Once allowances have been made for terminally ill children, the question will inevitably be asked, “What about physically suffering children who aren’t terminally ill?”…This is how the culture of death works its slow poison. This is how voices of death are elevated as kind and compassionate, while voices of life are drowned out as inhumane, fanatical. 

Look to Holland. That’s what conservatives tracing the progress of international euthanasia law over the years have learned to do. For that matter, look to either Holland or Belgium. These two countries are to Europe as Oregon or California are to the United States: first and worst. As they have raced each other to the bottom, they offer a glimpse of what the future might look like, unless someone cares enough to change it.
Holland first made euthanasia legal for adults in 2002, and Belgium followed only months later. In 2014, Belgium became the first country to legalize “voluntary” euthanasia for terminally ill children of any age. This week, Holland has finally followed suit, after years of limiting the “service” to minor teens and terminally ill newborns (who could be killed with parental consent if a doctor judged that the baby’s suffering was “unbearable” and incurable). Now, the gap between ages 1 and 12 has been filled. No child left behind, as it were.
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Molinists and Reformed thinkers agree that God knows all possible counterfactuals of creaturely freedom according to his natural knowledge. In this regard, the significant difference between the two schools of thought is that from a Molinist perspective God’s natural knowledge does not inform him of which possibilities can be made actual. In other words, from a distinctly Molinist perspective God must look to his middle knowledge because not all possibilities can be actualized due to a different understanding of how God’s determination would relate to human freedom and moral accountability. In other words, because Molinism opts for libertarian freedom rather than a Reformed view of compatibilist freedom, there are infinite possibilities that God cannot make actual because they are out of his control. Molinists call such possibilities “infeasibilities”, yet they’re still philosophically (metaphysically) possible.

If the Reformed faith is God’s deposit of the purest doctrine in the 21st century, then being walled in by Reformed confessional theology can keep one believing true doctrine. Thankfully and in God’s kind providence, we have Reformed confessions and catechisms to guide us theologically and provide protection against believing false doctrine. However, merely believing true doctrine and actually knowing true doctrine entails vastly different propositional attitudes. It’s not hard to appreciate that believing in the Reformed doctrines of grace because the Westminster standards teach them is not on par with knowing the doctrines of grace because we’ve seen them for ourselves in the Scriptures. It’s hardly controversial that if our belief in any theological doctrine reduces merely to subscribing to it without sufficient reason, our doctrinal conviction will be either (a) as weak as our understanding of it, or else (b) factiously inflated. Either way – whether we have no clear conviction or spurious conviction – we cannot but lack cognizant doctrinal assurance.
Even though we may have come to the Reformed faith having seen for ourselves predestination in the Scriptures, we should guard against growing comfortable with a Reformed adaptation of the Roman Catholic notion of implicit faith (fides implicita) with respect to the rest of our confessional theology. However, not only should we not be theologically credulous – neither should we be skeptical when we approach the church’s teachings. Rather, we should recognize that although post-apostolic teachings may err and have erred, Christ’s promise to build his church upon the teachings of Scripture presupposes that by attending to the church’s teaching we can lay hold of true doctrine and the substance of genuine Christian piety and practice. Accordingly, through prayerful study and the church’s teaching, we may be confident that we can arrive at the church’s doctrine set forth in Scripture as we attend to the Scripture’s teaching that is embedded in the catholic creeds and Reformed confessions.
God’s Foreknowledge
Although the Reformed doctrine of the divine foreknowledge is not attended to with the scholastic care it once was, there are nonetheless contemporary doctors in the church who ably defend the doctrine against aberrant views that can appear quite enticing. (See James Anderson and Greg Welty.) Notwithstanding, because Reformed institutions today have in large part not seen the need to bring the Reformed tradition into dialogue with contemporary analytic philosophy, those teachers are relatively few. As a result, capable Reformed students can be left with a superficial philosophical-theology if not an incorrect understanding of how to defend against the sophistication and growing influence of modern day Molinism.
What’s at stake?
Before getting into terms of art and an interaction with the contemporary Reformed landscape, it should be appreciated at the outset that the Reformed doctrine of God’s creative decree as it relates to divine foreknowledge and free will are the most distinguishing features of the Reformed faith when compared to all other evangelical traditions. Furthermore, given the interdependence between theological concepts, in particular the doctrines of God and his works, a fragile grasp of either will necessarily lead to a lack of clarity about the other (if we are consistent).
Finally, the name most associated with Molinism is William Lane Craig. In Craig’s estimation:
[Molinism is] one of the most fruitful theological ideas ever conceived. For it would serve to explain not only God’s knowledge of the future, but divine providence and predestination as well…
Although I differ with Dr. Craig’s viewpoint, on some level I do appreciate his enthusiasm. Any Calvinist who is thoroughly acquainted with Molinism recognizes that it provides a robust view of divine sovereignty while offering a view of free will that is attractive to most. Notwithstanding, it is my conviction that only the theological determinism of the Reformed tradition can reconcile God’s exhaustive omniscience and human freedom. In particular, a deeper appreciation for God’s free knowledge can lead to radically profound reflections over the sovereign determination of contingent truths pertaining to creation, providence and grace, while simultaneously rendering the supposed profundity of Molinism utterly fruitless.
Taxonomy
Before interacting with the thoughts of Paul Helm, who has been considered by many to be the go-to Reformed philosophical expert in the doctrines of decree and providence, it might be helpful to consider some terms and concepts when it comes to God’s exhaustive omniscience. Without being familiar with specific terms of art, it will be difficult to understand Helm and just how generally disunited the Reformed camp is in trading in settled philosophical jargon, which in turn makes dialogue with skilled, yet opposing, Christian philosophers like J.P Moreland and William Lane Craig more challenging than necessary.
Natural Knowledge, a very good place to start:
Natural knowledge is God’s knowledge of all necessary truths. What this means is that God’s natural knowledge includes those things that are impossible not to be true, such as the law of non-contradiction (LNC) and God’s attributes. For example, there is no possibility that an object while being a rock is not a rock (LNC), or that God can be other than holy (divine attribute). We might observe up front that objects of natural knowledge are true without God willing them to be so. Rather, objects of natural knowledge are true because they are grounded in God’s unwilled nature. In addition to these sorts of necessary truths, God also knows all possibilities according to his natural knowledge. From a distinctly Reformed perspective, God’s natural knowledge of all possibilities correlates to God’s self-knowledge of what he can do. Which is to say, God can actualize all possibilities, which is not a tenet of Molinism.
Free Knowledge
In addition to God’s natural knowledge, God has free knowledge. Unlike natural knowledge, free knowledge is logically predicated upon God’s creative decree. A comparative example might be useful here. God knew that Tyre and Sidon would not repent because he freely willed that they would not repent. Consequently, God’s knowledge regarding Tyre and Sidon, from a distinctly Reformed perspective, was predicated upon his sovereign determination, which is unlike God’s passive knowledge of his holiness. What is perhaps less obvious in this regard is that God did not only determine the hardness of heart found in Tyre and Sidon, but also the counterfactual truth that had certain miracles been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented. So, although the counterfactual of Tyre and Sidon’s repentance was not decreed actually to occur in history, it was no less determined that: had certain miracles been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented. We may refer to such counterfactuals of creaturely freedom as would-counterfactuals. The takeaway is simply this. From a Reformed perspective, objects of free knowledge don’t just include determined things that will occur but, also, determined things that would occur if certain states of affairs were to obtain (even if they won’t). Consequently, although all would-counterfactuals are objects of God’s omniscience (specifically, God’s free knowledge), not all are foreknown as future. In other words, some counterfactuals are determined merely to be true, whereas others are determined actually to occur. An additional example might be useful in making the point. God decreed that I’d write this piece at precisely this time under certain conditions. However, if God also knows what I would have done had I been distracted by a phone call while writing, then that bit of additional knowledge would be according to his free knowledge of an independently determined counterfactual. In other words, God would not know what I would have done under other circumstances according to natural knowledge but via his free knowledge.*
Consistent Reformed thinkers, a summary of sort:
An entailment of Reformed thought is that the free choices men would make in any situation are divinely determined and, consequently, a result of God’s creative decree. With this understanding comes a recognition that would-counterfactuals, which God freely knows, are in a qualified sense a subset of counterfactual possibilities that God knows according to his natural knowledge. This means that from a Reformed perspective, would-counterfactuals are contingent truths which God freely determines, whereas the set of possibilities from which God chooses to make them true are necessary truths grounded in God’s self-knowledge of what he can actualize.** As 19th century Princeton theologian A.A. Hodge would correctly have it – God determines the relationship of cause to effect. In other words, for Hodge it is the decree of God that makes even contingent events contingent!
The decree, instead of altering, determines the nature of events, and their mutual relations. It makes free actions free in relation to their agents, and contingent events contingent in relation to their conditions.
In other words, God pre-interprets the particulars and wills their relationship of cause and effect. Consequently, true counterfactuals of creaturely freedom are objects of God’s creative decree and consequently posterior to it.
Agreement and disagreement between opposing camps:
Molinists and Reformed thinkers agree that God knows all possible counterfactuals of creaturely freedom according to his natural knowledge. In this regard, the significant difference between the two schools of thought is that from a Molinist perspective God’s natural knowledge does not inform him of which possibilities can be made actual. In other words, from a distinctly Molinist perspective God must look to his middle knowledge because not all possibilities can be actualized due to a different understanding of how God’s determination would relate to human freedom and moral accountability.
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The worshiper offers purification and reparations offerings in order to repair breaches in the relationship caused by sinful and impure actions. Then the worshiper offers himself in total surrender to Yahweh, drawing near to him as a pleasing aroma in the ascension offering. And he may offer a tribute to Yahweh for all of his kindness to him. But even these aren’t the end. All of these offerings — purification, reparation, total surrender, and tribute — are meant to lead to communion. There are two different terms for the tabernacle in Leviticus: “tabernacle” (or “dwelling”) and “tent of meeting.” Both terms are important. God doesn’t merely want to dwell with his people; he wants to meet with his people. And he doesn’t just want to meet with his people; he wants to dine with his people.

Comedian Brian Regan tells a funny story about his struggles in school as a kid. He talks about the public humiliation of the spelling bee and his difficulty with the i-before-e rule. A particularly funny portion describes the teacher’s questions to him and Erwin (the smart kid in class) about how to make a plural.
Teacher: “Brian, how do you make a word plural?”Brian: “You put an s at the end of it.”Teacher: “Erwin, what’s the plural for ox?”Erwin: “Oxen. The farmer used his oxen.”Teacher: “Brian, what’s the plural for box?”Brian: “Boxen. I bought two boxen of doughnuts.”Teacher: “No, Brian. Erwin, what’s the plural for goose?”Erwin: “Geese. I saw a flock of geese.”Teacher: “Brian, what’s the plural for moose?”Brian: “Moosen. I saw a flock of moosen. . . . There were many of them . . . many, much moosen . . . out in the woods, in the wood-es, in the wood-es-en . . .”
Superficially, the joke is about Brian’s ignorance. But it actually demonstrates the complexity and difficulty of the English language (to which anyone who has learned English as a second language can attest). As native English speakers, we don’t always think about this difficulty and complexity because we’re so familiar with it. We inhabit the language, we use the language, and therefore, it feels (mostly) comprehensible to us.
For many of us, the book of Leviticus mystifies us. We find the sacrifices, rules, and regulations to be complex and confusing. To us, Leviticus is like a foreign language. It mystifies because we’re unfamiliar with it. Like Brian Regan and making plural words, the intricacies elude and confuse us.1
Levitical Language
Thinking of Leviticus as a language can help demystify it. Consider what goes into a language. First, we have an alphabet. We arrange the letters of the alphabet to form words. There are different kinds of words — nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions, adverbs. We arrange the words into sentences with meaning and purpose. We modify words by adding letters at the beginning or end in order to make plurals or speak about the past or future or communicate ongoing versus completed action.
What’s more, in English, in order to make sense, we must arrange the words in a certain order. “Bill throws the ball” means something very different from “The ball throws Bill.” Arranging the words rightly is necessary in order to communicate clearly.
The sacrificial system is similar. Instead of nouns, verbs, and adjectives, we have people, places, sins, animals, animal body parts, and actions, and they are arranged and combined in various ways in order to say something, in order to communicate.
The sacrificial system resembles language learning in another way. In truth, we don’t actually learn our native language by first learning the alphabet, then learning words, and then arranging words into sentences. In other words, we don’t move from the smallest parts up to the larger parts.
Instead, as children, we first learn nouns — like “Mommy” and “Daddy” and “milk” — and sentences — simple ones like “Yes” and “No” and “Help, please.” Then as we mature, we learn more nouns and more complex sentences. At a certain age, we’re taught to read, and we learn to break words down into letters and then to break sentences down into subjects, verbs, and direct objects so we can grasp the rules of spelling and grammar.
The Bible teaches us the sacrificial system in the same way. We get glimpses of it early on: God provides Adam and Eve with animal skins after their sin in the garden (Genesis 3:21). Cain and Abel offer tribute to God (Genesis 4:3–4). Noah offers whole burnt offerings of clean animals after the flood (Genesis 8:20). Abraham prepares to offer Isaac as a burnt offering, and God substitutes a ram at the last minute (Genesis 22:1–19). Moses makes burnt offerings and peace offerings and sprinkles blood on the people at Sinai (Exodus 24:4–8).
Then finally, in Leviticus, it’s like we pick up a grammar textbook that sets forth more detailed rules for how all of these sacrifices work in the covenantal arrangement established by God with his people after the exodus. Leviticus, along with Numbers, provides the basic spelling, grammar, and syntax of the sacrificial system, and in learning the language, we can better understand what God is saying to us.
Three Images
To grasp the symbolic system of Leviticus, we begin with three images. Leviticus builds on the book of Genesis, especially the early chapters. Recall the basic story. God made the world and everything in it in six days. The crown of his creation is man, made on the sixth day, male and female, in God’s own image, as his representatives and stewards. He gives the first man and woman a commission — be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth, subdue it, and have dominion over its inhabitants. He places them in a garden to work and keep it, and gives them one prohibition: “Of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil you shall not eat, for in the day that you eat of it you shall surely die” (Genesis 2:17).
Under the influence of the crafty serpent, Adam and Eve rebel against God, eat the fruit, and are confronted in their rebellion. God judges them for their rebellion, cursing the ground, multiplying pain and hardship in their relationship, and dooming them to die and return to dust. But he mingles mercy with his justice, promising them descendants, and especially a redeemer who will crush the serpent’s head. He then clothes them with animal skins and exiles them from the garden.
Now, here’s the important image: in order to prevent Adam and Eve from eating from the tree of life in the midst of the garden, God “drove out the man, and at the east of the garden of Eden he placed the cherubim and a flaming sword that turned every way to guard the way to the tree of life” (Genesis 3:24).
This is crucial. The holy presence of God is in the garden. Life is in the garden. And there is an angelic bouncer with a sword of fire separating man from divine life. There’s no way to draw near to God without losing your head and being burned up.
The second image comes from the book of Exodus. Yahweh has just delivered his people from bondage and gathered them at the holy mountain. God descends in a thick cloud of smoke and lightning, and he says to the people through Moses,
You yourselves have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you on eagles’ wings and brought you to myself. Now therefore, if you will indeed obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession among all peoples, for all the earth is mine; and you shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation. (Exodus 19:4–6)
There is a profound tension between this image and the one in Genesis. In Genesis 3, we see life and glory in the garden, with an angel guarding the way with a flaming sword. In Exodus 19, we see life and glory on the mountain, with the words “you are my treasured possession; I have brought you to myself and intend to dwell with you.”
The tension between these two biblical scenes yields a third image. Imagine if the sun — the giant ball of flaming gas in the sky — wanted to come live in your neighborhood. What would happen? There is no atmosphere to protect you, no sunscreen strong enough, no covering to shield you: just the blazing inferno of the sun and your weak, frail, human self. How would that work out for you? Can you handle that heat?
The answer is obvious. We can’t handle that heat. The scene at Sinai confirms it. Yahweh invites the people to draw near, but he also commands them to consecrate and prepare themselves; they are to wash their garments and abstain from sexual relations for three days prior (Exodus 19:10–11, 15). What’s more, he sets limits around the mountain, a boundary that they are not to cross, on pain of death (verses 12–13). It seems we have not left the angelic guardian entirely behind. To cross the boundary, to touch the holy mountain, is to court death. And the passage couldn’t be clearer: the real danger is that the Lord will break out against them (verses 21–24). The danger is that they would get too close to the sun. And they can’t handle that heat.
We can summarize the basic problem in this way. The living God is holy. We are a sinful people in a world of death. But the living and holy God desires to dwell with his sinful people in this world of death. How is that possible? If we’re going to return to the garden of life, if we’re going to draw near to the holy God, how do we get past the angel and his flaming sword?
Basics of the Grammar
God’s answer to this problem is the whole Levitical system. It’s an entire symbolic system — a language — that testifies both to God’s holiness and life and to our sinfulness and death. And at the center of that system is atonement — the God-given covering that enables us to remarkably, miraculously, mercifully draw near to God and handle the heat.
So what are the basics of the grammar of this Levitical language? Let’s think in terms of nouns, adjectives, and verbs.
Nouns
Back in elementary school, we learned that there are three basic categories of nouns: people, places, and things. These categories offer a good way to approach the grammar of Leviticus as well.
Start with people. First, we have men and women. The book opens with a call-back to Genesis: “When an adam brings an offering . . .” (Leviticus 1:2). The word adam reminds us that we are sons of earth, since adam was taken from the dust of the adamah. But we aren’t merely “earth-men”; we are men and women, ish and ishshah (Genesis 2:23).
In the Levitical system, we can break God’s people down even more. First, we have the congregation as a whole. Within the congregation, we have the Levites, the priests, and especially the high priest. Beyond them, we have the leaders or rulers of the people. Then we have individual Israelites, some of them rich, and some of them poor. So the Levitical system recognizes distinctions in terms of people.
What about places? Here we need to connect sacred geography and sacred architecture. Leviticus is built on Genesis, especially the early chapters. And there, we remember the garden, in the land of Eden, and the world beyond (unsubdued and unfilled): garden, land, world (Genesis 2:8). The garden was on a mountain, and a river flowed down to water the garden, and then from there it split into four rivers spreading out over the earth (Genesis 2:10). So in terms of geography, think of a summit, a mountain, the land around it, and then the waters/ocean at the edge.
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