a. The four texts examined in chapter 2 of the booklet are:
- Tina Pippin Death and Desire: the Rhetoric of Gender in the Apocalypse (Louisville: WJK, 1992)
- Allan Boesak Comfort and Protest (St Andrew's Press, 1987)
- Wes Howard-Brook and Anthony Gwyther Unveiling Empire: Reading Revelation Then and Now (Orbis Books, 1999)
- Hal Lindsey The Late Great Planet Earth (Zondervan, 1970)
b. Other books mentioned
- Scholarly questioning of whether Revelation was responding to a perceived crisis or actually trying to create such a crisis was in modern times pioneered by Leonard Thompson, The Book of Revelation: Apocalypse and Empire. (Oxford: OUP, 1990).
- For a brief but very helpful exposition of the different views of the millennium see Michael Gilbertson The Meaning of the Millennium (Grove Biblical booklet B 5). See also the tabular summary on the Grove resources page supporting B 28 How to Read the Book of Revelation at www.grovebooks.co.uk
- David Aune, Revelation (Word, Waco: 1999)
- William Stringfellow, An Ethic for Christians and Other Aliens in a Strange Land (Waco: Word, 1973)
- G B Caird, The Revelation of St John the Divine (Black's, 1966)
- Richard Bauckham, The Theology of the Book of Revelation (Cambridge: CUP, 1993).
- Steve Motyer Antisemitism and the New Testament (Grove Biblical booklet B 23)
- A G Mojtabai, Blessed Assurance (Syracuse: Syracuse University Press, 1987)
(See Note 1 in the accompanying booklet): A full transcript of the film's dialogue can be found at http://corky.net/scripts/apocalypseNow.html
(See Note 5 in the accompanying booklet): This is the assumed backdrop behind the 'Left Behind' series, sub-titled 'Tribulation Force'. For an outline of the interpretative problems with this reading, see 'The Use and Abuse of Revelation' by Ian Paul, The Bible in Transmission July 2003, available below. For an online critique of dispensationalism, see http://users.frii.com/gosplow/disp2.html
by Ian Paul
In 1982, the American novelist Ann Grace Mojtabai visited Amarillo, Texas, to find out how ordinary citizens were coping with the prospect of nuclear Armageddon threatened by the Cold War. Amarillo was a good place to ask this question; as home of Pantex, the final assembly plant for all nuclear weapons in the United States, it was pretty much guaranteed to be high up on the list of targets for any nuclear strike. What she discovered was a startling juxtaposition of apocalyptic and technocratic world views, belief both in the promise of technological deliverance by means of superior science, alongside the blessed assurance of divine deliverance from the nuclear holocaust to come.1 Not surprisingly, the vast majority of Christians in Amarillo believed in a pre-tribulation rapture within a framework of premillennial dispensationalism—God would supernaturally remove all true Christians to heaven before the suffering came, to return them when Christ returned to rule the earth for a (literal) thousand years.
Criteria of Evaluation
What constitutes the misuse of Revelation? This is a difficult question to answer, since inevitably it will depend on what you think Revelation is about, or (more importantly) what you think it is trying to achieve—assuming it is possible to talk about the intent of a text. Is it possible to get past the details of interpretative strategies and find a common starting point, departing from which implies a misuse of the text?
The most basic truth about Revelation is that it falls within the boundaries of the canon of Scripture. In other words, it has been the testimony of Christians down the ages, however they have understood Revelation itself, that this is part of God's word—that is, this is a Christian text. To read this text with integrity, then, is to see it as part of Scripture's witness to God as we understand him in Christ. Two of the most prominent truths about God in Scripture are that he is creator of the world, and that he is separate from his creation—he is 'other.' These two principles, of God as creator and of God as other, can offer a basic check on readings of Revelation without us having us to be tangled up in complex hermeneutical acrobatics.2
The belief in a pre-tribulation rapture as documented by Mojtabai, though increasingly popular in parts of the church, does not fair well against these criteria. As Mojtabai notes, this kind of reading places the circumstances of the 21st-century reader at the centre of the process; the circumstances of the citizens of Amarillo provide the dominant motive in the reading strategy. There is very little awareness of the cultural difference of the text, or that it might have made reasonably good sense to a first-century Christian reader. The text is certainly strange, but it is not the strangeness of an alien context which might be engaged with. It is an assumed absence of context, and so the reader's own context fills the horizon. The secret message of the text, hidden for generations, is only now open for us, the last generation, to read. Somewhat ironically, this move has most in common with a postmodern reader-response approach to the text; the author is 'dead' and the reader reigns supreme. There is little sense of the 'other' in these readings, which often simply confirm us in our cultural prejudices even as at the same time they issue a challenge within the culture.
This kind of reading, most recently popularised in the Left Behind series 3, also fails to be faithful to the biblical theme of God as creator. The idea that there will be a future time when God withdraws his presence from the earth is hard to square with the overall biblical commitment of God to his world (see Gen 9.16), a world which testifies to the glory of God in its very fabric (Psalm 19). God's commitment to his creation is in fact prominent within Revelation itself; the throne in chapter 4 is surrounded by the Noahic rainbow of promise, and it is God's activity in creation which is the first cause of praise (Rev 4.11). There appears to be a distinct reluctance within the visions to identify God as the cause of the judgement and destruction of the earth—the judgements are in the main the work of intermediary agents, and they are called forth by the living creatures (6.1, 3, 5, 7, 15.7) or by an anonymous voice from the throne (16.17).
So why has Revelation been so badly misread, and what can we do to guard against this?
Causes of Misreading
There are many features of Revelation that make it hard to read, and they are often interlinked. Here I want to focus on three issues that are in some ways at the root of the problem.
'Genre' is the technical word meaning the kind of writing that we are faced with. The reason why genre is important is that it is the means by which an author (usually unconsciously) communicates to the reader the kinds of expectations the reader should have and the conventions the reader should follow in constructing meaning from the text. In reading Revelation, we are at loss as to what such expectations and conventions might be—put simply, it is an unfamiliar kind of text. In the time of Jesus, 'apocalyptic' was a reasonably well-known genre,4 and Jesus himself deploys this style of speaking in what is sometimes called the 'little apocalypse' or Olivet discourse (Mark 13 and parallels). But most modern readers are unfamiliar with the conventions of such discourse, and the few examples we have (this small section in the gospels and in Daniel, Ezekiel and Revelation) baffle us equally.
But failure to understand genre will lead to basic failures in interpretation. In teaching, I often use this example:
The stars will fall from heaven,
the sun will cease its shining;
the moon will be turned to blood,
and fire and hail will fall from heaven.
The rest of the country will have sunny intervals
with scattered showers.
and I simply ask why this is funny. The answer, of course, is that we are mixing genres—in this case, 'apocalypse' with 'weather forecast'—and it immediately becomes apparent that we interpret these two in quite different ways.
But Revelation is even more complex, in that it mixes genres from one section—even one verse—to another. Within the first nine verses of chapter one we move from apocalypse (1) to benediction (blessing, 3), to letter (4), to doxology (5), to apocalyptic again (7), through prophetic utterance (8) and finally to letter again (9). We are shooting at a moving target— and doing it in the dark!
The most striking thing about Revelation is its use of imagery. Strictly speaking a text itself cannot deploy imagery; what we refer to as its 'images' are in fact metaphors. Here, Jesus is depicted as a lamb (ch 5), the people of God as an army in a census (ch 7), the power of Rome as a beast rising out of the sea (ch 13), heaven as a city descending from the sky (ch 21) and so on. The heart of the problem we have in reading Revelation is the problem we have reading metaphorical language.
Metaphor is both central to Christian (and possibly all religious) language, but it is also fundamentally problematic for post-Enlightenment rationalism. When the world is divided into that which we can know objectively and with confidence, and that which is pleasing but without rational foundation, metaphor and with it religious language fall firmly into the second camp. This makes us treat metaphor in one of two ways. Either we deny metaphor any cognitive content—it does not say anything that we could not express better using propositions—or we deny that it is metaphor, that it is any different from literal, objective language. The first route sees Revelation as irrelevant and possibly dangerously misleading; the second turns us into fundamentalists.
At the centre of metaphor (according to French philosopher Paul Ricoeur) we find both an 'is' and an 'is not'. When I describe my friend as 'eating like a horse' my statement has cognitive content—I am expressing something that is true about my friend. And yet he is like a horse only in certain regards. If he was coming to dinner, I would still set out a knife and fork for him—not a nosebag! How the metaphor functions—which parts belong to the 'is' and which to the 'is not'—can only be known from knowing about the situation in which the statement is made. If someone asks 'Where is that old boot?' then the meaning will depend on whether he is asking about something he used to wear whilst playing football, or whether he is looking for his maiden aunt. In the former case, the identification of 'old boot' with what he is looking for is total—everything that is true about the one will be true about the other. But when the expression becomes metaphorical, then the identification is only partial. To know which it is, and which parts carry over, we have to understand both the historical context (what he is actually asking for) and the literary context (how this language is being used).
So in the case of Revelation, to understand what it means to describe Roman Imperial power as a beast, we need to know something about the Empire itself, how it described itself, what it might have been like to have been a citizen of Empire. And we need to look carefully at how Revelation uses the language of 'beastliness'—indeed, how it redeploys language from the Old Testament and elsewhere in doing this.
In devotional terms, this amounts to recognising that we are wanting God to speak to us through a text that, in the first place, was someone else ('John') speaking to another group of people (Christians in first century Asia minor). We need to engage an historically disciplined imagination and ask the question 'What would they have heard from John in this?' in order to shape our answer to the question 'What should we be hearing from God through this?'
3. The Academic versus the Devotional
It was around 1830 that J N Darby first developed his doctrine of pre-tribulation rapture, a doctrine that was popularised by the Scofield Reference Bible and through that has directly affected Christians like those in Amarillo. During the same decade but in a rather different context, four German scholars (apparently independently) proposed the now generally accepted 'solution' to the puzzle of the meaning of '666' in Rev 13.18—that it refers to Nero Caesar by enumerating his name transliterated from Greek into Hebrew characters. These two approaches to interpreting Revelation demonstrate the enormous gulf that has existed between academic and popular readings, to the detriment of both. Too many scholarly treatments of Revelation construct a speculative pre-history of the text, and render the text as we have it void of meaning. But the vacuum of understanding at the popular level, due to the lack of connexion with scholarship by accident or by design, sucks in all sorts of bizarre theories. Darby's own thinking was formulated as a conscious rejection of the intellectual trends in Bible reading of his time.
All this might sound a little daunting, and might suggest that there is little future for popular, devotional reading of Revelation. I do not believe that this is the case. I take very seriously the Reformation belief in the perspicuity of Scripture. But if popular reading of Revelation is also going to be responsible reading, we need to draw on the understanding of the whole body of Christ. And that will include believers from other cultures and backgrounds as well as believers who have studied the book at every level. Conversely, scholarly reading needs to acknowledge, engage with and speak to the ways that Revelation shapes the heart and mind of the 'person in the pew.'
Revd Dr Ian Paul is on the staff of St John's College, Nottingham, and is Managing Editor of Grove Books Ltd. He has published academic and popular works on spirituality and on the Bible, the most recent being How to Read the Book of Revelation available from www.grovebooks.co.uk
1 Blessed Assurance, A G Mojtabai (Syracuse University Press, 1997).
2 It is worth noting that here, as with other contemporary contentious issues, how we approach Scripture and how we understand God are inextricably bound together.
3 The Left Behind series (currently eight titles) by Tim Lahaye and Jerry Jenkins are published by Tyndale House (though not the one in Cambridge!). Someone has recently written a response critiquing its theology under the title I don't want to be Left Behind but this is not yet available in Britain.
4 It is somewhat ironic that the term 'apocalypse' (meaning 'revelation') occurs nowhere else in apocalyptic literature other than Revelation 1.1
by Ian Paul
The interpretation of metaphor is often overlooked, but it is one of the most crucial areas in the whole of hermeneutics since so much biblical theology hangs on metaphors and metaphor is at the heart of philosophical problems with religious language.
It is worth noting at the outset that all language about 'imagery' or 'symbol' in Scripture is in fact referring to metaphor. Symbols and images belong to the extra-textual world of things; their textual counterpart is the metaphor. For example, if I light a candle to express something about the presence of God, then that is a symbol. But if I describe Jesus as the light of the world, then that is a metaphor. For the purposes of this discussion, I will also treat the varieties of language use sometimes called metaphor ('A is B'), simile ('A is like B') and synecdoche (A is used in the place of B, where A is part of B or vice versa, as in 'England played France at rugby') all simply as varieties of metaphor, since they share the same basic feature whereby two terms are brought together which have different, apparently distinct ranges of meaning to express something new.
The Problem of Metaphor
Aristotle famously declared the central importance of metaphor: 'If one wants to master speech, one must master metaphor.' Metaphor was seen as a particular way of using language, a use which 'carried meaning beyond' (the literal meaning of 'metaphor') what was usually meant. As such it belonged to the arena of Rhetoric, though this was in a context where sharp questions about epistemology where not always present.
Metaphor came to be seen as especially problematic during the Enlightenment. Under Kant's separation of knowledge into the two mutually exclusive classes of the 'aesthetic' and the 'useful', metaphorical language was seen to express the former, over against 'literal' or scientific language which expressed the latter. This had two consequences for metaphor, and by implication for much religious language. In the first place, it meant that metaphor had at very best a questionable claim to be stating 'truth' in any form. Since this was the prerogative of 'scientific' language, then whatever truth content there is in metaphor could be expressed more effectively in nonmetaphorical language. This led to the second consequence: that metaphor could be seen to be merely ornamental, an emotive (and therefore probably deceptive) and unnecessary addition to language, persuasive in the context of rhetoric, but distracting and unnecessary when it came to seeking truth.
(It is worth noting, however, that over the centuries even metaphor's detractors found the use of metaphor irresistible. One of them rejected metaphorical language and called, instead, for a 'close, natural, naked way of speaking'!)
The move to take language seriously within twentieth-century Western philosophy set the stage for a reconsideration of metaphor. If language is the vehicle of truth, rather than just a window into it, then the form in which language expresses truth needs to be taken into account in thinking about truth. Pioneering rehabilitators of metaphor included Monroe Beardsley, Philip Wheelwright and Max Black. But the person who, building on their work, has done more than any other to set out the anatomy of metaphor and highlight its importance in language is the French philosopher and phenomenologist Paul Ricoeur.
The Paradox of Metaphor
Black proposed that within a metaphor, the 'vehicle' (that is, the term which is being used to describe the subject, such as 'horse' in the phrase 'my friend eats like a horse') offers a 'grid' through which the subject is seen. Black noted that this is not a simple one-way process, in that the metaphor could affect the way the vehicle was understood, as well as the subject. To say, for example, that 'Man is a wolf', affects my perception of 'man' (as being more wolf-like in some way), but also my perception of 'wolf' (in embodying some aspect of what it means to be human). Ricoeur took this idea one step on, by moving from the perceptual to the cognitive. He observed that within a metaphorical predication there was a paradox. In asserting that 'A is B', the metaphorical statement is also at the same time claiming that 'A is not B'—which is precisely the thing that makes it a metaphorical, rather than a literal, statement. For example, when I claim that my friend eats like a horse, I am both claiming that he is like a horse in some ways, but also, at the exact same time, that he is unlike a horse in other ways. After all, I still set cutlery for him when he comes round for dinner, rather than filling a nosebag!
So the predication involved in metaphorical statements is only partial, in that only certain aspects of the vehicle are being identified with the subject in order to effect the tenor (the semantic content) of the metaphor. But Ricoeur argues that, far from being merely ornamental, or another way of making propositional statements, metaphor contains an irreducible cognitive content—metaphors make real and substantial claims about reality that cannot be expressed in alternative propositional forms. This is not to do so much with the effect on individual words, but to do with the fact that the connections that metaphor makes actually reorganise the perceptive world. Once I begin to describe God as 'father', then I make fundamental connections between human relations and experience and spiritual relations and experience that go beyond a mere collection of propositions about God being 'caring' or 'authoritative' or 'provider.' The connection between two realms of life affects both, in this case the spiritual being made accessible, and the human being granted a new dignity and responsibility.
The Significance of Metaphor
Ricoeur's characterisation of metaphor in this way offers a convincing description of one of the key ways in which the world that language describes can expand. When new areas of knowledge arise, then the chief way in which language expands to explain this new area is by metaphorical extension of meaning. Until the nineteenth century in Britain, and the growth of the new discipline of 'economics', the meaning of the word 'inflation' was restricted to the physical expansion of a balloon or other similar object. The term was then carried over (originally in a pejorative sense) to describe what is happening when the money supply increases and currency begins to lose its purchasing value. Nowadays, the use of 'inflation' with reference to the economy is seen as within the normal semantic range of the term, and there is no sense of it being a metaphor.
By similar developments of language, our character is understood as being controlled to a large extent by 'packets' of information in our body's cells (genes), the universe started with a 'big bang', and when life is difficult we suffer from 'depression'. Terms that started as metaphors have become at most figurative and certainly normal uses which we will now find in dictionary definitions. But the expansion of semantic range leads to a corresponding expansion of the capacity of language to describe what was previously indescribable, in these cases in the areas of biology, physics and psychology. (Some have argued that this deep structure of metaphor is in fact akin to the process by which hypotheses are conjectured and tested in the development of scientific theory, so that the reconfiguration offered by metaphor is closely related to the function of models in science— bringing together the two categories separated by Kant.)
This is especially pertinent for Christian theology. How do we describe an encounter with the transcendent that has only been made possible by the transcendent's own self-revelation? The answer, at the level of language, is by metaphorical extension. And, in fact, the paradox of 'is'/'is not' within metaphorical language corresponds to the tension within Christian thought between the idea that we can know God by analogy (as for example in the work of Thomas Aquinas) and apophatic theology (in the Desert Fathers and elsewhere) that believes that God is unknowable, and so we can only define God by negation.
The Context of Metaphor
Understanding the anatomy of metaphor in this way immediately raises two questions of context. The first is that of historical context. If I am to understand the tenor (the effect, the cognitive content) of a metaphor, then I need to understand something of the historical reality of the subject, and the semantic range of the vehicle at the time that the metaphor was coined in order to have an idea of which parts of the metaphorical identification belong to the 'is' and which belong to the 'is not.' In Laodicea in Asia Minor, the only source of water was thermal springs, laden with calcium deposits, brought in aqueducts from Hierapolis (modern Pammukale). The hot spring water in Hierapolis was therapeutic; cold water, set aside in jars and from which the calcium deposits had settled out, was drinkable. But the water that arrived at Laodicea, now only lukewarm as a result of its journey but still full of the calcium that had not time to settle out, was good for neither. To be spiritually 'hot', 'cold' or 'lukewarm' in first-century Laodicea (Rev 3) meant something very different from common contemporary use.
The second question of context is that of linguistic context. Some metaphors are coined less because of the actual meaning of the terms, but because of rhetorical considerations (such as the use of alliteration) of because of the supposed rather than actual implications. To 'sleep like a baby' refers to something other than the frequent waking through the night that is the actual habit of babies (at least in my experience!). Do troopers really swear more than anyone else? Do horses actually have especially large appetites? The question to ask here concerns conventional usage, rather than historical reality. For biblical metaphors, this implies that we must examine the meaning of words in their wider canonical context as well as their historical context. In understanding what it means for Jesus to be the 'good shepherd' (John 10), the biblical picture of leaders as shepherds in the Old Testament will be as important as the historical reality of first-century shepherding.
The Power of Metaphor
Why is it that metaphors are so powerful—how are they able to capture the imagination, even transcending time and culture? The answer is, as before, rooted in the paradoxical 'is'/'is not' nature of metaphor. The coining of a metaphor implies a selectivity, in that certain features of the subject, which correspond to features of the vehicle, are identified, and other features are effectively ignored, at least in the context of the metaphor in question. When the connections are made at deeper levels of significance, particularities and details are left behind. Whilst it is important to know the historical context in order to see how the metaphor works, it is often aspects of the historical particularity that are shorn away in revealing features of deeper significance. In Rev 12 and 13, Roman Imperial power is depicted as a beast from the sea, obsessed with image, opposed to the saints, bent on economic control and acting with totalitarian power. We can see the particular, historical ways in which this might have been true of Rome in the first and subsequent centuries. But these things have also characterised other political systems in other ages, and with the historical details removed, readers have found in this metaphorisation a potent description of their own situation.
In this way, the act of coining a metaphor is itself an act of interpretation, of selecting, emphasising and drawing attention to certain aspects of reality, but ignoring, sidelining or passing over other aspects—one that has a visual counterpart in the drawing of caricatures and other political cartoons. In this respect, metaphor has much in common with narrative, which adds a temporal dimension to the interpretative reconfiguration of the world. Biblical metaphors do indeed often have a narrative context, and narratives in turn can function as metaphors 'writ large.'
The Interpretation of Biblical Metaphors
The implications of all of this is not to suggest a new, separate methodology for the interpretation of metaphor, so much as to require a fresh bringing together of interpretative methods in a distinctively integrative way.
We need to understand the state of language and the historical realities of the subject and vehicle, which implies the need for a historical critical methodology. But we also need to look at language use and structure, which implies the need for literary analysis. Because of the power of metaphor to transcend time and culture, we are invited to look for a correspondence of relations in our own world, so the horizon of the reader is also in view.
We can see how these elements might interplay by considering some examples.
The metaphor of God as father is a central one for Christian theology, but it is one that is largely misunderstood in popular reading. There are problems at both ends, as it were, of the reading process. On the one hand, dysfunctional experiences of being fathered can lead contemporary readers to project their perceptions onto the biblical text. On the other hand, positive experiences of being fathered, perhaps leading to an idealisation of fatherhood as caring and providing, can displace the historical realities of fatherhood in biblical times. Both of these are engaged by ensuring that the historical dimension of the metaphor is adequately explored. A significant aspect of relations with the father in the family was that the sons engaged in the father's business— something evidenced in business signs today that include 'and Son.' Addressing God as 'Our Father' and asking for the kingdom to come is more like clocking in for work than engaging in a divine embrace.
The feminist and gay critique of gendered language about God asks different questions. Here, metaphor's irreducible cognitive content means that it is far from simple to reduce the metaphor of God as father to a series of propositions which might even be recast as an alternative metaphor such as 'life-giver.' This is especially important for metaphors such as 'father' that have an archetypal significance in human experience. Those wanting to argue for an alternative 'root metaphor' for Christian understanding of God either use some other set of criteria to critique every aspect of Christian belief (as with feminist 'revolutionaries' such as Mary Daly) or use such criteria to prioritise other metaphors which are present in Scripture but do not have such prominent significance within Scripture (as with feminist 'reformers' such as Sallie McFague). In both cases, other sources of authority (in this case, women's experience) need to become prior to Scripture within the hermeneutical circle.
'Bread' does not have quite the same transcultural, archetypal significance as 'father' and so the question of 'translating' or recasting the metaphor arises more sharply. Where another food is the staple source of sustenance, it may be argued that there is some equivalence in using a corresponding term, such as 'rice.' The danger here is that we lose the contours of the original metaphor, in this case the difference between unleavened and leavened bread as an image of holiness and sin—though the same danger is present in cultures, like mine, in which only one sort of bread is popularly known.
This metaphor is present in the phrase 'Lord of hosts' ('Yahweh Sabaoth') as well as being embedded or implied in Old Testament language about God fighting for Israel. Here the horizon of the contemporary reader presents the most challenges, filled as it is both with changing Western ethical thinking about war, and a very different idealisation of warfare in the Islamic concept of 'jihad.' If we are to interpret this metaphor aright, we need to look very carefully at all the ambiguities in Scripture surrounding this metaphor and how these ambiguities challenge a simplistic appropriation of it in our very different context.
This metaphor comes from a particular passage, Jeremiah 18, but also has echoes in the New Testament. It is one that is influential in certain strands of Christian piety, but in which it is often removed from its particular literary context and so misconstrued. In Jer 18 the metaphor serves to emphasise God's freedom to act as he will, but there is also a contrasting dimension (the 'is not' of the metaphorical predication) by which the clay itself is responsible for whether it will be shaped by the potter—something that makes little sense in real-life pottery. The use of this metaphor to imply that faith is something passive, where we have little or nothing to do with our own shaping and growth, goes against the slightly counter-intuitive but prominent aspect of the image in its literary context.
Thus we can see that the different aspects of interpretation—issues to do with the world behind the text (the historical context), the world of the text (literary concerns) and the world in front of the text (the situation of the reader) all have significant bearing, though in different degrees in different instances, on how we read biblical metaphors.
Paul Ricoeur (1976) Interpretation Theory: Discourse and the surplus of meaning. Fort Worth: Texas Christian University Press.
- Paul Ricoeur (1978) The Rule of Metaphor. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
- Black, Max (1962) Models and Metaphors: Studies in Language and Philosophy. Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
- Ian Paul (2003) How to Read the Book of Revelation Cambridge: Grove Books.
- Hesse, Mary (1963) Models and Analogies in Science. London: Sheed and Ward.
- Philip Jensen (2002) The Problem of War in the Old Testament. Cambridge: Grove Books.
- Sallie McFague (1982) Metaphorical Theology. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.
by Steve Moyise
This article can be viewed at http://www.ucc.ac.uk/theology/pdf/lion.pdf