The story of Ruth does not end with the narration of Boaz and Ruth’s son, however. The last part of the book is a genealogy. There are genealogies elsewhere in the Bible, but they occur either at the beginning of books (like in 1 Chronicles and Matthew) or they occur between narratives (like in Genesis or Luke). The book of Ruth is the only place in the whole Bible that ends with a genealogy. A genealogical ending, therefore, is the surprising climax of the book. 

During the period of the judges, there is a wonderful story of providence and marriage, yet the union of Boaz and Ruth is not the most important part of their story.
When the judges ruled, the Israelites experienced spiritual upheaval. According to the book of Judges, the people imitated the idol worship of the dispossessed Canaanites. In response to such high-handed rebellion, the Lord would raise up an adversary to judge them. When the people turned from wickedness and called upon the Lord, he then raised up a judge to deliver them. The problem, however, is that after their deliverance, the people were still drawn back into rebellion.
The story of Ruth and Boaz takes place in the context of the book of Judges (Ruth 1:1). Amidst the cycle of rebellion there is a story of providence and hope.
The beginning of Ruth’s story is that there is a famine in the promised land. An Israelite named Naomi, from Bethlehem, traveled to Moab with her husband and sons. During the years that followed, her sons married Moabite women, and her husband and sons died, leaving Naomi and her widowed daughters-in-law.
Ruth insisted on returning to the promised land with her mother-in-law (Ruth 1:16–17). Living in her new home in Bethlehem, Ruth was prepared to work hard. She gleaned in a field that “happened” to belong to Boaz—a man in Naomi’s extended family. As events unfolded, Boaz treated Ruth with protection, respect, provision, and hospitality (Ruth 2–3).
Naomi knew that if Ruth married Boaz, their future would be secure. Boaz would be fulfilling his role as a “kinsman redeemer,” someone who could act to bring redemption or restoration to a situation of distress and loss. A public scene at the city gate led to witnesses confirming the role that Boaz would fulfill (Ruth 4:1–12).
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It is in the practice of Christian community that, week after week and year after year, Christians are discipled in the recognition that they are not their own, and that all they have, they have first received. Their making, and their very capacity to make, is always a sheer gift. In the end, Redemer rightly reminds us that wherever the future finds them…Christians will continue to gather, baptize, commune—and remember.

As I write this, there is a watch on my wrist. It isn’t especially fancy—this isn’t a Rolex or Omega, but a stainless-steel Seiko. Its case and band no longer glint in the sunshine, but bear the dull matte burr of long wear. And over the years I’ve had to do various forms of upkeep, from adjusting the size of the band to replacing the crystal face to fixing the internal mechanism that makes it run.
This watch was my grandfather’s, and after he passed away in 2014, it descended to me. Since then, it’s been a fixture in my life: I wore it at my wedding, and, God willing, I’ll pass it on to my son someday. Whenever I wear it, I find myself grateful that my grandfather didn’t buy a cheap Timex or Casio. Instead, he invested in an item that would last—not something extravagant, or something indestructible, but something nevertheless worth preserving and handing on.
In short, I carry on my wrist an item of technology permeated by both memory and history—by my grandfather’s past, and by my own future. It has a particular “immanent” function, to be sure: on a traditional Aristotelian account of virtue ethics, a watch that tells time rightly is properly called a good watch, since it functions as a watch should1. My watch is a good watch, by this standard. And yet what matters to me isn’t just the watch’s function of telling time, but the deeper realities—the deeper loves—to which it points.
Something like this intuition first drove the Christian transposition of Aristotle into a Neoplatonic key2. For Christian thought, the life rightly lived involves both the exemplification of one’s essential virtues and final union with a transcendent Reality that overflows the finite. Beneath and beyond the apparent flux of history and becoming, eternity is ever-present—and all created beings stand within its horizon.
In Made Like the Maker, just as in his classic Centuries, Thomas Traherne once again proves that he is the great English poet of just such participation in the divine. Traherne’s sacramental universe is a world not merely shaped by a demiurge’s hand, but a cosmos positively overflowing with glory for those with eyes to see.3
Mere apprehension of that glory, though, is not the end of the story. Activity is key. As Colin Redemer ably shows in his compelling introduction to Traherne, the Christian has the right—and even duty—to act in freedom to perfect and improve this creation. Over against those who might suggest that Christian contemplation entails stasis or quiescence, Redemer stresses that “the work of man is not finished. The finishing touches of creation are still ours to freely fill.”4
It is in this spirit that Redemer confronts the question of technology and Christian ethics—of the ways in which human beings may rightly exercise their own “sub-creative” faculties. He begins by noting that technological progress as such lacks any orienting principle, beyond the brute fact of incremental improvement in performing some function or other: “Version 2.0 is better at satisfying the needs that version 1.0 was designed to satisfy.”5 That is a crabbed view of advancement indeed.
This myopic tendency is exacerbated by the fact that when modern people think about producing things—that is, creating technology—they tend to think in terms of techne, or “making” through skilled craftsmanship. But, Redemer points out, the notion of “making” is fuller-orbed than this.6 Where, after all, does technology come from in the first place?
The answer is that technology first emerges from ideas put into words. This making-with-words—poesis—is the necessary condition of any development at all. Some poetic vision or other (understood broadly) logically precedes crafting or manufacture: “Techne is a making without words, but the true technician must first know what he is making, and that requires learning the language of the thing made. This learning shows us that the techne is downstream from poiesis.”7
Of course, the poesis exercised by Christians is inherently derivative of the original Word with which God spoke creation into being. Failure to recognize this leads to idolatry, as the maker of the idol inevitably seeks to arrogate originating creative power to himself.8
With the relation of techne to poiesis clarified, how then should Christians think about technological advancements? As a governing principle—or perhaps framework—Redemer settles on a distinction, drawn from Oliver O’Donovan, between begetting and making.9 Begetting is the act of bringing into reality that which is like the progenitor in essence, and which is received as it is: a child who is begotten is human, like her parents, and is received by her parents just as she is. Making, conversely, involves the deliberative craftsmanship, by way of both techne and poesis, of that which is truly other than the maker.10
These two must not be conflated. “We are bits of creation, and so we are made,” Redemer urges. “Much as human pride rages against it, we are made by God. As we follow God we must beware not to attempt to make what ought naturally to be begotten. This truth grounds us in humility, in moderation.”11 An obvious case of confusion between begetting and making, one assumes, would be the use of CRISPR or similar tools to produce an infant “according to specifications.”12
But as far as “making” goes, Redemer contends, the field is largely open. In metaphysical terms, it is open because whatever human beings do as sub-creators cannot undercut the reality of God as source and end of all things. “Knowing creation is made, and that we are made as part of that creation, also gives us courage to act,” Redemer stresses. “We are not constrained by the fear that our making or begetting is going to fundamentally alter the nature of nature. The making that is ultimately God’s is a complete and whole thing inside of which our making takes place.”13 Hence, for Redemer, “[w]e need not fear the creation of our hands, be it an artificial ‘intelligence,’ a genetic modification technology, a neuralink, or a new form of as yet unrealized power generation.”14 In conclusion, Redemer urges Christians to anchor their own poesis within their theological inheritance, embracing “the word and the sacraments [as] the spiritual technology of Christian poetics.”15
This is a bold vision—neither reactionary nor uncritically accelerationist. It is optimistic. And it is a vision that rightly grasps the centrality of technology to the contemporary question of Christian being-in-the-world. Any theorizing about ideal Christian politics will never escape the armchair if it tacitly assumes away the Industrial Revolution, the internet, and the smartphone. Opposition to progress tout court is a fantasy.16
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If Jesus death hasn’t paid for anybody’s sin then his death was ultimately pointless. He is a failed saviour who was unable to save any of his people. When he said ‘it is finished’ on the cross, he may as well have said ‘I am finished’. Fortunately, the Bible tells us clearly enough that Jesus’ death has actually redeemed a people. Revelation 5:9-10 says Jesus’ blood has actually ransomed people from every tribe, tongue and nation. 1 John 2:2 tells us that Jesus’ death has actually paid for the sins of the whole world. ‘Whole world’ cannot mean every single person in the world regardless of repentance or belief in Jesus, not least as John himself has ruled that out. John’s usual use of ‘world’ tends to mean something like ‘all kinds of people’, Jews and every kind of Gentile. 

Of all the Five Points of Calvinism, none cause quite as much upset as Limited Atonement. It’s not the most helpfully named thing, which is aimed at saying the scope of the atonement is limited to the elect rather than all people in general, but it sounds like its saying its effects are limited which is why some prefer Particular Redemption or Definite Atonement. The doctrine is ultimately driving at the idea that Jesus died for particular people, as opposed to all people in general (particular redemption), and that the people Jesus intends to save are actually saved by his death on the cross (definite atonement) rather than just potentially saved by his death and then only actually saved upon their belief.
The issue concerning Limited Atonement is brought into sharp focus when we ask two simple questions: (1) did Jesus’ death actually pay for anybody’s sin; and, (2) did Jesus death actually save anyone? There are only three possible answers to these questions:

Jesus’ death paid for everybody’s sin and therefore saves everyone
Jesus’ death paid for nobody’s sin and therefore saves no one
Jesus’ death paid for particular people’s sin and therefore saves those particular people

Those who affirm option one fall for the heterodox doctrine of universalism. If Jesus has paid for everybody’s sin, God has nothing to hold against anybody; there is no further price to be paid and there is no condemnation for anybody. History’s greatest wrong’uns are all heading straight for Heaven on such a view. But the fact is, Jesus did not speak about the ‘outer darkness’ on the basis that nobody is going there. Matthew 8:11-12 fairly clearly rules out any possibility that everyone is saved and there are many other bible passages that make the matter clear. Jesus death did not pay for everybody’s sin and evidently all are not saved.
Option 2 is not a great deal better. If Jesus death hasn’t paid for anybody’s sin then his death was ultimately pointless. He is a failed saviour who was unable to save any of his people. When he said ‘it is finished’ on the cross, he may as well have said ‘I am finished’. Fortunately, the Bible tells us clearly enough that Jesus’ death has actually redeemed a people. Revelation 5:9-10 says Jesus’ blood has actually ransomed people from every tribe, tongue and nation. 1 John 2:2 tells us that Jesus’ death has actually paid for the sins of the whole world. Unless we want to fall back onto option one and argue everybody is saved, ‘whole world’ cannot mean every single person in the world regardless of repentance or belief in Jesus, not least as John himself has ruled that out.
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