Foundational Commitments – Building Blocks of the Framework

Before I can present the eschatological framework itself, I need to lay out the theological, philosophical, and hermeneutical foundations that support it. These are the building blocks – the assumptions and commitments that shape how I read Scripture and think about eternity.

If you disagree with these foundations, you’ll likely disagree with the conclusions. That’s fine. But I want to be transparent about where I’m starting from so you can evaluate the framework on its own terms rather than assuming I share assumptions I don’t actually hold.

God Outside Time and Space

Einstein, Hawking, and the Nature of Spacetime

I mentioned earlier that reading Stephen Hawking changed how I think about God and eternity. Let me explain what I mean.

In Newtonian physics – the framework most of us absorbed in high school – time is absolute. There’s a universal clock ticking away the same for everyone, everywhere. Time flows forward at a constant rate. It’s the stage on which events occur, independent of those events themselves.

Einstein shattered that picture. His theory of relativity showed that time and space are not separate, independent realities but a single fabric: spacetime. Time is relative, not absolute. It bends and warps in the presence of massive objects. It slows down at high speeds. Two observers in different reference frames can experience time passing at different rates – and both are correct.

Hawking took this further, exploring the implications for the origin of the universe. If spacetime is a created reality – if it had a beginning at the Big Bang – then time itself is part of creation. Time is not eternal. It’s not the framework within which God operates. It’s something God made.

This has profound theological implications.

The Creator Beyond his Creation

If time is created, then God – the Creator – must exist outside time. He cannot be bound by what he made. To put it another way: God does not exist “in” time the way we do, experiencing one moment after another in sequence. He exists outside the timeline entirely, holding all moments – past, present, future – in an eternal “now.”

This is not a new idea. Augustine argued something similar in the fourth century (in his “Confessions”), wrestling with the question “What was God doing before he created the world?” Augustine’s answer: there is no “before” creation, because time itself was created. God exists in eternity, which is not an infinitely long timeline but a fundamentally different mode of existence altogether.

Boethius, in the sixth century (in “The Consolation of Philosophy”), defined eternity as “the complete possession all at once of illimitable life.” God does not experience reality sequentially. He does not learn or discover or wait. From his perspective – if we can even use that word – all of history is present to him simultaneously.

I’m not claiming to fully understand what this means. We are time-bound creatures trying to conceive of a timeless reality, and we inevitably fall short. But the point stands: if God created time, he is not subject to it.

Biblical Testimony: Alpha and Omega, I AM, Eternal Now

Scripture supports this picture, even if it doesn’t use the language of modern physics.

When Moses asks God his name, God replies, “I AM WHO I AM” (Exodus 3:14). Not “I was” or “I will be” but “I AM” – present tense, eternal present. God is not bound by past, present, and future the way we are.  (I will put together an article exploring the name of God at some point – I am aware of the depth of Christadelphian study on this subject of course).

In Revelation, God identifies himself as “the Alpha and the Omega, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty” (Revelation 1:8). He encompasses all time – beginning and end, past and future – in his being.

Jesus uses similar language: “Before Abraham was, I am” (John 8:58). Not “I was” but “I am” – claiming eternal, timeless existence.

Peter writes that “with the Lord one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day” (2 Peter 3:8). This is often quoted to defend young earth creationism, but I think it’s making a more profound point: God does not experience time the way we do. He is not counting down days or years. He exists in a reality where temporal distinctions simply don’t apply in the same way.

When we say, “God is eternal,” we often mean “God exists for an infinitely long time.” But I think the biblical picture is more radical than that. God doesn’t just exist for a long time. He exists outside time altogether.

This is the foundation for everything that follows. If heaven is where God dwells, and if God exists outside time, then heaven is outside time. And if the righteous dead go to be “with the Lord” at death, then they step outside the timeline we inhabit.

Energy, Matter, and Divine Power

E=mc²: Matter as Frozen Energy

Let’s return to the idea I opened with: you are energy leaning against energy.

Einstein’s famous equation, E=mc², tells us that matter and energy are interchangeable. Matter is essentially “frozen” energy – energy in a particular stable configuration. The solid chair you’re sitting on, the screen you’re reading from, your own body – all of it is energy held in patterns by fundamental forces we barely understand.

At the atomic level, there’s almost nothing there. An atom is mostly empty space. If you could remove all the empty space from all the atoms in your body, you’d be smaller than a grain of sand. What we experience as solid matter is just electromagnetic forces preventing atoms from passing through each other.

And what holds those atoms together? What keeps the electrons in orbit around the nucleus? What prevents the protons in the nucleus from flying apart (given that they’re all positively charged and should repel each other)?

The strong nuclear force, the weak nuclear force, electromagnetism, gravity – these are the fundamental forces of physics. But where do they come from? What sustains them moment by moment?

Colossians 1:17 and Hebrews 1:3: God Sustaining All Things

Scripture gives us an answer that modern physics cannot: “In him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:17).

Paul is writing about Christ, the eternal Son, through whom all things were created. And he makes this extraordinary claim: Christ actively sustains creation. The Greek word sunistēmi means to hold together, to cohere, to maintain in existence. It’s not passive. It’s active, ongoing sustaining.

The writer to the Hebrews says something similar: Christ is “sustaining all things by his powerful word” (Hebrews 1:3). The word translated “sustaining” (pherō) means to carry, to bear, to uphold. Again, it’s active. God is not a distant clockmaker who wound up the universe and stepped back. He is the one who keeps it in existence moment by moment.

If God withdrew his sustaining presence – if Christ stopped “holding all things together” – the universe wouldn’t slowly wind down. It would instantly cease to exist. The forces that bind atoms would vanish. Matter would dissolve. Energy itself would have no ground.

Implications for Eschatology

Why does this matter for eschatology?

Because if God is the ground of all being – if he is the one sustaining the energy that comprises matter – then the physical universe is not ultimate reality. It’s contingent. It depends on God for its existence.

This doesn’t mean the physical universe is unimportant or illusory. God created it, called it good, and entered into it in the incarnation. Matter matters. But it’s not self-sustaining. It’s not the deepest level of reality.

The deepest level is God himself – the eternal, uncreated source of all being, all energy, all existence.

When we talk about the new heavens and new earth, when we talk about resurrection bodies, when we talk about the final state where “God is all in all,” we’re talking about creation being fully and finally grounded in its source. Not discarded but transfigured. Not escaped, but perfected.

The physical universe, held together by God’s power, will be caught up into the fullness of his presence in a way that transcends our current experience of matter, energy, space, and time.

Conditional Immortality – Rejecting Inherent Immortal Souls

Biblical Anthropology: Nephesh and Humanity

One of the distinctive elements I’ve reluctantly retained from my Christadelphian background is the rejection of the immortal soul doctrine. But I want to be clear about what I mean – and what I don’t mean.

I’m not denying that humans have souls. I’m denying that souls are inherently immortal.

In Genesis 2:7, God forms the man from the dust of the ground and breathes into him the breath of life, and the man becomes a nephesh – a living being, a living soul. The Hebrew word nephesh is used throughout the Old Testament to refer to living creatures – humans and animals alike. It simply means a living being, an animated creature.

Importantly, Genesis doesn’t say God put a soul into the body. It says the combination of body plus God’s breath became a living soul. Soul and body aren’t two separate things awkwardly stapled together. A human being is a unified whole – a body animated by God’s life-giving breath.

When a person dies, what happens? Ecclesiastes 12:7 tells us: “The dust returns to the earth as it was, and the spirit returns to God who gave it.” The body decomposes. The breath of life – the animating principle – returns to God. The person ceases to exist as a conscious being.

This is consistent throughout the Old Testament. The dead “know nothing” (Ecclesiastes 9:5). They do not praise God (Psalm 115:17). Death is described as sleep, as silence, as the absence of consciousness.

Now, I know the New Testament complicates this picture – and I’ll address that. But the foundational anthropology is important: humans are not immortal souls temporarily imprisoned in mortal bodies. We are embodied creatures who live because God sustains us and who die when that sustaining breath is withdrawn.

1 Timothy 6:16: God Alone Has Immortality

Here’s the key text: Paul, writing to Timothy, describes God as “the blessed and only Sovereign, the King of kings and Lord of lords, who alone has immortality” (1 Timothy 6:15-16).

Read that carefully. God alone has immortality. Not angels. Not humans. Not even the souls of humans. God alone possesses immortality as an inherent property of his being.

If humans had naturally immortal souls, Paul’s statement would be false. We would share immortality with God. But we don’t. We are mortal creatures. We die. And we stay dead unless God chooses to raise us.

Immortality as Gift, Not Inherent Property

So where does immortality come from for believers?

It’s a gift. Specifically, it’s the gift of resurrection.

Paul writes, “This perishable body must put on the imperishable, and this mortal body must put on immortality” (1 Corinthians 15:53). Immortality is something we put on at the resurrection. It’s not something we already possess.

Jesus speaks of eternal life as something believers receive, not something they inherently have. “God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life” (John 3:16). The alternative to eternal life isn’t eternal suffering – it’s perishing. Ceasing to exist.

Romans 6:23 makes the same point: “The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Death is the natural consequence of sin. Eternal life is God’s gift. These are opposites.

This doesn’t mean believers cease to exist at death – I’ll argue shortly that we don’t. But it does mean our continued existence is not automatic or inherent. It’s because God sustains us, raises us, grants us immortality as a gift through Christ.

The wicked, who reject that gift, simply receive what they’ve earned: death. Not eternal conscious existence in torment, but death – real, final, irreversible death

The Ageless Purpose – Expanding Divine Community

From Three to a Company

Why did God create the universe? Why create humanity at all?

I’ve written about this before in an article called “The Ageless Purpose of God,” but let me summarise the key idea here because it’s foundational to how I understand the final state.

God didn’t create because he was lonely or incomplete. The Trinity – Father, Son, and Holy Spirit – existed in perfect, loving communion for all eternity. God lacked nothing. He didn’t need us.

But love, by its nature, overflows. It expands. It invites others into the circle.

I believe the ageless purpose of God – the reason underlying all of creation and redemption – is to expand the divine community. To bring others into the eternal loving relationship that the Father, Son, and Spirit have always shared.

This isn’t about filling some cosmic quota or providing an audience for God’s glory (though we do glorify him). It’s about love seeking to include others in its joy.

The Bridal Motif

Scripture consistently uses marriage imagery to describe the relationship between God and his people. In the Old Testament, Israel is portrayed as Yahweh’s bride (Isaiah 54:5, Hosea 2:19-20). In the New Testament, the church is the bride of Christ (Ephesians 5:25-32, Revelation 19:7-9, 21:2, 9).

This isn’t just poetic language. It’s revealing something profound about God’s purposes.

Marriage, at its best, is the most intimate form of human relationship – two becoming one flesh, sharing life completely. When Scripture uses this imagery for God’s relationship with his people, it’s pointing to an intimacy and unity that goes beyond mere legal standing or even friendship.

The ageless purpose is not just to have forgiven sinners populating heaven. It’s to have a bride – a people so united to Christ that we share in the divine life itself. “Partakers of the divine nature,” as Peter puts it (2 Peter 1:4).

Creation as Instrumental, Not Ultimate

Here’s where this connects to eschatology: if the ageless purpose is to expand divine community – to bring the bride into eternal union with Christ – then the physical universe, as important as it is, serves an instrumental purpose. It’s the arena in which this purpose unfolds, but it’s not the ultimate goal.

This doesn’t mean the physical creation is disposable. God called it good. He entered into it in the incarnation. He will redeem it and transform it. But the new heavens and new earth are not the point in themselves. They’re the consummated context in which the bride dwells with the Bridegroom forever.

The goal isn’t a perfected planet. The goal is communion – God “all in all” (1 Corinthians 15:28), the divine community expanded to include redeemed humanity, participating together in the eternal love and joy of the Trinity.

This is why I’m comfortable with an amillennial framework that doesn’t require a literal thousand-year earthly kingdom. The point isn’t to fix the geopolitics of the Middle East or establish justice through Christ’s rule from Jerusalem (important as those images are symbolically). The point is the marriage supper of the Lamb – the consummation of the relationship between Christ and his bride.

Everything else – resurrection, new creation, the defeat of death – serves this ultimate purpose.

Why I Reject Dispensational Premillennialism

The Storage Problem Without Annihilationism Makes It Incoherent

I need to explain why I moved from premillennialism to amillennialism, because this shift is crucial to the framework I’m proposing.

Premillennialism – specifically the dispensational variety that dominates much of evangelical eschatology – teaches that Christ will return, raise the dead, establish a literal thousand-year kingdom on earth (the millennium), and only after that millennium will the final judgment occur. The wicked are then consigned to the lake of fire, and the new heavens and new earth are established.

Different premillennial schemes handle the details differently. The Christadelphian version I grew up with works like this:

1. Death occurs – complete unconsciousness (soul sleep)
2. Christ returns – first resurrection (“responsible” only are raised)
3. First judgment – the wicked from all previous ages are raised, judged, and ultimately annihilated in the wars that ravage the earth before the establishment of the kingdom; the righteous are granted immortality
4. Millennium – Christ reigns on earth from Jerusalem; believers reign with him in immortal bodies; there are still mortal humans on earth who can accept or reject Christ
5. People born during the millennium live and die
6. End of millennium – second resurrection (those who died during the millennium are raised)
7. Final judgment – final sorting and establishment of new heavens and new earth

This is internally coherent because it solves the storage problem with soul sleep. Between death and Christ’s return, you simply don’t exist consciously. You’re not stored anywhere. You’re dead – truly, completely dead – until resurrection. From your perspective, death and resurrection are instantaneous. You close your eyes in death and immediately open them at the resurrection, even if centuries have passed from the perspective of the living.

It’s a clean system. No awkward intermediate states. No conscious souls waiting around. The righteous aren’t in heaven; they’re unconscious. The wicked aren’t in hell; they’re unconscious. Everyone waits (though they can’t experience waiting) for the resurrection.

But here’s the problem: I don’t think soul sleep is biblical.

The Biblical Evidence Against Soul Sleep

When I left Christadelphianism and started reading Scripture without the filter of “we must defend soul sleep,” the evidence for immediate post-death consciousness became overwhelming.

Jesus tells the thief on the cross, “Today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43). Not “at some future resurrection.” Today. I don’t accept Christadelphian textual gymnastics on this.

Paul writes, “We would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord” (2 Corinthians 5:8). There’s no gap, no waiting period. Absent from the body means present with the Lord.

In Philippians 1:23, Paul says his desire is “to depart and be with Christ, for that is far better.” If death meant unconscious non-existence until the resurrection, how would that be “far better” than continuing his ministry? He’d experience nothing. The appeal only makes sense if death means immediate conscious presence with Christ.

The story of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16:19-31), whether parable or not, depicts both men as immediately conscious after death – Lazarus in Abraham’s bosom, the rich man in torment.

The souls under the altar in Revelation 6:9-11 are conscious, crying out to God for justice.

Moses and Elijah appear with Jesus at the Transfiguration (Matthew 17:3), clearly conscious and able to converse – and this occurs well before any resurrection.

I could multiply examples, but the point is this: the cumulative weight of Scripture suggests that death is not unconsciousness. Something happens immediately. The righteous are with Christ. The wicked face judgment.

And if that’s true – if there’s immediate post-death consciousness – then premillennialism creates an insoluble storage problem.

The Storage Problem Returns

If you reject soul sleep and accept immediate post-death consciousness, premillennialism falls apart.

Where are the righteous dead between death and Christ’s return? If they’re conscious and “with the Lord” in some heavenly state, why do they need to be resurrected for an earthly millennium? Are they brought down from heaven to participate in the millennium, then returned to heaven afterward? That seems arbitrary.

Where are the wicked dead? If they’re already experiencing conscious torment in Hades or hell, why resurrect them at Christ’s return just to judge them and annihilate them (if you’re annihilationist) or send them back to torment (if you hold ECT)? The judgment becomes redundant. They’re already experiencing their fate.

And what about the people who die during the millennium? Are they in soul sleep? Are they conscious somewhere? Where?

The more you try to map out the timeline with conscious intermediate states, the more convoluted it becomes. You end up with people shuttling between heaven and earth, between different states of existence, with multiple resurrections serving unclear purposes.

The only way premillennialism remains coherent is with soul sleep. Remove that, and the whole structure collapses under its own complexity.

Amillennialism Solves the Problem

Amillennialism collapses the timeline in a way that makes sense. There’s no literal future millennium. The “thousand years” in Revelation 20 is symbolic of the church age – the period between Christ’s first and second comings, during which Satan’s power is restrained (though not eliminated) and the martyrs reign with Christ spiritually.

When Christ returns, that’s it. The final judgment, the resurrection, the new heavens and new earth – it all happens together. There’s no intervening millennium creating awkward waiting periods or multiple resurrections.

Combined with my understanding of heaven as outside time (which I’ll develop further), amillennialism provides a coherent framework: you die, you’re immediately judged, the righteous step outside time into God’s presence, the wicked are annihilated, and at the Parousia (which the righteous dead experience as immediate from their perspective outside time), everything reaches its consummation.

No storage problem. No awkward intermediate states. No resurrections that serve no clear purpose. No shuttling between heaven and earth.

This is why I’m amillennial. Not because I have some deep commitment to Augustine or Reformed theology, but because it’s the only framework that makes sense once you reject soul sleep and accept immediate post-death consciousness.

Hermeneutical Approach

Scripture Primary, Tradition Secondary

Before I go further, I need to be transparent about how I read Scripture and what authority I give to church tradition.

I hold to the Reformation principle of sola scriptura – Scripture alone as the final authority for faith and practice. Tradition is valuable. The creeds are important. The church fathers offer wisdom. But none of these are infallible, and all of them must be evaluated against Scripture itself.

This doesn’t mean I ignore two thousand years of Christian thought. I’m not arrogant enough to think I can read the Bible in isolation and arrive at truth that eluded everyone before me.  I surrendered that arrogance when I left the Christadelphians.  It does mean I’m willing to challenge traditional interpretations – even very old ones – if I think Scripture points in a different direction.

For example: I accept Nicene Trinitarianism because I think it’s the best reading of Scripture, not because a council declared it in 325. Conversely, I reject eternal conscious torment even though it’s been the majority position for most of church history, because I don’t think it’s what Scripture teaches.

Tradition informs my reading. It doesn’t bind it.

Revelation as Apocalyptic Literature

One of the key hermeneutical shifts that moved me toward amillennialism was learning to read Revelation as apocalyptic literature rather than as a literal chronological roadmap.

Apocalyptic literature – a genre common in Second Temple Judaism – uses vivid, symbolic imagery to communicate theological truths about God’s sovereignty, judgment, and ultimate victory. It’s not meant to be decoded like a puzzle where every beast, number, and bowl corresponds to a specific historical event or future timeline.

When John sees a dragon with seven heads and ten horns (Revelation 12:3), he’s not describing a literal monster. He’s using symbolic language to depict spiritual realities – in this case, Satan’s power and the empires aligned against God’s people.

When he sees a thousand-year reign (Revelation 20:4-6), I don’t think he’s giving us a precise chronological duration. The number “thousand” in apocalyptic literature often symbolises completeness or a long period. The point isn’t “exactly one thousand years” but “a complete period during which Christ reigns and Satan’s power is restrained.”

This doesn’t mean Revelation is unimportant or that “anything goes” in interpretation. It means we need to read it according to its genre. We don’t read parables the way we read historical narrative. We don’t read poetry the way we read epistles. And we shouldn’t read apocalyptic literature as if it were a newspaper report from the future.

Understanding this freed me from the literalistic premillennialism that required me to find a place for a literal thousand-year earthly kingdom in the eschatological timeline.

Genesis 1 as Theological Framework, Not Chronological Report

Similarly, I read Genesis 1 as theological rather than chronological.

This is relevant to eschatology because how you read Genesis affects how you read Revelation. If you insist Genesis 1 is a literal scientific account of six 24-hour creation days approximately six thousand years ago, you’re likely to read Revelation 20-22 as a literal chronological sequence as well.

I don’t hold to young earth creationism. I don’t think Genesis 1 is trying to tell us the age of the universe or the mechanics of how God created. It’s a theological text telling us who created (Yahweh, not the gods of the nations), why he created (it was good, purposeful, ordered), and what humanity’s role is (image-bearers, stewards, worshippers).

The “days” are a literary framework – possibly corresponding to a creation week mirrored in the Sabbath pattern, possibly simply a way of organising the material thematically. Genesis 2 retells the creation story from a different angle with a different order of events, which should alert us that strict chronology isn’t the point.

This doesn’t undermine the truth of Genesis. It reads it according to its genre and purpose.

The age of the earth and the mechanisms of creation are questions for science, not theology. Genesis is doing theology, not science. And recognising that doesn’t diminish its authority or inspiration.

Willing to Challenge Augustine Where Necessary

Finally, I’m willing to challenge Augustine – even though he’s one of the most influential theologians in Christian history and even though I’ve cited him approvingly earlier in this essay.

Augustine gave Western Christianity many good things. His exploration of time and eternity in the Confessions is brilliant. His defence of grace against Pelagianism was crucial.

But Augustine also gave us some problematic doctrines. He developed the doctrine of original sin in ways that go beyond Scripture. He laid the groundwork for eternal conscious torment becoming the dominant position. And frankly, his negative view of sexuality and the body has caused immense harm.

I don’t have to take Augustine as a package deal. I can learn from his insights on time while rejecting his views on hell. I can appreciate his theological method while disagreeing with some of his conclusions.

This applies to all the fathers, all the theologians, all the traditions. They’re resources, not authorities. Scripture is the authority. Everything else – including this essay – is subject to correction by Scripture.

Biblical Inerrancy Without Literalism

I need to clarify something important: rejecting literalism is not the same as rejecting biblical authority or inerrancy.

I believe Scripture is God’s inspired, authoritative word. I believe it is trustworthy and true in all that it affirms. But “true” doesn’t always mean “literal in a wooden, face-value sense.”

When Jesus says “I am the door” (John 10:9), he’s not claiming to be made of wood with hinges. He’s using metaphorical language. When the Psalmist says God will cover you with his feathers (Psalm 91:4), he’s not saying God is a giant bird. It’s poetic imagery.

The question isn’t “Is Scripture true?” but “What kind of truth is this particular text communicating, and how does its genre shape that communication?”

Poetry communicates truth differently than historical narrative. Apocalyptic literature communicates truth differently than epistles. Parables communicate truth differently than genealogies. Reading them all the same way – insisting that every text must be literal, chronological, scientific – actually distorts Scripture rather than honouring it.

When I say Genesis 1 is theological rather than chronological, I’m not saying it’s false. I’m saying it’s true in the way it intends to be true – as a theological statement about God’s sovereignty, purpose, and the goodness of creation. Reading it as a scientific textbook imposes a category on it that it never claimed for itself.

When I say Revelation 20 uses symbolic numbers, I’m not saying it’s unreliable. I’m saying John is writing in the apocalyptic genre, which by its nature uses symbolic imagery to communicate spiritual and theological truths. Trying to decode it into a literal timeline misses the point.

Biblical literalism – the insistence that every text must be read literally unless it’s obviously impossible – is a relatively recent development, largely a reaction to modernist scepticism. Ironically, it accepts the modernist assumption that “true” means “scientifically or historically literal” and then tries to defend the Bible on those terms.

I reject that framework. Scripture is true on its own terms, according to its own genres and purposes. My job as a reader is to discern what those are and read accordingly – not to impose my expectations of what “truth” must look like onto the text.

This is why I can affirm biblical inerrancy while rejecting young earth creationism and literalistic premillennialism. I’m not doubting Scripture. I’m reading it faithfully according to the kind of literature it actually is.

The next chapter is here.