Providence is mysterious in such a way that we shortsighted souls are not able to catch the spectacle of God’s distant ends. God does not focus on the present advantage for himself and his creatures, but his eye is to his own glory in all, even to the very last ages of the world. God discloses grand designs in small things, and noble mysteries are hidden in the least of his acts.

For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe.1 Corinthians 1:21
Because the ways of God are beyond human comprehension, much of what he does seems counterintuitive to us—yet it is always right. His grand designs are disclosed in small things, and noble mysteries are hidden in the least of his acts. We rarely understand the process, but God never fails to bring the results that are required for his glory and for our good.
As providence is universal, so it is mysterious. God’s throne is in the dark. Who can trace the motions of his eyes as they race? In moving about the earth, “he makes the clouds his chariot” (Ps. 104:3), and as he rides on the wings of the wind, his providential speed makes it too quick for us to understand. His ways are beyond all human reason and wisdom. His most diligent servants cannot decipher the full extent of his works because the swift motion of God’s eyes is too quick for ours.
John the Baptist is so astonished at the strange condescension of his Savior to be baptized by him that he forbids it at first: “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?” (Matt. 3:14). Men and women are weak creatures and cannot trace or comprehend the wisdom of God.
The mystery and darkness of providence cast a luster on it, just as precious jewels are set in ebony so that the stark contrast of the dark background heightens their brilliance and beauty.
God’s Ways Are above Our Ways
Providence is mysterious because God’s ways are above our human methods. Dark providences are often a smoldering groundwork laid for some excellent design that God is about to reveal.
God keeps Sarah childless and then brings forth the root of countless descendants from her womb. He makes Jacob a cripple and then a prince to prevail with God, first wounding him and then giving a blessing. God sends Christ and the gospel at a time of high intellectual achievements to confound the reason and the wisdom of the world, which is not able to discern the knowledge of God: “Since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, it pleased God through the folly of what we preach to save those who believe” (1 Cor. 1:21).
God’s Ends Are Higher Than Our Aims
God’s ends have a higher objective than human aims. Who would have thought that the military forces of Cyrus, which he ignited against Babylon to satisfy his own ambition, would be a means to deliver the Israelites and restore the worship of God in the temple? This was God’s end, which Isaiah prophesied and Cyrus never imagined: “I am the Lord . . . who says of Cyrus, ‘He is my shepherd, and he shall fulfill all my purpose’; saying of Jerusalem, ‘She shall be built,’ and of the temple, ‘Your foundation shall be laid’” (Isa. 44:24, 28). This was spoken long before Cyrus was born.
Pharaoh sent Israel away at the end of four hundred and thirty years, the time appointed beforehand by God. He could not keep them any longer because of God’s promise, and he would not keep them because of God’s plagues. God’s aim was to glorify his truth by fulfilling his word. Pharaoh had no desire to accomplish God’s will but only to be delivered from God’s judgments.
We can easily observe how God’s ends are far different from human ways by looking at Augustus and his plan to tax the world (Luke 2:1–4). Acting out of pride, Augustus was eager to count those under his reign. In Tarragona, Spain, in 26 BC, he proclaimed that a census would be taken of the whole empire. Soon after his announcement, resistance arose from various groups, and Augustus deferred his resolution to a more suitable time—the very time of the birth of Christ. Now we see God’s wise disposal of things in changing Augustus’s resolution and deferring it until Christ was ready to come into the world!
Christ, the seed of David, was to be born at Bethlehem, the town where Jesse had lived and David had been born. The census decreed by Augustus made it necessary for Joseph and Mary to come from Nazareth, where they lived and where Jesus had been conceived, and to journey to Bethlehem. Mary, being great with child, likely would not have made this journey for any reason short of the emperor’s edict. How wisely does God order human ambition and pride to fulfill his own prophecies and to publish the truth of Christ’s birth, for the names of Joseph and Mary were found in the records of Rome in Tertullian’s time.
God’s Actions Have Multiple Ends
God accomplishes multiple outcomes through a single action. Jacob is oppressed by famine, while Pharaoh is enriched with plenty. Joseph’s imprisonment is intended for his father’s relief and Pharaoh’s wealth. Joseph is wrongly accused, and his chastity is rewarded with incarceration. This later serves to further his advancement: he moves from being imprisoned to being highly favored and honored by Pharaoh.
What is God’s end in all this? To preserve the Egyptian nation, yes, and also Jacob and his family. But this was not his only purpose. By these means, God lays the foundation for his future designs to be carried out in an age to come. Jacob is brought into Egypt and leaves his posterity there, making a way for God to be glorified as he works future miracles for the deliverance of Jacob’s descendants. This is such an act that it should continuously ring throughout the world as a type of spiritual deliverance by Christ for all to remember.
God’s Ends Are for His Glory
Providence is mysterious in such a way that we shortsighted souls are not able to catch the spectacle of God’s distant ends. God does not focus on the present advantage for himself and his creatures, but his eye is to his own glory in all, even to the very last ages of the world. God discloses grand designs in small things, and noble mysteries are hidden in the least of his acts.
Though intended to die, Isaac was delivered from his father’s sword and thus set forth to the world a type of Christ’s resurrection. Meanwhile, God caused a ram to be entangled in the thickets, appointing it for the sacrifice, and thus it set forth a type of Christ’s death.
God uses the captivities of the people to increase the boundaries for the spread of the gospel. The wise men were guided by a star to find Christ, King of the Jews, and pay homage to the infant. Where was the foundation of this remarkable event laid? Probably in Balaam’s prophecy: “I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near: a star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17). This was likely handed down through tradition to the wise men, perhaps renewed by Sibilla Chaldea, and further confirmed in their minds by the Jews as they spoke with the Babylonians while in captivity. Thus the mystery of providence stands.
Many ages before, God purposed to prepare his people for the coming of Christ and determined when he should be born. Scripture does not tell us what the wise men were seeking, but their gifts were a means to preserve our Savior, Joseph, and Mary from the rage of a tyrant by allowing them to support themselves in Egypt, where God ordered them to flee for security.
When an officer of the king scoffed at God’s promise of miraculous provision, the prophet Elisha assured him that he would indeed see the provision come to pass but would not taste it (2 Kings 7:1–2). The next day, the king put his captain in charge of the gate, and when food prices dropped as dramatically as promised, the people, hungry and crowding through the gate for provisions, trampled the officer to death, thus carrying out the prophecy without any intentions of doing so. See how God orders second causes naturally to bring about his own decree!
Study Questions

Why can’t human beings fully understand God’s providence?
Read 1  Corinthians 1:18–30. What distinction is there between God’s providence and the “wisdom” of the world?
Charnock uses Joseph as an illustration of how God can accomplish multiple ends with a single event. Can you think of other examples from Scripture that illustrate this point?

Excerpt taken from Chapter 4: The Mystery of Providence, Divine Providence: A Classic Work for Modern Readers by Stephen Charnock and edited by Carolyn B. Whiting. A new edition will be released on September 21, 2022 by P&R Publishing. Used with permission.
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Evangelicals require a new strategy for understanding whether a theological “meeting of the minds”—that is, fellowship in the truest and deepest sense—can be possible between those who disagree about political and cultural issues. 

Two Questions on Authority
Over the last several years, American evangelicalism has become increasingly divided. And while that claim is certainly nothing new—particularly for readers of American Reformer—what’s particularly striking about this rift is how ambiguously defined the core concern still seems to be. Political commentators, to be sure, have been keen to lay the blame at President Donald Trump’s feet, arguing that the 2016 and 2020 presidential elections were crucial litmus tests.1 But that causal story does little to explain why these disagreements have lingered into 2022, with Trump no longer on the ballot. Whatever is driving this cleavage within the evangelical movement, it is something larger than electoral politics.
The obvious answer to this question, for many, would be the rise of “wokeness” or “cultural Marxism” or “progressivism” or something similar—a novel “successor ideology”2 diametrically opposed to Christianity in critical ways, and now spreading like a virus through congregations and other institutions. This ideology, for its part, is understood in terms of the distinctive complex of political beliefs and values dominant within secular white-collar environments in contemporary America: a strong emphasis on the salience of race, valorization of marginalized or “subaltern” groups on the basis of the fact that they are the subaltern, an embrace of “intersectionality,” and so forth.
There have been many efforts in recent years to nail down a workable definition of this thing called “wokeness.” And those efforts are entirely understandable. After all, to define a thing is to wield power over it. (A familiar trope of horror literature is that a demon can’t be exorcised until its name is known.) Defining “wokeness”—and in particular, defining it against Christian orthodoxy—allows a clear line in the sand to be drawn between Christians and the “woke.”
But it is time to confront an important fact: these efforts have largely failed, because no one actually agrees on what counts as “wokeness.” There is no catch-all definition of the term that can do the work that many evangelicals want it to do. Indeed, the quest for such a definition—at least within a Christian context—may be futile in principle.
Now, that observation certainly isn’t meant to suggest that the concerns of many evangelicals about the trajectory of their denominations and institutions are misguided. They are not. Rather, ongoing efforts to distill a fixed “essence of wokeness,” which can then be used as a criterion for categorizing individuals as either “woke” or “Christian,” are probably destined to fail, for reasons that are distinctive to the Christian tradition.
Without a better understanding of what is actually meant by “wokeness,” evangelicals concerned about the disintegration of their institutions risk stumbling into the dynamic that writer Samuel James has called “the hamster wheel of anti-wokeness,” in which “[m]istakes and misjudgments by major evangelical institutions galvanize the anti-woke into periodic mobility, which lead them into their own overstatements and exaggerations, which in turn give credibility back to mainstream evangelical leaders.”3 No progress in understanding is made, relationships are damaged, and the Church suffers for it.
Accordingly, evangelicals require a new strategy for understanding whether a theological “meeting of the minds”—that is, fellowship in the truest and deepest sense—can be possible between those who disagree about political and cultural issues. This strategy must be one that takes the how of theological reasoning every bit as seriously as the conclusions reached through that reasoning. And it is a strategy that relies on just two very simple questions.
But first, some groundwork must be laid.
In his popular recent volume Christianity and Wokeness, Owen Strachan defines “wokeness” as “[t]he state of being consciously aware of and ‘awake’ to the hidden, race-based injustices that pervade all of American society; this term has also been expanded to refer to the state of being ‘awake’ to injustices that are gender-based, class-based, etc.”4 For present purposes, this definition will suffice as a reasonably representative one.
Arguments against this “wokeness” tend to rely heavily on origin stories, which often look something like this: First, there was Western civilization, in all its strength and glory. Then came an evil influence from outside, an intellectual poison that ensnared the minds of the unwary. And it was a one-way train from there to the toxic, cancellation-happy culture that predominates today.
But there are at least two different historical stories, or genealogies, of “wokeness.” And assuming there are certain elements of truth in each, one is left with a messy intellectual account that does not make for effective polemics, and left without a stable criterion for maintaining doctrinal boundaries in practice.
The first narrative—the “discontinuity narrative”—lays the blame at the feet of 1960s-era academics, many of whom were disillusioned Marxists, who are accused of introducing a disruptive poison into the West.5 According to some versions of this narrative, Marx’s account of economic oppression was transposed into a “cultural” key, honed and refined by the Frankfurt School, and mainstreamed in Western universities.6 Where this narrative controls, those opposed to “wokeness” tend to think of it as a kind of heathenism, an anti-Christian rival faith. (The best-known version of a narrative like this one is probably Helen Pluckrose and James Lindsay’s Cynical Theories.)
The second narrative—the “continuity narrative”—locates the seeds of “wokeness” within the Christian tradition itself. Friedrich Nietzsche was keen to point out that Christianity has always been particularly concerned for the oppressed—and indeed, the faith’s care for the vulnerable and downtrodden was one of the key factors that distinguished early Christianity from its Roman pagan surroundings. As Joshua Mitchell argues in American Awakening, it is not difficult to see echoes of this concern for justice—for a final eschatological reckoning and the casting down of the mighty from their high places, one might say—in contemporary political discourse that often gets characterized as “woke.”7 Where this narrative dominates, critics of “wokeness” see their target less as heathenism—a rival faith—than as heresy, a “sub-Christian” deviation ultimately springing from a common root.
The difference between these two narratives can be summarized simply: Is “wokeness” a self-conscious subversion of the Christian tradition, or a conscious extension of it?
And here the definitional problem comes into view. For one thing, whenever “wokeness” is formally defined, that definition inevitably tends to be overinclusive, implying opposition to efforts to become aware of, and to fight, injustice in general. Was the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s really “woke” in the modern sense? Intuitively, it feels anachronistic and wrong to project this definition backwards into the past.
More importantly, the Christianity/wokeness dichotomy that underpins Strachan’s book—and others like it—is a dichotomy that depends on the premise that “wokeness” is, in its essence, something anti-Christian. But identifying and fighting injustice is clearly a significant element of the Christian tradition, historically speaking. Indeed, those Christians who would advance “woke” arguments—who would allege, for instance, that the deconstruction of oppressive power relations lies at the heart of the faith—simply reject Strachan’s dichotomy on the basis of the continuity narrative (they would, of course, also reject any characterization of their views as “heresy”).
In short, because there are two dueling narratives about the origins and nature of “wokeness”—one of which happens to be a plausible account of “wokeness” as an extension of Christian ideas about justice and inherent equality—it simply doesn’t work to label some cluster of concepts and priorities as “woke,” and assume that this can self-evidently mean “anti-Christian.” Or, put differently, it is hard to question the influence of “wokeness” on theology in a context where both parties self-identify as Christians, because all one needs to do is label themselves as such. And given the continuity narrative, there’s at least a plausible “hook” for both parties to do so.
The crucial flashpoint is what it means to address an alleged injustice Christianly. And this question is a “how-question”—a matter of the way in which a Christian makes his or her case for a revision of existing teaching or practice, rather than being about any single teaching or practice as such.
When conservative federal judges interview applicants for law clerk jobs—one-year positions, in which young lawyers serve as research and drafting assistants for sitting judges—one of the most important considerations is whether the applicant is an “originalist.” Originalism, generally speaking, is the judicial philosophy that the original public meaning of the Constitution—in all its historical particularity—ought to govern how present-day judges interpret the text.
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The Covenant of Grace is a “law of the spirit.” The Spirit of God has instituted this covenant and applies it to the lives of men and women who believe. Manton said that Christ himself speaks of covenant in terms of spirit and truth. He says, “Not only because of its spiritual nature, as it cometh nearer and closer to the soul than the law of outward and beggarly rudiments; and therefore Christ called the ordinances of the gospel, spirit and truth (Works of Manton, 11.395).”

For the law of the Spirit of life in Christ Jesus hath made me free from the law of sin and death. Romans 8:2

In our circles today, it is not popular to speak about the Gospel as Law or the Law of the Gospel. The Gospel message is one that is received by faith and the division between Law and Gospel is often driven so sharply that there is no room for Law in Gospel or Gospel in Law.
The Puritans, including Thomas Manton, saw grace in law and law in grace, all while maintaining a rigorously Christ-centered Gospel of free grace. There was no hint of the errors of Federal Vision, and yet speaking in terms of law was common parlance for the time.[1] Manton demonstrated in his treatment of the greatest chapter that law is able to be opposed to law—with the Gospel’s law triumphing.
Where does Manton get the idea of the Gospel’s law? Citing several verses which use the language of the law of the Gospel, Manton finds law used positively in the Scriptures. Speaking of the coming Gospel age, Isaiah looked forward to the time when “many people shall go and say, Come ye, and let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, to the house of the God of Jacob…for out of Zion shall go forth the law, and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem” (Isaiah 2:3). Matthew 28:20 also uses language of law as Jesus sends his ministers into the nations preaching the Gospel. Jesus says, “Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world. Amen.” The Apostle would speak of believing the Gospel in terms of obedience when he condemned those “that obey not the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ”  (2 Thessalonians 1:8). Paul also reminded the Christians in Galatia to press on in the Christian life: “ye did run well; who did hinder you that ye should not obey the truth?” (Galatians 5:7).
The language of law in reference to the Gospel age is much more connected than we are comfortable with today.
Manton helped his readers to see their connectedness to law as well as their disconnectedness in his exposition of Romans 8:2 as he divided the law opposed to the law.
Two Laws
The two laws that are described in the second verse of Romans 8 are the law of sin and death and the law of the Spirit of life. Manton does not imagine these laws as the 10 Commandments versus the Gospel, but clearly articulates that the laws are the two covenants that we find in the Scriptures: the law of “sin and death” is the Covenant of Works and the law of the “Spirit of life in Christ” is the Covenant of Grace.
The Covenant of Works became a law of sin and death when Adam sinned and brought the curse on himself and “for his posterity; all mankind, descending from him by ordinary generation…(Westminster Shorter Catechism, 16).”
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