God had predestined before the ages. The dynamic give-and-take so obvious in the
history of the covenant must be distinguished from the eternal decree that scripture also
declares as hidden in God's unchanging and inaccessible counsel (Eph. 1:4-11).
These are not two contradictory lines of proof-texts, one line pro-openness; the other
pro-classical theism. Rather, there are two lines of analogy acting as guardrails to keep
us on the right path. There is real change, dynamic interaction and partnership in this
covenant (Deus revalatus pro nos). At the same time, God is not like the human partner
in that he does not repent the way the latter repents: God transcends the narrative (Deus
absconditus in se). With scripture, we speak on one hand of our existence after the fall in
terms of not being as God intended things and yet, recognize that even this is part of
God's eternal plan to display his glory. We are not denying the analogy or failing to take
it seriously, but we are refusing to take it univocally. Theologians and preachers in the
Reformed tradition have not had difficulty with the "repentance" passages the way open
theists seem, by their troubling silence, to be burdened by the "non-repentance" passages.
That may be due in part to the fact that the tradition does not reduce everything to either
the eternal decree of the hidden God or the historical covenant of the revealed God.
amount of its appropriate data. Open theism has still not provided a serious exegetical
account of the passages that clearly indicate that God does not change, does not repent,
does not depend on the world for his happiness, and passages that do affirm God's
knowledge of and sovereignty over all contingencies of history to the last detail. On the
other hand, an analogical account provides a paradigm in which both may be seriously
affirmed without resolving the mystery in a false dilemma.
This point comes into sharper focus in open theism's treatment of the classical
doctrine of divine impassibility, which it incorrectly defines as the inability to experience
or feel emotion. (By the way, passio, in Latin, means "suffering," not "feeling" or
"experiencing".) If God were exactly identical to every representation we come across in
scripture, could we not justly conclude that he is, for instance, capricious: "Kiss the Son,
lest he become angry and you perish in the way, for his wrath can flare up in an instant"
(Ps. 2:12, emphasis added)? In this Psalm, God is depicted as mocking his enemies with
sardonic laughter. But do we really want to ascribe this univocally to God's being rather
than recognizing it as a sober comparison of a great king undisturbed by the pretenses of
human power? We have yet to discover among open theists an argument in favor for
God's rage being understood in the same univocal terms as his repentance.
the covenant is a perennial weakness of their rhetoric. This notion of double agency is not the incursion of
philosophy, but is a good and necessary inference from such numerous passages. In the familiar Joseph
narrative, the same event--Joseph's cruel treatment by his brothers--has two authors with two distinct
intentions: "You meant it for evil, but God meant it for good" (Gen. 50:19-20). Peter offers precisely the
same rationale for the crucifixion: "You with you wicked hands...But he was delivered up according to
God's foreknowledge" (Acts 2).
experience of love is always related to some form of dependence and reciprocity. This very point seems
implied in the same chapter: "In this is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son to
be an atoning sacrifice for our sins...We love him because he first loved us" (1 Jn. 4:10, 19). In other