment.

In contrast, when God is the protagonist, we are finite and dependent, called into a story centered on His glory, kingdom, and victory. Our purpose is to serve, glorify, and enjoy Him. This difference is fundamental.

This distinction is not about denomination but about our understanding of reality. Whether you are Roman Catholic, Baptist, Presbyterian, Anglican, or Pentecostal is secondary. The essential question is which story you inhabit. There is only one true narrative: the story of the Kingdom of God. You are either aware of it or not.

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The Book of Common Prayer puts the matter directly. Before the water, there are questions: “Do you renounce Satan and all the spiritual forces of wickedness that rebel against God? Do you renounce the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God? Do you turn to Jesus Christ and accept him as your Savior? Do you put your whole trust in his grace and love?” But these questions are not uniquely Anglican. Gospel-centered traditions ask the same essential question: Are you intentionally leaving one kingdom and entering another?

The Antithesis

Scripture presents human history as a tale of two cities, two seeds, two humanities. St. Augustine saw this with devastating clarity. In his City of God, he traced the two cities from Cain and Abel to the fall of Rome and beyond: the city of God, ordered by love of God, and the earthly city, ordered by love of self. These cities are intermingled in history but utterly opposed in origin, allegiance, and destiny. Augustine was not inventing a new narrative; he was reading Scripture. The antithesis begins in Genesis 3:15 with God’s declaration of enmity between the serpent’s offspring and the woman’s offspring. It continues through Cain and Abel, through Israel and the nations, through the prophets and the false prophets. Our Lord Himself drew the line with uncomfortable clarity: “You are of your father the devil” (John 8:44). Apostle John wrote that “the whole world lies in the power of the evil one” (1 John 5:19). Apostle Paul announced that God “has delivered us from the domain of darkness and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son” (Colossians 1:13).

This is the language of antithesis and redemption, not therapy: exodus, regime change, cosmic rescue. Transfer implies a previous location; deliverance implies captivity. Entering a kingdom means you were once outside it, or even in opposition to it.

The great antithesis runs through all of Scripture: the fundamental opposition between the kingdom of God and the kingdom of this world, between the wisdom of the King and the wisdom of the deceiver, between those being saved and those perishing. There is no neutral ground, no spiritual Switzerland. “My kingdom is not of this world,” Jesus declared (John 18:36). To become a Christian is to cross over.

No Accidental Christians

The reality is that there are no accidental Christians.

You do not drift into a kingdom or cross a battle line unknowingly. Saving faith is intentional, covenantal, and rooted in the story of redemption. As Augustine wrote, “He who made you without your consent does not justify you without your consent. He made you without your knowledge, but He does not justify you without you willing it” (Sermon 169.13).

You must understand, at least in outline, the narrative you have entered: God created all things good, humanity rebelled, the Creator became King and Redeemer, He is renewing all things, and you are called from one realm to another to serve His redemptive purposes until He returns.

This understanding does not require formal theological education. The thief on the cross had no catechesis, yet he recognized that Jesus was a King with a coming kingdom and that he was a sinner in need of mercy. “Remember me when you come into your kingdom” (Luke 23:42). This single sentence captures the Gospel: a King, a kingdom, a sinner, and a plea. The thief was not a theologian, but he understood whose story he was entering.

What is required is orientation. You must recognize that your allegiance has changed. Even a child may not understand theology, but she knows the difference between home and exile. She must know there is a distinction.

The Shape of the Story

We know this story not through speculation or imagination, but through revelation. Scripture is not a collection of spiritual insights; it is the King’s authoritative word, revealing the drama we have entered and our role within it.

The narrative of Scripture follows a pattern: creation, fall, redemption, and restoration. The good King created a good kingdom, but humanity rebelled, bringing darkness. The King initiated rescue through covenant, promise, Israel, and ultimately His incarnation. The Son overcame evil through the cross and resurrection. He now reigns, gathers His people, and will return to complete the kingdom. Every knee will bow.

This is the story: not a denominational one, Baptist, Catholic, or Anglican. But The story. If you do not know it, you do not know what you have been saved into. And if you do not know what you have been saved into, it is worth asking: have you entered the Kingdom at all, or have you simply layered religion over an unchanged life?

Conclusion

Clueless Christianity is no Christianity, because Christianity is not a feeling, a preference, or a family inheritance. It is an entrance into the Kingdom of God, which necessarily means departure from the kingdom of darkness (Colossians 1:13). You do not stumble in by accident. You do not change flags without knowing there are two of them.

When you understand this, and see yourself as a participant in God’s Kingdom rather than a consumer of religious goods, everything changes. Your priorities shift, your behavior aligns with the King’s commands, your worldview is transformed, and your allegiance is reordered to serve the King of kings.

So again: What kind of Christian are you? The answer depends on whether you know the story. And, more fundamentally, whose story it is.

What is Anglicanism? The historic answer is simpler than current debates suggest. Mere Anglicanism is Reformed catholicity: Protestant in its teachings and catholic in its connection to the ancient church. By “mere” I do not mean minimal or watered-down. I use the word as C.S. Lewis did, the thing itself, pure and simple, nothing more and nothing less. The English Reformers did not view Protestant and catholic as opposing ideas, but as truths that belong together. Their goal was to recover biblical Christianity, pure and simple, as the early Church Fathers understood it.

My appreciation for Reformed catholicity grew while studying early church history at Westminster Theological Seminary. I had assumed that church history between the apostles and the Reformers was largely marked by decline. Engaging with the writings of Athanasius, Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas changed my perspective. I began to see the Reformation in continuity with the ancient church. The church fathers became real influences, living family, not distant figures. Herman Bavinck’s Reformed Dogmatics additionally clarified how one could be thoroughly Reformed while drawing on patristic and medieval sources.1 Bavinck opened my eyes to voices I had ignored and gave me a lens to appreciate them. I later recognized this balance as organic to Mere Anglicanism.

The English Reformers: Faith of the Ancient Church

Cranmer, Jewel, and Hooker argued that the Church of England was returning to the faith of the ancient church.2 Rome had innovated; Canterbury was recovering. Jewel’s Apology challenged Rome to show any doctrine of the English church that contradicted Scripture or the teaching of the first six centuries. Jewel was adamant: “We have planted no new religion but only have renewed the old that was undoubtedly founded and used by the apostles of Christ and other holy fathers in the primitive church.”3 The Thirty-nine Articles affirm the ecumenical creeds and the first four councils. The Book of Common Prayer places the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds at the heart of worship. Cranmer understood that liturgy forms belief; we become what we pray.

During my historical journey, four voices from the ancient and medieval church helped shape my understanding of Reformed catholicity. Their lives stretch from Nicaea to the height of the medieval period. Each shaped a doctrine central to biblical faith: the Trinity, salvation, atonement, and the nature of God. Through this, I came to recognize that Mere Anglicanism receives truth gratefully, submits everything to Scripture, and remembers that tradition serves the Word, not replaces it (2 Timothy 3:16).

Athanasius: Trinitarian Grammar for Anglican Worship

The Thirty-nine Articles begin where theology must begin: before we can talk about grace, atonement, or knowing God, we need to know who God is. Athanasius of Alexandria helped establish this foundation. By defending Nicene orthodoxy, he gave the church the Trinitarian language that Anglican worship uses every Sunday.

Arius claimed that the Son was a created being, the first and greatest of God’s works, but not truly God. If Arius had won, Christianity would have become a form of paganism, worshiping a lesser god instead of the eternal Son who shares the Father’s nature. At the Council of Nicaea in 325, the church declared that the Son is homoousios, “of the same substance,” as the Father. Athanasius spent his life defending this truth, enduring five exiles for his faith. While others wavered, he stayed firm.

In On the Incarnation, Athanasius argues that only God can save. If the Son were merely a creature, he could not bridge the gap between God and creation. As Athanasius writes,"He became what we are that we might become what he is.”4 Christ’s full divinity is essential. Anglican Christianity stands on this. The Thirty-nine Articles affirm the Trinity in Athanasius’s terms. The Prayer Book includes both the Nicene and Apostles’ Creeds. When I recite the Nicene Creed each Sunday at Church of the Holy Cross, I think of Athanasius. Article 8 reminds us the three creeds “ought thoroughly to be received and believed: for they may be proved by most certain warrants of Holy Scripture.”5 This captures Reformed catholicity: creedal orthodoxy grounded in biblical authority.

Augustine: The Gravity of Sin and Sufficiency of Grace

If Athanasius secured the doctrine of the Trinity, Augustine shaped the doctrine of salvation. The Thirty-nine Articles are thoroughly Augustinian on human nature, sin, and grace. Augustine’s theology emerged from his conversion. As he recounts in the Confessions, he spent years pursuing wisdom through philosophy, entangled in sin, unable to free himself. When God broke through, Augustine understood that salvation was entirely God’s work. As he wrote, “You have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”6 I recognize my own story in Augustine’s.

Against Pelagius, Augustine argued that sin is a deep corruption affecting the whole person. We cannot even desire God unless He acts first (John 6:44). Grace is not assistance for the willing; it overcomes rebellion and creates faith where there was only spiritual death. Election is unconditional, and perseverance is God’s gift.

The Anglican Articles reflect this. Article 9 describes original sin as the “fault and corruption of the Nature of every man.”7 Article 10 says we can do no good “without the grace of God by Christ preventing us.”8 Article 17 affirms predestination as “the everlasting purpose of God.”9 This is Augustinian theology in Anglican form. Augustine’s influence reaches the Prayer Book, too. Cranmer’s collects acknowledge human weakness and our need for grace. The General Confession admits, “there is no health in us.”10 Like Augustine, Cranmer understood that honest confession opens the heart to grace.

Anselm: Devotion and Rigor at Canterbury

Behind the Anglican understanding of atonement stands Anselm of Canterbury, who holds a unique place in Anglican heritage. As Archbishop of Canterbury from 1093 to 1109, he is not merely a theological influence but an ancestor. Canterbury’s lineage runs through him. The English Reformers did not claim to be creating a new church but reforming the existing English church, the same church Anselm once led.

To start, his motto, fides quaerens intellectum, does not begin with an argument but with a prayer, a posture Mere Anglicanism inherits. He prays, “I do not seek to understand in order to believe, but I believe in order to seek to understand.”11 For Anselm, theological reflection is worship, love for the God who has revealed himself. When he formulates his ontological argument, defining God as “a being than which nothing greater can be conceived,”12 he addresses God directly. Whatever we make of the argument, its prayerful posture reminds us that theology begins in worship.

In addition, Anselm's Cur Deus Homo, "Why God Became Man," developed the satisfaction theory of atonement. His core insight endured: sin demands what humanity cannot give; only Christ's sacrifice suffices (Hebrews 10:12). The Reformers refined this into penal substitution, as Article 31 declares: "The Offering of Christ once made is that perfect redemption, propitiation, and satisfaction, for all the sins of the world, both original and actual; and there is none other satisfaction for sin, but that alone."13 Anselm laid the foundation; the Reformers established the doctrine.

Aquinas: Philosophical Categories Under Scriptural Authority

Now Aquinas presents a gift and a challenge. Where Athanasius secured Trinitarian orthodoxy, Augustine the doctrine of grace, and Anselm atonement theology, Aquinas shines as a philosopher of being. Engaging Aquinas well requires discernment, and Bavinck again proves helpful.

To be clear, the concern is this: Aquinas assumes autonomous human reason can establish certain truths about God apart from special revelation. According to Aquinas, these “preambles of faith” form a foundation upon which revealed theology builds.14 For those of us shaped by Van Til, this grants fallen reason an autonomy it doesn’t have. Augustine himself taught that sin affects not only the will but also the mind.15 The Reformers understood this as the corruption of reason by sin: we cannot reason our way to true knowledge of God without Scripture's light (Romans 1:21-22).

The criticism stands, but Bavinck offers a path through. The Reformation adopted natural theology but incorporated it into the doctrine of faith rather than treating it as a preamble.¹⁶ The Reformers insisted that reason must be renewed by faith. When it is, Aquinas's profound categories help sharpen our doctrine of God. The Prayer of Humble Access models this posture: we do not ascend to God trusting in ourselves, but He reaches down to us in mercy.

Divine simplicity. God's eternity. These are Thomistic categories in service of biblical teaching, not autonomous reason (Exodus 3:14). In Question 3 of the Summa Theologica, Aquinas argues that God is altogether simple, without body or parts, “Absolute simplicity belongs to God alone.”16 More specifically, God is not a collection of attributes; He is His attributes. When we call God omnipotent, omniscient, and omnipresent, we are describing one undivided Being, not naming separate parts.

Article 1 of the Thirty-nine Articles reminds us: God is "without body, parts, or passions; of infinite power, wisdom, and goodness.”17 Hooker engaged Aquinas this way, drawing on the scholastic method while maintaining Scripture’s authority. His Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity demonstrated that reason, though fallen, could serve theology when subordinated to revelation. When subordinated to Scripture, Aquinas's categories sharpen our doctrine of God.

Mere Anglicanism as Reformed Catholicity

Long ago, my girlfriend (now my wife) and I walked into The Falls Church in Virginia and began an unexpected journey into Anglicanism. We grew in faith together. We made our marriage covenant there. Our daughters were baptized into the covenant community there. To our delight, what we discovered was not a blend of Protestant and Catholic, but a recovery of something older: Mere Anglicanism.

I recognize that to claim Athanasius, Augustine, Anselm, and Aquinas as Anglican voices may seem presumptuous, but the English Reformers made this claim precisely. They saw themselves as recovering the ancient faith that Rome had obscured. This is Mere Anglican lineage. When we need a foundation for the Trinity, Athanasius helps us. When we want to understand sin and grace, Augustine teaches us. When we want to combine deep thinking with real devotion, Anselm leads us. When we want to think carefully about God’s nature, Aquinas sharpens our minds. Mere Anglicanism brings these together: Orthodox beliefs and ancient tradition, biblical authority and the creeds, Reformed teaching and liturgical worship.

Therefore, I take confidence: we are heirs of the ancient tradition, not orphans. Mere Anglicanism is not the via media understood as theological compromise, splitting the difference between Wittenberg and Geneva. Nor is it Anglo-Catholicism dressed in Protestant language. It is a distinct tradition: catholic in its continuity with the ancient church, Reformed in its commitment to Scripture alone as the final authority. This is Mere Anglicanism: Reformed catholicity in practice, pure and simple.

S.D.G.

Each Gospel opens differently. Matthew begins with a genealogy, linking Jesus to David and Abraham and rooting Him in Israel’s story. Mark jumps straight into the action. Luke, with a historian’s approach, shares details about angels, censuses, and the lives of an old priest and a young woman. John does none of this.

John leaves out the genealogy, the manger, and the shepherds. He starts his story before Bethlehem, before Israel, and even before creation itself. John begins before time, with the Word existing with God. Why does he do this? He is answering a different question. The Synoptics narrate Christ’s arrival; John grounds its meaning in eternity. This deepens the significance of Christmas. God did not merely arrive. He revealed Himself. In Christ, we see God's face at last. Christmas is about God’s revelation.

The Hidden Face

Hebrews makes the same point in a single sentence. “Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son” (Hebrews 1:1-2). Notice what the opening line assumes: God speaks. He is not silent or distant; he is not leaving people in the dark. He spoke through creation, through promises to Abraham, through a burning bush, through prophets, dreams, visions, laws, songs, and throughout Israel’s history.

However, the Greek phrase for “at many times and in many ways” is polymeros kai polytropos. Polymeros means “by many parts” and polytropos means “by many turns.” It is like a mosaic, with pieces scattered around. Each piece is true and valuable, but none alone shows the whole picture. Old Testament revelation was real, but it was also partial, spread over centuries and shared by imperfect people.

Why was God's face hidden? The answer starts in the garden. In Genesis, before sin and exile, there was close fellowship. God walked in the garden with Adam and Eve (Genesis 3:8), and they experienced His presence without barriers or shame. But after the Fall, Adam and Eve broke the covenant and hid from God. In both judgment and mercy, God hid them from Himself. He sent them out, placed cherubim at the entrance (Genesis 3:24), and closed the way to the tree of life. Their communion with God was lost, and from then on, a new pattern began: God revealed Himself but stayed hidden. He spoke through mediators and lived among His people, but always behind a barrier they could not cross.

Now consider Exodus 33. Moses spoke with God and received the law. He saw the cloud of glory on the mountain, but he wanted more. After experiencing God’s presence, he asked, “Please, show me your glory” (Exodus 33:18). God’s answer was both generous and limited. He said, “I will make all my goodness pass before you... But you cannot see my face, for man shall not see me and live” (Exodus 33:19-20). God hid Moses in a crack in the rock and covered him with His hand as His glory passed by. Moses saw only God’s back, not His face. Even God’s chosen prophet could not see Him fully.

In the Old Testament, this idea meant more than we might think. The Hebrew word for “face,” panim, means more than just a physical feature. It stands for presence, access, and closeness. Seeing someone’s face means being with them, sharing a relationship, and truly knowing each other. The priestly blessing says, “The LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you” (Numbers 6:25). When God’s face shines on someone, it is grace. When He lifts His face toward His people, it brings peace. God’s face turned toward you is the greatest blessing anyone could receive. But when God hides His face, it means judgment, exile, and silence. The Psalmist feels this longing: “Your face, LORD, do I seek” (Psalm 27:8). The closeness of Eden was gone. God still spoke, but His face was hidden, and the longing for more continued through the centuries.

The Revelation

But that changed with Advent. Hebrews 1:2 marks a turning point: “but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son.” Notice the change: God spoke through prophets before, but now He speaks by His Son. The prophets were messengers, but the Son is the message. This is not just another revelation; it is the ultimate one—God Himself in human form. Now, all the puzzle pieces fit together. Many words become one Word. Many ways of speaking are united in one Person. What was scattered is now whole; what was partial is now complete. John says the same thing in different words: “In the beginning was the Word.” This Word was with God and was God, the eternal second Person of the Trinity through whom all things were made. Paul adds his voice in Colossians 1:15-17: “He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. For by him all things were created... And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” Three voices, one testimony. Paul’s phrase succinctly sums it up: “the image of the invisible God.”

The God whose face Moses could not see now has an image. It is not a statue or painting, but a Person. The eternal Son perfectly shows and reveals the Father. But this raises a question. John says, "no one has ever seen God" (John 1:18). Yet the Bible says God walked with Adam, spoke to Moses, and appeared to Abraham. How can both be true? From the earliest church fathers, theologians have answered it this way: when God appeared in the Old Testament, it was the Son who appeared, a Christophany. The Father dwells in unapproachable light; no one has seen Him or can see Him (1 Timothy 6:16). But John tells us that in Christ, "the light shines in the darkness" (John 1:5). The unapproachable light has become approachable. The Son, the eternal Word and the image of the invisible God, has always been the one who reveals God's presence to people who could not bear it otherwise. John supports this in chapter 12, where he reflects on Isaiah's vision of the Lord high and lifted up in the temple. John says clearly that Isaiah saw Christ's glory (John 12:41).

Clearly, this perspective reframes the entire Old Testament. The one who walked with Adam in the garden was the Son. The one who spoke from the burning bush was the Son. The one who wrestled with Jacob and met Moses on Sinai was the Son. He was always there, hidden in the appearances and shadows of the old covenant, waiting to be revealed. Augustine put it this way: "The New is in the Old concealed; the Old is in the New revealed" (Questions on the Heptateuch, 2.73). The Son was always the one who revealed God, but His presence was hidden, His identity covered by fire, cloud, and angels. At Christmas, the hiding ends. What was once whispered is now spoken clearly. What was in shadow is now brought into the light.

The Fulfillment

Seeing Christ's presence throughout the Old Testament should profoundly change how we understand Christmas. The Son is not taking on a new role. He is doing what He has always done: revealing the Father to those who could not see Him otherwise. The difference is that the Incarnation is permanent. In the Old Testament, He appeared and withdrew. Now He has taken on human nature forever and will return in the same body in which He ascended (Acts 1:11). John 1:14 marks this turning point: "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory." The Greek word eskenosen means "tabernacled" or "pitched his tent," echoing the wilderness tabernacle where God's glory lived among Israel (Exodus 40:34-35). Once, the Son walked with Adam, but that communion was lost to sin. Once, He filled the tabernacle with glory, and no one could enter His presence and live. Now He tabernacles among us permanently, in human flesh, as one of us.

John's conclusion makes the point clear: "No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father's side, he has made him known" (John 1:18). The invisible God has become visible. The unapproachable light has become approachable. In Christ, God's face shines on us at last, and we no longer need to hide or look away. Christmas is more than just an arrival. It is the ultimate revelation and the fulfillment of the redemptive story. What begins in Bethlehem will be completed at Calvary: the veil torn, the access lost in Eden restored, the priestly blessing fulfilled. Face to face.

Back to the garden of Eden. In the moment of judgment, when Adam and Eve stood exposed and ashamed, God made a promise. To the serpent He declared: "I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and her offspring; he shall bruise your head, and you shall bruise his heel" (Genesis 3:15). Theologians call this the protoevangelium, the first gospel. Before the cherubim took their post, God announced that a deliverer would come.

From the beginning, this was God's redemptive plan. First whispered in Eden and echoed by prophets, priests, and kings until the fullness of time (Galatians 4:4). The Word who walked with Adam, who hid Moses in the rock, who filled the tabernacle with glory, became flesh in a manger. The promise made in a garden found its fulfillment in Bethlehem, in a stable. There, at last, the image of the invisible God is revealed on Christmas day.

A Crisis of Governance

As a lay leader and member of an Anglican parish, I write with deep concern about the crisis facing the Anglican Church in North America (ACNA). Several bishops have been accused of mishandling abuse reports, sexual misconduct, and abusing their power. Still others desire the dignity of bishop yet lack the courage to lead when difficult situations arise. These scandals point to a bigger problem: ACNA gives too much authority to individual bishops without enough accountability. Because of this, the church’s structure seems to be tumbling from the top.

Bishops have failed in their duty to shepherd and protect the innocent, and those failures matter. However, focusing only on individual failures misses the point: ACNA’s governance makes these failures likely. We need reform, remembering Augustine’s admonition to bishops that they should lead under the authority of Scripture, be open to correction, and answer to authorities beyond themselves.1

The Pattern Behind the Scandals

Recent failures by bishops show a troubling pattern. Many acted as if their role allowed them to control information, choose whom to protect, and manage the church’s reputation without real oversight. Some bishops sided with accused offenders instead of victims, or the other way around, used discipline against critics, and ignored whistle-blower complaints without proper investigation.

These bishops seemed to act as if their authority made them the final judges of truth in their dioceses. They decided what was credible evidence and who should be heard. But “the good of the church” became more about protecting the church’s reputation than making sure justice was done. As a result, when there are no clear processes or fair investigations, legitimate complaints are dismissed while false allegations destroy reputations.

To be clear, it is not my place to prejudge the outcomes of ongoing investigations into specific bishops. Rather, my concern is with the structural weaknesses that make such crises possible and that harm both genuine victims and those who may be falsely accused. I firmly believe, with the exception of the few in question, ACNA’s bishops are faithful servants seeking to shepherd God’s people well. But even faithful shepherds are poorly served by a model that concentrate too much power in individual hands and provide insufficient accountability.

The Theological Problem

I believe ACNA’s systemic problems flow from unresolved theological tensions. To set itself apart from the Episcopal Church’s liberalism, ACNA focused on strong bishop authority and apostolic succession as signs of true faith. But this led to what seems like a high-church view of bishops as rulers with built-in authority, which does not fit well with Augustine’s vision of bishops as servants accountable to Scripture and the wider church.

ACNA’s own formulary standard challenges this approach. The 39 Articles, Article 21, says clearly: “General Councils...may err, and sometimes have erred, even in things pertaining unto God.” The church must answer to the authority of Scripture, not just to itself. Yet ACNA often acts as if bishops have authority without oversight, which is more akin to later Roman Catholic practice than to the patristic tradition Augustine exemplified.

Biblical Principles for Church Authority

What does the Bible really say about church authority?

• Authority is shared. The New Testament often shows groups of elders leading churches (Acts 14:23, Titus 1:5) and councils making decisions together (Acts 15).

• Authority is accountable. Peter called himself a “fellow elder” and warned against “domineering over those in your charge” (1 Peter 5:1-3). Paul even corrected Peter publicly “to his face” when he was wrong (Galatians 2:11). If apostles could be corrected, then bishops should be too.

• Authority is for service, not control. Jesus made it clear that church leaders should not act like worldly rulers: “The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them...But not so with you” (Luke 22:25-26). Church authority is meant to serve people, not rule over them.

• Authority requires more than one witness. Jesus said that serious issues need confirmation from others (Matthew 18:16). Paul applied this rule to accusations against elders (1 Timothy 5:19).

Toward Constitutional Episcopacy

I believe ACNA needs “constitutional episcopacy”: episcopal office preserved but constitutionally limited, liturgically focused but structurally accountable, with presbyters, and even some lay leaders holding equal voice in oversight, investigation, and adjudication of misconduct.

So what should bishops continue to do? They should keep doing what makes their role valuable: shepherding clergy, leading ordinations, organizing mission work, representing the diocese, and teaching the faith.

What should they stop doing? Bishops should no longer act alone in critical matters regarding ethics. They should not discipline people on their own, investigate complaints against themselves or their friends, make major decisions in secret, hide finances, or claim they answer only to God.

At its heart, constitutional episcopacy means moving from behind-the-door decisions to the safety found in an abundance of counselors, consensus on serious matters that Scripture commends (Proverbs 11:14). These changes help everyone: real victims get justice, innocent people are cleared, and the church builds trust through fair processes.

This way of leading has deep roots in Christian tradition. The Council of Jerusalem (Acts 15) included “the church and the apostles and the elders.” Even when James synthesized a conclusion (Acts 15:19), articulating what had emerged from their collective deliberation, the council sent the letter representing the consensus of “the apostles and the elders, with the whole church” (Acts 15:22).

Augustine, guided by Scripture, taught that bishops should lead humbly alongside their fellow clergy and the people, not rule as masters over them.2 Constitutional episcopacy is about returning to historic Anglican teaching: church authority should be shared, accountable, open, and always guided by Scripture.

Not a Throne of Honor, But a Seat of Labor

On the anniversary of his ordination as bishop, Augustine preached about the weight and responsibility of episcopal office. “For you I am a bishop,” he told his congregation, “with you I am a Christian; the first means danger, the second salvation.”3 He understood that the bishop’s chair was not a throne of honor, but a seat of labor, a position of service laden with spiritual consequences if misused. His words echo across the centuries to today.

Constitutional episcopacy offers a genuinely Anglican path forward. Bishops can shepherd without abusing their power. And apostolic succession can continue without forming little kingdoms. This approach values both historic order and biblical accountability, preserving what works while reforming what has failed.

These concerns are serious, but not without hope. I’m encouraged by faithful clergy like Rev. Matt Wilcoxen, whose recent article exemplified the courage this moment requires. I’m especially encouraged by Bishop Dobbs, the new Dean of the Province, who has taken decisive action when courage was desperately needed. His commitment to transparency and accountability models faithful leadership. I urge prayer for him and all ACNA leaders navigating this crisis. May God grant them humility to champion reform, courage to establish real accountability, and wisdom to build a church worthy of the gospel we proclaim.

I’m writing this from Istanbul, Turkey, where I’m attending a conference celebrating the 1700th anniversary of the Council of Nicea with Christians from all over the world. I’m including a few pictures from the tour of the seven churches of Revelation with Enjoy Tours.

Yesterday, we toured Iznik, the ancient city of Nicea, where I had the privilege of standing near the place where the church fathers gathered in 325 AD to clarify the orthodox faith. It seems fitting to launch this publication here.

So let me begin with this: Why does a fourth-century creed matter for thinking about theology, technology, and everything in between?

The Creed as Foundation

Creeds are concise doctrinal statements that define Christian orthodoxy. They don’t add to Scripture but faithfully summarize its teaching on essential matters: who God is, who Christ is, and what the gospel accomplishes.

The Nicene Creed has served this function for nearly 1,700 years. It isn’t just a historical artifact. It’s a declaration of reality. When the church fathers gathered at Nicea, they weren’t inventing new theology. They were retrieving, clarifying, and affirming what Christians had always believed about the triune God and His relationship to creation.

The opening line sets everything else in motion:

“We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible and invisible.”

Notice what this does: it establishes that God is Creator, not an abstract principle, not a product of material processes, but the sovereign Maker who brought forth all things ex nihilo, from nothing, by the power of His word.

This echoes what Paul wrote to the Colossian church:

“For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him. And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” (Colossians 1:16-17)

The Necessary Presupposition

This declaration of God as Creator is not simply one worldview option competing with others. It’s the necessary starting point for all knowledge.

The Latin word credo means “I believe.” The Creed doesn’t start with proof; it starts with a presupposition of a Trinitarian God. Christian epistemology is based on this doctrine of God. It’s the starting point for understanding everything else. As the psalmist declares, “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” (Psalm 111:10). Not the middle, not a helpful addition, but the beginning.

There’s no possibility of neutrality. We either begin with the self-attesting Christ of Scripture or we begin with autonomous human reason. We either acknowledge that all facts are created and interpreted by God, or we suppress this truth and attempt to interpret reality on our own terms (Romans 1:19-25).

Van Til argued that the Trinity is the foundation of all human predication. Vern Poythress elaborates by showing in his book, Redeeming Science, how the problem of the one and the many underlies every domain of human knowledge, including mathematics, linguistics, and scientific classification. Unity and diversity, the one and the many, find their ultimate resolution not in abstract Greek philosophy but on the triune God as He has revealed Himself in Scripture.

The Apostle John understood this when he wrote his prologue. He took the Greek philosophical concept of the Logos, their abstract principle of rationality and order, and revealed its true identity in the person of Jesus Christ: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All things were made through him, and without him was not any thing made that was made” (John 1:1,3). The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit exist in eternal relationship, and it is this God who created all things from nothing. Our ability to reason, to discover, to create, to make sense of a world, depends entirely on this truth.

About the Name

When I decided to start “Credo Ex Nihilo”, I knew the name had to capture something essential about my worldview. In terms of the title, I’ll confess upfront: it’s not proper Latin. But it expresses what I’m after: belief anchored in the God who creates from nothing. The title joins two foundational Christian convictions. “Credo” (I believe) opens the Nicene Creed. “Ex nihilo” captures the doctrine that God created all things from nothing, implied in the creed’s affirmation of God as “Maker of heaven and earth” and confessed explicitly in the Westminster Standards.

So this is what I hope to do with this blog: think through theology, technology, and everything in between with the Nicene Creed as my epistemological starting point. Not as a constraint, but as the necessary precondition for making sense of the world and everything in it, for “The earth is the LORD’s and the fullness thereof” (Psalm 24:1).