What comes to mind when you hear the word renunciation? One might think of a brave dissident who renounces her citizenship before officials of her native land in favor a of chosen country with greater political freedom. If you are a fan of history (or of the Netflix series The Crown), maybe you think of the scandalous 1938 abdication of King Edward VIII, who renounced his claim to the British imperial throne to marry the American divorcee Wallis Simpson.

Closer to home, perhaps, you may think of a wedding. The declaration of intent asks bride and groom, “Forsaking all others, do you pledge yourself to each other for as long as you both shall live?” In affirming this declaration, a husband and wife freely and intentionally renounce all other possible partners and embrace a vow of lifelong, exclusive commitment.

Public, binding renunciations are deeply significant. They declare a person’s free choice to deny one path in exchange for another. They bind a person’s decision to the accountability of chosen witnesses. They stand throughout time as a testimony — in record and memory — of a deliberate and sober commitment, come what may. They are made by persons of responsible age who can understand the entailments of the commitment.

“No renunciation is more central to the Christian life than the one that occurs at baptism.”

While the practice has all but disappeared from many liturgies, no renunciation is more central to the Christian life, nor more rooted in the history of Christian tradition, than the one that occurs at baptism. And this renunciation also underscores why baptism should be reserved for professing believers.

Baptism from the Beginning

From the earliest days of the church, baptism was understood as a person’s public identification as a disciple of the risen Christ (Matthew 28:18). Baptism testifies to a person’s conscious faith in Jesus as Lord, reflects the deep inworking of grace in the transformation of desire, and marks the believer’s entry into the community of the local church (Romans 6:3–5; 1 Corinthians 12:13; Galatians 3:27). Luke’s narrative history of the early church depicts new believers being baptized in the presence of witnesses, testifying to their adoption as fellow heirs, and signaling their pledge to live as citizens of a heavenly kingdom (Acts 10:44–48).

Leaders in the early church universally maintained these emphases in the post-apostolic age.1 They emphasized the importance of public profession of faith as part of baptismal practice by pointing to the “good confession” Timothy made “in the presence of many witnesses” (1 Timothy 5:12). So also, they noted how the apostle Peter linked the public “pledge of a good conscience to God” to the celebration of baptism (1 Peter 3:21 CSB). Tertullian (155–220) argued that the practice of profession of faith at baptism, if not directly derived from the Scriptures, “without doubt flowed down from tradition,” having been “handed down” from the disciples.2

One’s public testimony at baptism not only highlights the work of sovereign grace in election and regeneration; it also reflects supernatural deliverance from the domain of darkness and into the kingdom of the beloved Son (Colossians 1:13). Trusting in Messiah Jesus entails deliberately forsaking the self-reliance, idolatry, and vain pursuits that characterize life under the power of the evil one (1 John 5:19). As with a wedding vow, the new believer makes a dual commitment at baptism. He freely and intentionally renounces the claims of Satan upon his life, and he consciously embraces a lifelong, exclusive commitment to the lordship of Christ.

Satan, We Renounce You

In the early church, new converts entered a process of instruction as catechumens (Greek katēkhoumenos, “being instructed”), in which they were taught the basics of the Christian faith. Only upon clear understanding and conscious profession of faith would a catechumen be accepted for baptism. The earliest accounts of baptismal practice thus record not only a profession of faith, but the renunciation of Satan. Tertullian of Carthage writes,

When we are going to enter the water, but a little before, in the presence of the congregation and under the hand of the bishop, we solemnly profess that we disown the devil, and his pomp, and his angels.3

Allegiance to Christ meant renouncing, rejecting, and repudiating the reign believers were formerly under and the practices they previously performed. The Apostolic Tradition, an early third-century Egyptian handbook to church order, records a similar instruction:

Then the presbyter, taking hold of each of those about to be baptized, shall command him to renounce, saying: I renounce thee, Satan, and all thy servants and all thy works.4

In a series of lectures designed to prepare catechumens for baptism, Cyril (313–386) describes how this renunciation was practiced at the church at Jerusalem. On the night before their baptism, after candidates entered the outer hall of the baptistery building, they were told to face west (symbolically the region of darkness), stretch forth their hand, and, “as though he were present, [say,] ‘I renounce thee, Satan!’” Cyril continues,

What then did each of you stand up and say? “I renounce thee, Satan,” — thou wicked and most cruel tyrant! meaning, “I fear thy might no longer; for that Christ hath overthrown, having partaken with me of flesh and blood, that through these He might by death destroy death, that I might not be made subject to bondage for ever.” “I renounce thee,” — thou crafty and most subtle serpent. “I renounce thee,” — plotter as thou art, who under the guise of friendship didst contrive all disobedience, and work apostasy in our first parents. “I renounce thee, Satan,” — the artificer and abettor of all wickedness.5

“Allegiance to Christ meant renouncing, rejecting, and repudiating the reign believers were formerly under.”

Such was the universal practice from Africa to Palestine to Asia. In a homily on baptism, Proclus (d. 446), bishop of Constantinople, reminds catechumens that blasphemy, empty pleasure, evil deeds, and idolatry are the schemes of the devil. To renounce Satan means forsaking idolatry, rejecting envy and drunkenness, disavowing stealing, lying, and prostitution, and rejecting the use of magic to obtain health.6 Proclus instructs baptismal candidates to declare, “I renounce you, Satan, and your pomp and your cult and your angels and all your works.” He continues,

These things you called out in words. Demonstrate it with your deeds! Sanction your confession with your conduct. Do not return to the place whence you ran away!7

Confessions of Catechumens

Clearly, the affirmations and renunciations of the baptismal rite can only be made by those who knowingly, freely, and authentically profess faith in Christ. Only believers can bear public witness to the radical transformation of sovereign grace. Only believers can solemnly renounce their former way of life and forsake the power and promises of the evil one. Only believers can commit to live in holiness by the power of the Spirit as part of a community of faith. For centuries, the liturgical practice of the church demonstrated the priority, temporally and theologically, of the baptism of adults.

The prevalence of infant baptism in the sixth century spelled the end of the catechumenate in many places. Even then, however, medieval liturgies in the Western tradition continued to be designed with mature candidates in mind.8 The profession of faith and renunciation of Satan were so essential to the practice of baptism that they could simply not be abandoned. Instead, they were erroneously transferred to the infant’s parents or godparents as sponsors — the very concern Tertullian had raised nearly four centuries earlier.9

The teaching of the New Testament and the practice of the early church was to admit to baptism only those whose conversions reflected a clear understanding of its meaning. As with marriage vows, no alternate can stand in with the authority of the baptizand. Profession of faith in the Lord Jesus and renunciation of Satan, his works, and his ways is the glory of the believer alone.

At the beginning of Romans 9–11, Paul tells us he is sad. Really sad. “I speak the truth in Christ — I am not lying, my conscience confirms it through the Holy Spirit — I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart . . . for the sake of my people . . . Israel” (Romans 9:1–4 NIV). Paul is so sad that he doesn’t finish his thought and tell us what’s wrong with Israel. For that, we have to wait an entire chapter.

We come to find out that many within Israel had rejected Jesus, their long-awaited Messiah, and as a result weren’t “saved” (Romans 10:1). This reality not only made Paul sad; it also raised difficult questions about God. Did Israel’s unbelief mean that God had rejected his people — or worse, failed to keep his promises (Romans 9:6; 11:1)? And if God could reject his people and default on his promises, wasn’t this awful news for everybody, not just Israel but Gentiles too?

His Secret

To answer these questions, Paul reveals a secret hidden in the Bible and revealed only once God sent Jesus. God would save Israel and keep his word, but he would do so in a surprising way.

First, he would begin by reducing believing Israel to a tiny remnant. True, believing Israel and all Israel had never completely overlapped, even from the start (Romans 9:6–13). But it was only later, during the Assyrian and Babylonian exiles near the end of the Old Testament, that God reduced believing Israel to a mere remnant (Romans 9:27–29). And, surprisingly, believing Israel’s remnant status did not change even when the Messiah, Israel’s Savior, came (Romans 9:30–33; 11:7–10). As the apostle John put it: the Messiah “came to . . . his own, but his own did not receive him” (John 1:11 NIV).

Second, God would use Israel’s unbelief to make space for Gentile salvation (Romans 11:28, 30). Surprising space. Everybody expected Gentiles to one day join with Israel, but nobody anticipated they would become Israel. Paul tells us, however, that Gentile salvation would fulfill Old Testament promises about the salvation of Gentiles (Romans 10:19–20; see also 4:17; 15:9–12) and the salvation of Israel (Romans 9:25–26). Paul never explicitly calls Gentiles Israel, and he preserves a place for “natural” or ethnic Israel (Romans 11:17–24). But when he applies Israel’s promises to Gentiles, he shows us that the line between the “wild” and “natural” branches in the church is harder to see than anyone would have guessed.

Third, God would use Gentile salvation to get Israel’s attention. The surprising salvation of Gentiles would provoke Israel to envy and then salvation (Romans 11:11–12, 15). This was one of the reasons Paul shared Jesus so tirelessly with Gentiles. He hoped his success as “apostle to the Gentiles” might lead to Israel’s salvation. Granted, Paul knew he couldn’t provoke all Israel, but he hoped and prayed that he could provoke some (Romans 11:13–14).

Finally, God would provoke all Israel to salvation only when Jesus returned (or “in connection with” Jesus’s return). This might just be the most surprising part of Paul’s secret. Careful readers of God’s promises in the Old Testament were right: Israel would be saved when the Messiah came. But nobody could have guessed that Israel’s salvation would be at the Messiah’s second coming. Two comings! Nobody saw that coming. Paul tells us that Israel would be saved when Jesus returned from heavenly Zion, a place Jesus opened with his death, burial, and resurrection (Romans 11:26–27). In this way, Israel’s conversion would mirror Paul’s own — transformed by a heavenly vision of the risen Lord.

Paul tells us this secret then bursts into praise (Romans 11:33–36). Only an infinitely wise author could craft a plot where (nearly) every expectation created is fulfilled in an unexpected way. Surprising faithfulness. As paradoxical as that sounds, there’s really no other way to describe it. And there’s no other story like it.

His Grief

While Paul’s secret wonderfully dispels any doubts we might have about God’s faithfulness, I don’t think it diminished Paul’s grief. We may be surprised by what Paul writes in Romans 9–11, but Paul wasn’t. He wrote Romans 9:2 knowing full well what he would write in Romans 11:25–27. He wrote these chapters with a tear-stained face despite the secret he reveals.

After all, Israel wouldn’t be saved until Jesus returned, and Jesus wouldn’t return, Paul tells us, until God completed his work among the Gentiles (Romans 11:25). For Paul, this at least meant that Israel wouldn’t be saved until somebody pushed beyond Rome and evangelized the Gentiles on the edge of the map. So, Paul tells us how eager he is to get to Spain (Romans 15:14–33). Still, Paul knew that every delay, every setback, every change of plans, every pocket of unreached Gentiles meant more time would pass without Jesus’s return and, therefore, more death and judgment for so many — too many — within Israel.

Paul also knew that the timing of Israel’s salvation would mean that many within Israel would miss out on experiences he writes about in his letters and preached about everywhere he went. The Israel that would be saved at Jesus’s return would be an Israel that would miss out on life in the church during this present age. They would miss the goodness of working out their salvation (Philippians 2:12–13), struggling to walk by the Spirit (Galatians 5:16), and renewing their minds (Romans 12:2). Israel would miss out on the goodness of waiting for Jesus’s return and all the ways this experience prepares us for and enriches our experience in the world to come (see Matthew 25:21, 23).

His Example

Paul’s secret dispels our doubts about God’s character, but it doesn’t — it shouldn’t — diminish our grief. Not if we’re going to follow Paul’s example, which is precisely what the Bible calls us to do (1 Corinthians 11:1).

Paul’s example teaches us to celebrate every part of God’s story. In fact, it’s a sign of immaturity — or worse — if we can’t. Paul’s heart swells when he tells God’s story. That’s why he ends these chapters with a soaring doxology, reveling in God’s wisdom and knowledge. Our hearts fail to align with Paul’s if we’re unable to feel what he feels in Romans 11:33–36. We fail to follow Paul’s example if we can tell God’s story without wonder and praise.

At the same time, Paul teaches us that doxology can and should be accompanied by lament, by anguish. Paul’s heart breaks when he tells God’s story. That’s why he begins these chapters like he does and why he speaks of his tears elsewhere (Philippians 3:18). It is a sign of immaturity — or worse — if we can’t feel what Paul feels in Romans 9:2. In fact, here, as elsewhere, Paul was simply following the example of his Lord, who shed tears for precisely the same reason as Paul (Luke 19:41–44). Jesus’s tears, moreover, point us to an unfathomable mystery: God’s own “response” to his story (2 Peter 3:9).

Friends, rejoice in God’s story. Let it cause you to hallow his name. But in your rejoicing, don’t fail to weep. Don’t fail to cultivate a heart that is eager for others to share the good you have received from God and a heart that is grieved — even unceasingly grieved (Romans 9:2) — when they don’t. To the paradox of God’s surprising yet faithful story, let us add the paradox of our response to it: “sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Corinthians 6:10). In this way, we learn to follow Paul as he followed and waited for Christ.

Our generation is disconnected, not merely from one another but from the past. How many of us know our great-grandfathers’ names? Our great-great-grandfathers? We perch ourselves on the highest branch in the family tree and tend to be unconcerned with that below. Our gaze is upwards. Functionally, we are the great-grandsons and granddaughters of no one — physically or spiritually. We wander the world, rootless.

Because of it, we struggle with more sin than we should, have smaller faith than we might, blow in the cultural winds more than we would, and shrink back before opposition more than we ought. We do not keep before us of what people we come, and this hinders our endurance traveling home.

Or so thought the author of Hebrews.

To a church that started off so well but now limped dangerously along, he rides his horse up and down the frontline with a foreign war cry to Western ears: “We are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls” (Hebrews 10:39).

Bloodline as Battle Cry

Instead of writing, “You got this!” Hebrews roots them in a family history of those who, by faith, had already done it. The “Hall of Faith” is not a list of demigods who did what we cannot. They are forefathers and foremothers, painfully human and made strong in God, and their stories are recorded to motivate us toward the same perseverance.

Hebrews asks us if we remember how, by faith, Noah prepared the ark, or Abel offered an acceptable sacrifice to God, or Abraham went out, not knowing where he was going — and implies, You, in reliance upon the same God, can do likewise. Or, do you recall Sarah, who believed God’s word and conceived a child, or Moses, who by faith esteemed the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt? This is your lineage — these are your people. You, if you are a Christian, are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who live by unseen realities and preserve their souls.

He concludes the brief tour of theirs and our spiritual family history,

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God. (Hebrews 12:1–2)

Because these are our family members, because they surround us as we run, let us lay aside weights and sin and run with endurance looking to Jesus. Do you read the Old Testament this way?

Family of Faithful Witnesses

Such an experience should greet us every time we open our Bibles, whether in front or in back. Sixty-six books, Old and New, introduce us to spiritual fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters who stumbled as we do, but who finally conquered by faith as we hope to. We turn page after page and watch how they finished their race, how they kept the faith, how they overcame temptation, repented their failings, trusted, hoped for, and hungered for God in their trials and sufferings. Their lives captured in Scripture to encourage us — their spiritual descendants — to run, without reserve, as the King’s people to the King himself. In other words, we press on today because of both whom we come from and whom lies before us.

Do we think of the redeemed men and women this way? Job, Moses, Abraham, Sarah, David, Elijah, Rehab, Ruth, Jeremiah, Joshua, Daniel, Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego, Gideon, Hezekiah, Josiah — as family. If you serve the Living God, your God is the God of John, Paul, Andrew, Mary, Barnabas, the thief on the cross, Peter, Lazarus, the man born blind, Apollos, Timothy, Thomas, Pricilla and Aquilla, the formerly demon-possessed girl, the Philippian jailer, Cornelius, Philemon, Jude, James, Elizabeth — and on and on — each with different examples of Christ’s power to keep us by resilient faith.

We join this family of audacious ancestors through union to our brother, Jesus. “Know then that it is those of faith who are the sons of Abraham” (Galatians 3:7), and, “if you are Christ’s, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to promise” (Galatians 3:29). Even if we suffer the loss of earthly ties because of allegiances to Christ, each of us has inherited a hundredfold — mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers along with eternal life in Christ (Matthew 19:29). For so goes the promise to our father Abraham, “Look toward heaven, and number the stars, if you are able to number them. . . . So shall your offspring be” (Genesis 15:5).

Not of Those Who Shrink Back

Do not miss that this spiritual family is a holy family; like Father, like sons. Our family believes and lives and acts from belief in God and his promises. And this, the author of Hebrews thinks, is vital for us to consider.

So do you struggle with the glittering things of this world? Reintroduce yourself to your great uncle, Moses, who considered the reproaches of Christ greater wealth than the treasures of Egypt (Hebrews 11:26).

Does a Potiphar’s wife tempt you to an adulterous affair? Count yourself a descendant of Joseph who, by faith, fled, exclaiming, “How then can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?” (Genesis 39:9).

Do you feel God calling you to the great unknown? Remember Abraham. Do the promises of God feel inconceivable? Remember the story of Sarah. Do you feel pressure from an ungodly family to forsake Christ? Consider Rehab who, by faith, received the Israelite spies (Hebrews 11:31).

Does your confidence waver concerning whether God can overcome this present darkness? Consider afresh that kingdoms bowed, mouths of lions shut, justice reigned, fires quenched, children resurrected, swords broke, that the weak through faith were made strong, the fainting grew valiant, foreign armies fled, and leave instructions with Joseph that your bones` be buried in a land yet unconquered (Hebrews 11:22, 33–35).

And do you fear persecution might one day overwhelm your faith? Don’t forget your family members “of whom the world was not worthy” (Hebrews 11:38). These wandered the world as outcasts, waded through mocking, whippings, imprisonment, and brutal deaths, by faith, awaiting the resurrection of the dead (Hebrews 11:35–38).

Are you growing tired or neglectful or sluggish of hearing? God does not leave you to yourself as a lone twig to figure it out. He gives you a tree of Lebanon to belong to. Relearn your great grandfathers’ and grandmothers’ names. As you look fully to Christ, remember that “we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.”