It can be fairly concluded that the entire tradition of Old Princeton stretching back to Geneva understood natural theology as a species of true theology. The theologians we examined all believed natural theology to be an important, separate, and complementary discipline to supernatural theology.

Franciscus Junius (1545–1602) was one of the most influential theologians in the post-Reformation period. His Treatise on True Theology (1594) established many of the categories, and set in place the basic outline, that later systematicians would use in defining and delineating the nature of theology. Junius did not just shape later Reformed prolegomena, in many ways he established Reformed prolegomena in the first place. Not surprisingly, Junius is considered by some to be the quintessential Reformed theologian in the period of early Orthodoxy.[1]

Given Junius’s influence and stature, Nathan Shannon’s recent article “Junius and Van Til on Natural Knowledge of God” (WTJ 82 [2020]: 279-300) makes an important and provocative claim.[2] According to Shannon, assistant professor of systematic theology at Torch Trinity Graduate University in Seoul, “Junius and Van Til . . . agree that post-fall natural theology, unaided by special revelation, is not theology in any meaningful sense” (279). The singular thesis—and the most important claim of the article—is that for Junius, as well as for Van Til, “relational reconciliation is a necessary condition of true theology” (279). Or to put it even more bluntly: “Since true theology is determined by redemptive relation, natural theology, lacking this redemptive relation is not true theology, not in fact theology at all. Natural theology is in the end anti-theology” (279-80).

This is a bold thesis, as Shannon recognizes. The entire tradition of scholasticism affirmed the existence and importance of natural theology. And yet, according to Shannon, “Junius’s view of natural (as in unregenerate) theology marks a conspicuous point of departure from pre-Reformation scholasticism” (281). More than that, if Shannon’s argument is correct, Junius sounds a different note than virtually every orthodox Reformed theologian to follow in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and the tradition of Old Princeton theology that developed in the nineteenth century. Considering the debate in Reformed circles about the legitimacy (or not) of natural theology, to have Junius on the side of nein would be significant—not only for one’s view of the post-Reformation period but for the pedigree of more recent Reformed theology. “This thesis,” Shannon writes, “so far as it is true, enhances the historical credentials of Van Til’s characteristically neo-Calvinist view of natural theology and natural reason.” In other words, if Junius believed that genuine theology is impossible “apart from monergistic establishment of relational restoration” (281), that “the theology of the unregenerate is prolific idolatry” (287), and that “even falsa theologia is charitable nomenclature” for post-fall natural theology (298), then Van Til’s thought has found a significant historical precursor.

My argument, however, is that Shannon’s innovative thesis does not fit the facts. If “the unregenerate must, it would seem, either know God or know nothing at all,” Shannon commends Van Til for betting on the latter (294). But is this the choice early Reformed theologians would have made? For whatever useful elements there may be in Van Til’s apologetic method, his approach to natural theology was a departure from the larger tradition. Mainstream Reformed thought has consistently affirmed that post-fall natural theology can be true theology. The theology of the unregenerate—though marred by imperfections and never saving—cannot be reduced to “prolific idolatry.” Natural theology is, in the end, not anti-theology.

In the first half of this article (Parts I and II), I will focus on Junius, arguing that he did not consider natural theology to be falsa theologia, but rather that natural theology, as a means of divine revelation, could communicate truths about God. In the second half (Parts III and IV) I will focus on Reformed theology after Junius, arguing that the tradition of Old Princeton—from Turretin through to Warfield—also affirmed the possibility of meaningful post-fall, unregenerate natural theology.[3]

I. Reading Junius: A Confusion of Categories

The central problem with Shannon’s thesis is that he has misread Junius, confusing his rejection of the theology of the pagans with a rejection of natural theology itself. A careful reading of Junius demonstrates the opposite conclusion from Shannon’s; namely, that natural theology—while imperfect and unable to save—is nevertheless divine revelation and belongs in the category of true theology.

The first sentences of Shannon’s article lay out his main claim, and they also manifest the main area of confusion. “According to Franciscus Junius (d. 1602),” Shannon writes, “since the fall, true theology is possible only where a redemptive divine-human relationship is established ‘through the communication of grace.’ For Junius this relational reconciliation is a necessary condition of true theology” (279). After Shannon’s first sentence there is a footnote which quotes from the eighth thesis from A Treatise on True Theology. The quotation from Junius reads: “Ectypal theology, whether taken in itself, as they say, or relatively in relation to something else, is the wisdom of divine matters, fashioned by God from the archetype of Himself, through the communication of grace for His own glory.” To be sure, ectypal theology (i.e., the theology God fashions for his creatures) is established through the “communication of grace,” but nothing in Junius’s statement indicates that this language implies redemption or relational reconciliation. For Junius, natural theology is a communication of grace, even though the recipient has not been savingly reconciled to God.[4]

The next two sentences from Shannon are also problematic. He writes, “Outside of this relational establishment, theology—dubiously so-called—may be found, but it is necessarily theologia falsa. There is for Junius no activity of the natural man which may properly be called ‘theology.’” The footnote for this sentence points to pages 95–96, 143, and 145 of Junius’s Treatise on True Theology. But these two sections of the Treatise are not talking about the same thing. The earlier reference (95–96) is about the false theology of the pagans, which is not properly called theology. The latter references (143, 145) are about natural theology, which is not to be confused with the pagan philosophy categorized by Varro and Augustine as superstitious (i.e., mythical), natural (i.e., physical), and civil (i.e., political). Introducing the category of natural theology by revelation, Junius writes, “When we say natural, we do not want it in this passage to be understood by the same meaning as we showed in the first chapter above from Varro and Augustine, but rather by its own sense and taken in itself as we will soon (if God wills) define it.”[5] In other words, Junius uses “natural theology” in two different ways—in a narrow way referring to a branch of pagan philosophy (which is not, strictly speaking, theology at all) and in a more formal way referring to a branch of true theology which is communicated through natural grace as opposed to special grace.[6]

Granted, Junius says about natural theology that “this theology” cannot “be called wisdom according to its genus except equivocally.”[7] But notice, Junius does not say natural theology is not theology; in fact, he explicitly labels it as such. What he posits is that natural theology is not “wisdom” in the same way that supernatural theology is wisdom. The equivocation is not whether natural theology is genuine theology (it is). The equivocation is whether natural and supernatural theology are theology in the same way (they are not).

At the heart of my disagreement with Shannon’s article is his tendency to read Junius’s discussion of pagan theology into Junius’s discussion of natural theology. You can see this confusion in the article’s footnotes which bounce back and forth indiscriminately between page numbers in the 90s (the chapter on false theology) and page numbers in the 140s and 150s (the chapters on natural theology). Shannon collapses two categories that are distinct in Junius—pagan theology and natural theology—and interprets them (like Van Til’s theology does?) as the same thing.

II. Junius on Natural Theology

In order to better understand the confusion at the heart of Shannon’s thesis, we  must understand the basic contours of Junius’s prolegomena. A Treatise on True Theology consists of thirty-nine theses expounded in eighteen chapters. These chapters outline a highly technical, but rather straightforward categorization of true theology.

According to Junius, theology—which can be of God (as its author) or about God (as its subject)—is commonly spoken of in two ways. One theology is true, the other is false and subject to opinion (Thesis 3). False theology is called theology only by equivocation (i.e., it is not genuine theology), for it “rests on opinion alone.” False theology consists of “unalloyed dreams and games in place of the truth, and idols . . .in place of the true God.”[8]

Further, there are two kinds of false theology: “common,” which is not disciplined by the cultivation of reason, and “philosophical,” which is aided by the development of reason (Thesis 4). This philosophical theology, which flourished in the centuries before Christ, was labeled by Augustine, Varro, and Seneca as superstitious, natural, and civil. All of this is labeled “false theology, which is nothing other than opinion and the shadow of wisdom grasping at something or another in the place of divine matters.”[9]

True theology, in turn, is either archetypal or ectypal (Thesis 6).Archetypal theology is the divine wisdom of divine matters (Thesis 7). It refers to God’s knowledge of himself.Ectypal theology is the wisdom of divine matters, fashioned by God from the archetype of himself and communicated by grace for His own glory (Thesis 8). The genus of true theology is wisdom, which includes “all principles both natural and supernatural.”[10] Ectypal theology can be known by the creature because of the capacity of the Creator (Thesis 9). In other words, God makes true theology possible.

Ectypal theology can be communicated, according to the capacity of the creature, in three ways: by union, by vision, or by revelation (Thesis 10). The first is the theology of Christ as God-man. The second is the theology of spiritual beings in heaven. The third is the theology of human beings on earth.[11] This last category is our theology, the theology of pilgrims (Thesis 13).[12]

Continuing with his careful distinctions, Junius posits that the mode of communicating revealed theology is twofold: by nature and by grace (Thesis 14). God is the author of both natural theology and supernatural theology: “The shared principle of nature equally as of grace is God.”[13] To be sure, supernatural theology possesses an entirely different kind of wisdom than natural theology.[14] Even before the fall, natural theology had to be nurtured by reason and perfected by grace (Thesis 17). After human nature was tainted by the fall, those first principles of natural theology remain in us, but they have been corrupted and quite confused (Thesis 18). As such, the light of natural theology after the fall has been rendered more veiled and more imperfect.[15] Natural theology cannot lead to perfection and cannot, in and of itself, be perfected by grace (Thesis 19). Nevertheless, we should not “ignore” or be “ungrateful” for “this grace, although it is natural.”[16]

Natural theology, for Junius, is that which proceeds from principles that are known by the light of human understanding (Thesis 15). Natural theology deals with things that are common (Thesis 16). The knowledge of natural theology and supernatural theology are imparted by the same mode (revelation), but they impart different kinds of knowledge.[17] Supernatural theology, because of its prominence in communicating divine truth, is sometimes called, narrowly, a theology of revelation, even though more broadly speaking natural theology is also given by revelation.[18] The false theology Junius repudiates at the beginning of his treatise refers to the idle musings of the pagans, not to the imperfect theology of the unregenerate man deducing principles from the light of nature.

Junius’s language can be ambiguous—using words like natural, grace, and revelation in different ways at times—but the overall structure of his argument is wonderfully organized. And within this organization we can see clearly that natural theology—though inferior to supernatural theology—is still true theology. Natural theology cannot save; it cannot (post-fall) be perfected; it does not impart the same kind of knowledge or wisdom as supernatural theology. But it is a species of revelation and of grace. In short, natural theology does not belong to the branch theologia falsa. It belongs to the category of true, ectypal theology communicated through revelation by nature.

Shannon’s interpretation of Junius fails to convince because of a fundamental misunderstanding that equates the false theology of speculative pagans with the natural theology of revelation. Writing in the tradition of Junius, Petrus Van Mastricht (1630–1706) insisted that “natural theology must be carefully distinguished from pagan theology as such, because the latter is false and the former is true.”[19] One could try to argue that Junius would have disagreed with Van Mastricht, but we must remember that Van Mastricht borrowed wholesale from Junius’s outline and from Junius’s categories, both of which had become standard Reformed fare by the first half of the seventeenth century.[20] For Van Mastricht to deviate from Junius on such a crucial point would have necessitated a lengthy discussion defending his more sanguine view of natural theology. The simple explanation is to see Van Mastricht’s careful distinction between false pagan theology and true natural theology as the same distinction Junius made at the end of the previous century. Consequently, in so far as Shannon is right that for Van Til true theology is impossible apart from the “monergistic establishment of relational restoration” (i.e., redemption and regeneration), Shannon is wrong to find an antecedent for this idea in Junius. For Junius, natural theology, always imperfect and never saving, is nevertheless a communication of divine grace and a species of true theology.[21]

III. Tracing the Tradition of Old Princeton

If the first half of this article argued that Van Til’s conception of natural theology does not find a precursor in Junius, the second half argues that Van Til’s entirely pessimistic view of post-fall natural theology is not resonant with the tradition of Old Princeton either. I should make clear that I am working from Shannon’s description of Van Til’s theology. In my estimation, Shannon gets Van Til right, but if someone were to argue that Van Til’s thought allows for a robust natural theology that would not undermine the more important point I am trying to make with respect to Old Princeton. My burden is not to repeat Shannon’s exploration of Van Til, but to argue that in so far as Van Til rejected the possibility of post-fall natural theology (as true theology) he is out of step with his own Reformed tradition.

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Whatever the motives, the strife of the Mizpah Mood is not a biblical approach to dealing with divisions within the evangelical church. We will now examine scriptural guidance for how believers in the church should deal with those who are also on the Lord’s side (Psalm 124) yet might still be doing harm to the church. Just as Mizpah served as the place where Laban and Jacob resolved their differences, so can we in the church today find God’s provision for reconciling our differences with fellow believers.

Kevin DeYoung’s infamous coinage of the term “Moscow Mood” has highlighted significant concerns about the evangelical church today.
DeYoung sought to warn Christians of the harmful “long-term spiritual effects of admiring and imitating” the “visceral” mood emanating from Christ Church, pastored by Douglas Wilson, in Moscow, Idaho. According to DeYoung, these harmful effects include developing a personality “incompatible with Christian virtue [and] inconsiderate of other Christians” and theological positions such as “Christian Nationalism or [Wilson’s] particular brand of postmillennialism.”
The critiques of DeYoung’s article are widespread, but I believe Joe Rigney’s piece in the American Reformer gets to the heart of the matter. He writes, “DeYoung fears that Moscow appeals to what is worldly in us. I have the same fear about the circles that DeYoung runs in. DeYoung worries that the world is burning and Moscow is lighting things on fire. I worry that DeYoung is bringing out a fire extinguisher in the middle of a flood.”
Rigney succinctly captures a major divide in the evangelical church today. Both sides are concerned about worldliness creeping into the church, but they have significant disagreements over the nature of the worldliness. From this perspective, DeYoung’s article and the responses to it have revealed valid concerns about the evangelical church, but they are not the concerns DeYoung seemed to have in mind. Instead, what has been brought into focus are the differences in how the two sides react to their concerns about worldliness, and especially in how they treat each other.
Wilson and company act on their concerns by reforming the church and debating the issues with all comers. While hoping to bring others along with them, they are willing to move forward on their own. One result of this was the formation of the Communion of Reformed Evangelical Churches, which has drawn members away from denominations such as DeYoung’s, the Presbyterian Church in America.
DeYoung and company react to their concerns very differently. They criticize the other side but largely avoid debate, often treating those who disagree with them as “troublers” in the church. They often describe their opponents’ views as sinful, even at times heretical. The attitudes and actions of many on this side of the divide are what I call the Mizpah Mood.
The name Mizpah means “watchtower” or “lookout.” There are two different places in the Bible named Mizpah where God watched over His people. The first Mizpah is where Jacob and Laban settled their differences by making a covenant with each other and setting up a heap of stones to serve as a witness to their agreement. The place received its name after Laban said, “The LORD watch between you and me.” The second Mizpah was where Samuel poured out water before the Lord, which probably indicated a cleansing from sin of the people who had just put away the foreign gods—the Baals and the Ashtaroth (1 Samuel 7).
Yet there was often great strife in these watchtowers of God. This usually occurred when the people of Israel refused to trust that God would watch over them, and instead took matters into their own hands. The second Mizpah was where the people of Israel gathered, after the rejection of God as their King, to receive Saul as king, one “like all the nations” (1 Samuel 10:17ff). It was also where the Israelites came together to address the rape and murder of the Levite’s concubine by the people of Gibeah (Judges 20). In the first Mizpah, Jephthah returned home after his victory over the Ammonites to be met by his daughter. She became the fulfillment of Jephthah’s pledge to “sacrifice[] as a burnt offering” to the Lord “whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites” (Judges 11:29-40).
The human-centered strife in today’s church, the watchtower of God over His people, reminds me of the strife that took place in Mizpah. While the Moscow Mood is often blamed for most of this, the response to DeYoung’s article has shown that more often than not the strife originates in the Mizpah Mood camp.
An early example of the Mizpah Mood occurred at the PCA’s 2019 General Assembly. In floor debate, teaching elder Steven Warhurst made biblical arguments and expressed pastoral concerns as he spoke in favor of an overture on sexuality that had been rejected by the Overture’s Committee. The next morning, one elder raised an objection to Warhurst’s statement on the account it was intemperate. The objection was supported by the General Assembly, despite the fact that it was out of order. Because he espoused the pastoral concern that the celibate gay community’s self-identification as sexual minorities is an attempt to deceive Christians about the sinfulness of homosexuality, Warhurst was–in effect–branded intemperate by the PCA.
More recently, in an interview this year, Ligon Duncan said, “There are some people in our culture today who are saying, ‘this is the model of faithfulness—lob grenades.’” While making such accusations, those affiliated with the Mizpah Mood often claim the high ground and do not engage with the other side. Wilson has explained that Duncan did this at least once. Kevin DeYoung also did this when he wrote almost 5,000 words about the Moscow Mood, but said, “I’m not looking to get into a long, drawn-out debate with Wilson or his followers.” An elder in my church took a similar approach. He sent to me an unsolicited (though welcome) email, sharing his thoughts with me about something I had written publicly. He said he was doing so in the interest of discipleship, while also saying he did not care to debate the matter with me. When I responded with some thoughts and one question, his main response was to repeat his previous points and discipleship rationale and tell me he would not argue with me about this.
These examples highlight another Mizpah Mood characteristic: not engaging with or mischaracterizing the words of what those in the Moscow camp write and speak. Not only does this allow them to stay above the fray, but it allows them to make bold, unsubstantiated claims about the Moscow Mood. Often in the name of maintaining the peace and purity of the church.
Here is Ligon Duncan again. “We have a culture in a part of evangelicalism right now that is desensitized to its own spirit of mocking and slander,” he said. “That kinda goes back to the Moscow Mood thing again. Mocking and slander is not a Christian way of dealing with anything. Many of those mockers and slanderers I have no reason to even think they are Christians.”
Duncan’s statement expresses the heart of the Mizpah Mood: there should be no engagement with those in the Moscow camp because they are unbelievers, heretics, liars, and/or spreaders of ideas and attitudes harmful to the church. Excoriation or church discipline, not intramural debate, is the better way to deal with the troublers and their ideas about paedo-communion, Christian nationalism, postmillennialism, the objectivity of the covenant, etc.
The Mizpah Mood was on full display on the February 5 episode of The Westminster Standard podcast. The topic was the Federal Vision, but the five participants (PCA pastors Ryan Biese, Steve Dowling, Nick Bullock, Todd Pruitt, and Matt Stanghelle) spent much of their time focusing on the Moscow Mood, “movement,” and “folks.” Including folks like Douglas Wilson.
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Both the calendar and the development of mechanical clocks are rooted in the Church’s recognition of the need to see the world as sacred. Like the Sabbath and the feast of ancient Israel, time and seasons remind us that our lives are not ultimately our own and are instead part of the larger story of creation to redemption. In other words, as demanding as the clock can be, the Christian notion of time should help us from viewing the days of our lives in purely secular terms.

Throughout the Bible, for example in Galatians 4:4 or Paul’s speech to the “Men of Athens” recorded in Acts 17, God is described as a God of historical precision. He is outside of but fully in control of time and place. This distinctive of the Judeo-Christian understanding of God stands in sharp contrast to pagan and polytheistic notions of deities and time, and dramatically shaped human history. Today, Leap Day, is an appropriate day to think about our relationship to time.  
One of the earliest examples of time anxiety in history is found in the French song “Frère Jacques.” In it, Brother James is rebuked for sleeping and not ringing the Matins bells at midnight. The song reflects the seriousness with which the Church took the times designated for prayer. Following Psalm 119:164, which says, “Seven times a day I praise you for your righteous rules,” monastic liturgies included seven set times for prayer.  
Initially, given the changing length of day and night throughout the year, liturgical hours were not fixed. Instead, the Church regularized the hours by measuring the passage of time. By the 1200s, the mechanical clock was invented to keep pace with a chime that signaled when to ring the bells for the monastic hours.  
Not long after, mechanical clocks appeared in city towers. In 1288, the predecessor to the tower clock known as “Big Ben” went up across from Westminster Abbey. In 1292, a clock was built in Canterbury Cathedral. The oldest surviving tower clock in England, dating to 1386, is at Salisbury Cathedral. In addition to time, these clocks often marked heavenly phenomena. The most elaborate surviving example is in Prague. Installed in 1410, this clock told time using a standard 24-hour day, as well as in “Italian time,” which put the 24th hour at sunset. 
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