One of the speakers was of particular interest to me, the veteran missionary, Jackie Pullinger. If you are not familiar with her, she is from Britian and has served in Hong Kong for 60 years. Her story is told in the book Chasing the Dragon: One Woman’s Struggle Against the Darkness of Hong Kong’s Drug Dens. As the back cover of the book points out, she has labored among drug addicts, prostitutes, and gang members. There is also a DVD about her work called “The Law of Love.” The Faith & Veritas 2026 website says that she founded St. Stephen’s Society (www. https://faithandveritas.law.harvard.edu/schedule).

On Friday, March 27^th, Jackie had an hour and 15-minute session in the conference. As she began speaking she shared some words of knowledge that she and her assistant had for various individuals. She went on to say that they would be willing to pray with these people after she spoke. The title of her message was “Stirred, Shaken, and Poured Out.”

I found a number of statements in the course of her address striking. A brief summary of them follows. She told those who were present that she hoped that all would go somewhere. I understood her to mean that all should go out in service for the Lord. Also noteworthy was her statement that some people are praying for a move of God (and she agrees that is a good thing to do), but she thinks that God is waiting for a move of man, that is, that Christians, would go out and do what we are supposed to be doing. In addition, she mentioned that Christians give good advice but what people need is good news. Regarding the Lord’s people she said that God has great things for believers, but the enemy wants us to believe the opposite.

Jackie Pullinger speaks with authority because she has walked the walk. She has served others over the long-haul, persevering in circumstances that are less than ideal. I am happy to have heard her and met her. I would dare say that she is one of the most respected missionaries in the world today, and rightly so. Hearing her at Harvard was likely a once in a lifetime opportunity for me. I am glad that I was able to take this opportunity. Only eternity will reveal what seeds she planted or watered in that session or what fruit came from her words spoken on the campus of Harvard Law School.

The answer may surprise us.

Pentecostal leader Jack Hayford once said, “Genuine spiritual fullness is bridge building.” That insight cuts to the heart of the issue. If spiritual maturity leads us into isolation or superiority, something has gone wrong. True fullness of the Spirit should expand our vision of the church, not shrink it.

Many Baptists, particularly those influenced by cessationism, believe that certain supernatural gifts, such as speaking in tongues, prophecy, and healing, ceased in the early church. Charismatics, on the other hand, believe these gifts remain active and available today, just as described in 1 Corinthians 12. This disagreement is significant, but it is often overstated.

In practice, the lines are far more blurred than many assume. A growing number of Baptists affirm that spiritual gifts continue today, even if they express them more cautiously. Over the past few decades, studies have shown a notable increase in openness among Baptist pastors to the idea that the gifts of the Spirit are still operative. Even within traditionally non-charismatic environments, one can often find evidence of deep spiritual experience, fervent prayer, and moments that defy easy explanation.

History also complicates the narrative. Charles Spurgeon, the famed “Prince of Preachers,” was a staunch Baptist with no formal connection to charismatic theology. Yet accounts from his ministry include moments of remarkable spiritual insight that many today would describe as prophetic. Similarly, Billy Graham, arguably the most recognized Baptist figure of the modern era, spoke openly about divine healing, the laying on of hands, and the possibility of renewed signs and wonders in the last days.

These examples suggest that the divide is not always as clean or as rigid as our labels imply.

On a personal level, my own journey reflects this complexity. As a young believer, I was committed to Christ and grounded in Scripture, yet I sensed that something was missing. My first encounters with Charismatic Christians were, admittedly, uncomfortable. Their expressions of faith seemed unusual, even excessive at times. But I could not deny that many of them possessed a depth of spiritual life that I longed for.

And that is the point. The church was never meant to be a collection of isolated tribes, each guarding its own distinctives. The apostle Paul’s vision in 1 Corinthians 12 is not of uniformity, but of unity, a body with many members, each contributing something essential. The problem arises when we elevate our distinctives above our shared foundation in Christ.

When Charismatics lose sight of that foundation, they risk drifting into excess and confusion. When Baptists do the same, they risk reducing the Christian life to doctrine without experience. Both dangers are real. Both require correction. And both are best addressed not in isolation, but in conversation.

Image: Stephanie Krist

There is much we can learn from one another. Charismatics can benefit from the Baptist commitment to biblical clarity and theological discipline. Baptists can be enriched by the Charismatic emphasis on the active, present work of the Holy Spirit. The broader Christian tradition reminds us that no single group has a monopoly on truth. As the early church father Justin Martyr suggested, whatever is true belongs to all Christians.

In the end, the question is not whether Baptists and Charismatics will agree on every point of doctrine. They will not. The question is whether they can recognize one another as fellow members of the same body, pursuing the same Lord, and working toward the same mission.

If they can, then perhaps the divide is not as wide as we have imagined. And perhaps, in a divided world, that unity will speak louder than any difference ever could.

PR

Introduction

Michael Heiser’s The Unseen Realm represents an ambitious and learned attempt to argue that a coherent “divine council” worldview underlies and organizes the entire biblical narrative, from Genesis to Revelation, and that recovery of this worldview is the key to unlocking a host of exegetical puzzles that have long troubled readers of Scripture. The book has been warmly received in many evangelical circles, praised for its originality, its command of Ancient Near Eastern (ANE) background material, and its willingness to engage texts that more cautious interpreters have left undisturbed.

The present paper does not dispute the genuine value of Heiser’s ANE scholarship, nor does it deny that divine council imagery is present in the Old Testament and that this imagery has been underexplored in much popular biblical theology. What it disputes is the methodological and hermeneutical framework within which Heiser deploys this material—and, most fundamentally, the textual foundation upon which the entire project rests. The argument will proceed across four areas of critique, concluding with a summary assessment of the project’s overall viability as a work of biblical theology.

The Text-Critical Foundation: Deut 32:8 and the Isolation of the Qumran Reading

The entire edifice of Heiser’s argument rests, by his own account, on a single textual judgment: that Deuteronomy 32:8 originally read “sons of God” (bene elohim) rather than the Masoretic Text’s “sons of Israel.” This reading is attested in a Dead Sea Scrolls fragment (4QDeut^j) and has been preferred by a number of critical scholars on the grounds of the standard text-critical principles of lectio difficilior and the general antiquity of some Qumran textual traditions. Heiser treats this preference as effectively settled, and proceeds to erect upon it a comprehensive theology of the divine council, the allotment of the nations, and the cosmic geography of redemptive history.

The first and most fundamental problem with this procedure is one that Heiser consistently minimizes: the Qumran reading is attested in effectively one manuscript, and it left no discernible trace in the broader transmission history of either the Old Testament or the Greek and Aramaic versional traditions as received by the church and synagogue. The manuscript situation deserves to be stated plainly.

The Masoretic Text, representing the mainstream of Jewish scribal tradition across many centuries and geographic locations, reads “sons of Israel.” The Samaritan Pentateuch, an independent textual tradition, likewise reads “sons of Israel.” The Targums (the Aramaic paraphrastic translations used in synagogue worship) follow the Masoretic reading. The Peshitta, the ancient Syriac translation, follows it as well. The Septuagint reads “angels of God” (angelon theou)—which Heiser treats as corroborating his reading, but which in fact represents a distinct interpretive tradition that domesticates the phrase into angelology rather than confirming a divine council framework, and which itself seems to reflect theological interpretation of a Hebrew Vorlage rather than a variant text. Against all of this, the “sons of God” reading is present in one fragmentary manuscript from one sectarian community[1] … and a community that itself preserved manuscripts of the Book of Enoch and the Book of Jubilees. This may thus be more indicative of this community’s readings than of anything wider among Jews of the second Temple period.

This manuscript isolation is not a minor footnote. It is a datum of the first importance that cuts directly against the theological weight Heiser places on the reading. If the bene elohim text were the original reading[2], and if the divine council worldview it encodes were as foundational to Israel’s theological self-understanding as Heiser claims, one would expect at minimum some broader manuscript tradition to have preserved it. The virtual absence of the reading from the broad channels of textual transmission (Jewish, Samaritan, and Christian) demands explanation that Heiser does not provide.

The character of the Qumran community sharpens this concern considerably. The Dead Sea Scrolls community was not a neutral repository of pristine pre-Masoretic texts. It was a sectarian movement with well-documented theological distinctives: a highly developed angelology, a cosmic dualism between the sons of light and the sons of darkness, an elaborate hierarchy of spiritual beings, and an intense interest in precisely the divine council and territorial spirit traditions upon which Heiser’s framework depends. The Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, the War Scroll, and 11QMelchizedek all attest to a community that was deeply invested in elaborating the kind of cosmic hierarchy that the bene elohim reading of Deuteronomy 32:8 supports. The possibility (which Heiser does not adequately entertain) is that the Qumran reading reflects a theologically motivated scribal adjustment congenial to the community’s own cosmological commitments, rather than the preservation of a more original text.

There is, finally, a theological dimension to the manuscript question that goes beyond text criticism proper. The doctrine of providence as applied to the transmission of Scripture (held in varying forms across Jewish, Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant traditions) carries the implication that the text God preserved and the communities of faith received is the text that bears canonical authority for those communities. A reading preserved in one manuscript of a sectarian movement, unattested in the broad streams of Jewish and Christian canonical transmission, cannot responsibly serve as the fulcrum of a comprehensive biblical theology without extensive argument about why providential guidance apparently suppressed the “true” reading across every other stream of textual tradition. Heiser provides no such argument. He offers a text-critical judgment and then proceeds as though a theological conclusion has been established. It has not.

The Hermeneutical Problem: Poetic, Apocalyptic, and Visionary Texts as Governing Framework

Even granting Heiser’s preferred textual reading of Deuteronomy 32:8, a second and equally serious problem emerges at the level of hermeneutical method. The texts that form the backbone of Heiser’s divine council argument are, almost without exception, drawn from the genres least suited to serve as the governing framework for systematic biblical theology: poetry (Deut 32, Ps 82; 89; 110), prophetic taunt and lament (Isa 14; Ezek 28), apocalyptic vision (Dan 10), and the elevated cosmic poetry of the wisdom tradition. Heiser’s interpretive procedure is to read these texts as straightforward cosmological claims and then to use them as the framework within which plainer narrative and didactic texts are read.

Image: Adrien Olichon

This inverts the most basic principle of classical biblical hermeneutics. From the patristic period through the Reformation and into the modern era, the consistent counsel of interpreters across traditions has been that clear, didactic, and narrative texts govern the interpretation of figurative, poetic, and apocalyptic ones—not the reverse. The rationale is straightforward: poetic and visionary texts are more susceptible to a wide range of interpretation, more embedded in specific literary conventions and rhetorical purposes, and more likely to employ figurative or hyperbolic language that is not intended as literal cosmological description. None of this is to suggest that such texts may not nor should not be allowed to say whatever they say as informing a biblical theology of anything. The question is what they are actually saying … as this cannot be assumed on any proposed straightforward reading given the nature of such texts for interpretation.

Psalm 82 illustrates the problem acutely. The Psalm depicts a scene in which God stands in a divine assembly and judges the “gods” (elohim) for their corrupt exercise of justice, pronouncing their mortality. Heiser reads this as a straightforward account of a divine council of genuinely supernatural personal beings who have been entrusted with the governance of the nations and have failed in that trust. But the genre of the text—what appears to be a judicial Psalm employing the language and imagery of the divine court—does not straightforwardly license this reading. The “gods” of Psalm 82 can plausibly be read as human rulers employing the honorific language of ancient Near Eastern kingship ideology, as the Johannine Jesus himself suggests when citing this very psalm in John 10:34-35. They can be read as a rhetorical device for the Psalmist’s polemic against injustice, using the language of divine council mythology precisely to subvert it. Heiser dismisses these alternatives too quickly and without adequate engagement with the strongest advocates of alternative readings.

Daniel 10, with its references to the “prince of Persia” and the “prince of Greece,” presents perhaps the starkest genre problem. The passage is embedded in a vision narrative—a form that the biblical tradition itself consistently marks as requiring interpretation (“wisdom”) and as not straightforwardly representing literal cosmological states of affairs. To project the imagery of Daniel’s vision into a systematic theology of territorial spirits and their governance of nations is to make a genre error of the first order. It treats as cosmological description what the text presents as visionary symbol. This is not to suggest that our attempts at genre identification rule out his reading, but he does not seem to take such into account as part of his whole approach to what he is claiming is the best reading of these texts.

The Second Temple Problem: Extra-Canonical Literature as Exegetical Authority

The third major structural flaw in Heiser’s project concerns his use of Second Temple Jewish literature. He makes extensive use of 1 Enoch (particularly the Book of the Watchers), Jubilees, the Dead Sea Scrolls (especially the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice, the War Scroll, and 11QMelchizedek), and related texts as though their witness clarifies and confirms the meaning of the canonical Old Testament texts. This procedure is never adequately defended at the methodological level, and when examined carefully it proves to be hermeneutically incoherent.

There are two defensible uses of Second Temple literature in biblical interpretation. It may be used as evidence of how canonical texts were received and elaborated in a particular historical period, that is, as reception history. And it may be used as background for illuminating the conceptual world assumed by the New Testament authors, since those authors wrote within a Second Temple context. What it cannot responsibly be used for (without explicit methodological justification) is as an exegetical key that unlocks what the Old Testament texts were always and originally saying. Heiser consistently uses the literature for this third, illegitimate purpose, conflating reception history with authorial intention.

The historical diversity of Second Temple Judaism compounds this problem. Heiser frequently appeals to “Second Temple Judaism” as though it constitutes a coherent tradition that uniformly elaborates the divine council worldview. This is historically untenable. The angelology of 1 Enoch differs markedly from that of the Qumran community (despite the presence of this collection among the Qumran findings), which differs from Philo’s Hellenized tradition, which differs from the Sadducees who rejected the elaborated angel tradition altogether, which differs from the emerging rabbinic tradition’s deep ambivalence about angelological speculation. When Heiser appeals to Second Temple Judaism as confirming his reading, he is selecting the streams of that tradition that confirm his thesis and marginalizing the ones that complicate or contradict it.

The case of 1 Enoch is particularly instructive. Heiser leans heavily on the Book of the Watchers (1 Enoch 1-36) as elaborating and confirming the divine council and fallen elohim framework he finds in Genesis 6 and Deuteronomy 32. But 1 Enoch is not straightforward theological exposition of earlier Scripture. It is a sophisticated rewriting of tradition for specific apocalyptic and sectarian purposes. The Enochic literature functioned, in significant measure, as a rival to the emerging Mosaic Torah-centered Judaism of the Second Temple period, offering an alternative cosmology, an alternative calendar, and alternative priestly claims rooted in the figure of Enoch rather than Moses. To use this literature as a transparent window into what the Mosaic texts originally meant is therefore not merely chronologically problematic, it imports a theologically tendentious document with its own agenda as a neutral explanatory key.

The treatment of 11QMelchizedek illustrates the problem from a different angle. Heiser uses this Qumran pesher to connect Psalm 82, the Melchizedek tradition, and New Testament Christology within a divine council framework, arguing that Jesus’s claims are intelligible only against this background. But a pesher is, by definition, a community-specific interpretation produced for sectarian purposes. Its use of Psalm 82 tells us how the Qumran community read that Psalm in the context of their own eschatological expectations; it tells us nothing about what the Psalm originally meant, and it cannot be assumed to represent the conceptual background of the author of Hebrews or the Johannine Jesus. Heiser slides between these distinct questions with insufficient care.

Theological Difficulties: Divine Council, National Allotment, and the Limits of Sovereignty

Beyond the textual and hermeneutical problems, Heiser’s project generates a cluster of unresolved theological difficulties that his disclaimers cannot fully neutralize.

Heiser is careful throughout to insist that he is not arguing for polytheism: the elohim of the divine council are, on his account, ontologically subordinate to Yahweh, dependent beings rather than independent deities. But this disclaimer does not resolve the theological problem. If the elohim are genuinely supernatural personal beings with delegated authority over the nations, then they are morally responsible agents, and the question of their moral responsibility creates difficulties his framework never adequately addresses. If they sin in the exercise of their delegated authority (as Psalm 82 apparently implies), does their sin operate independently of human sin? Do they stand in need of redemption? Are they objects of Christ’s atoning work? Heiser gestures at some of these questions in connection with his reading of Colossians 1 and Ephesians 6, but the systematic implications remain underdeveloped, and in several places the framework edges uncomfortably close to a soft polytheism that the theological disclaimers cannot fully contain.

The “allotment of the nations” thesis presents the most acute theological difficulty. Heiser argues, on the basis of his reading of Deuteronomy 32:8-9 and Genesis 11, that Yahweh “disinherited the nations” at Babel and handed them over to the governance of subordinate divine beings: that there is a period in redemptive history when entire peoples were, in some meaningful sense, outside Yahweh’s direct providential governance, awaiting reclamation through the mission inaugurated with Abraham.

Heiser’s framework requires a far more limited and intermittent divine sovereignty than the canonical prophets seem to allow. He does not sufficiently reckon with the weight of this counterevidence, tending to treat the texts that fit his framework as primary and those that resist it as requiring explanation within it, rather than the reverse.

The Comparative Method and Its Limits

One of the genuine strengths of Heiser’s work is his command of Ancient Near Eastern textual and iconographic material—the Ugaritic texts, the mythology of El and Baal, the traditions of the bene el, the Rephaim, and the assembly of the gods. This material is genuinely illuminating as background for understanding the conceptual world in which the biblical texts were written and against which they were at least in part composed.

The Absence of Engagement with the Strongest Counter-Readings

A final concern bears mention. For a work of the theological ambition of The Unseen Realm (and Heiser’s many other books, podcasts, blogs, articles, etc), the engagement with counterarguments is surprisingly thin (though to be fair he cites himself extensively for where he deals in far greater detail on given topics). The classic monotheistic and monolatrous readings of the relevant texts are largely bypassed in favor of engagement with popular-level evangelical assumptions in order to reorder this according to his revisioned hermeneutic. Heiser tends to set up the weakest available alternative readings and demonstrate their inadequacy, rather than engaging the most sophisticated defenders of positions contrary to his own.

A more rigorous engagement would include, for example, Meredith Kline’s interpretation of divine council imagery as theophanic and juridical rather than referring to an ontological hierarchy of supernatural beings; the prolonged pointed readings countering many of Heiser’s approach in John Walton and J. Harvey Walton’s Demons and Spirits in Biblical Theology; John Goldingay’s careful and nuanced treatment of the same texts in his Old Testament Theology; and the extensive tradition of interpretation that reads Psalm 82 as addressed to human rulers employing the honorific language of ancient Near Eastern kingship. These are not easily dismissed readings, and their absence from serious engagement in The Unseen Realm represents a significant gap in the project’s scholarly apparatus. Though I must submit that in the end, he did not write this book for scholars, but for lay readers who themselves would feel overwhelmed by the technical comments (that fall short for those who know the primary and secondary literature as incomplete at best).

Conclusion

The case against the hermeneutical and textual foundations of The Unseen Realm can now be stated in summary form. The project rests, at its base, on a single contested text-critical judgment (the preference for the bene elohim reading of Deuteronomy 32:8) whose manuscript support reduces, upon examination, to one fragmentary scroll from one sectarian community whose own theological commitments were directly aligned with the reading’s implications. The broader tradition of textual transmission, Jewish and Christian, Masoretic, Samaritan, and versional, does not attest this reading. The theological weight Heiser places upon it is entirely disproportionate to the manuscript evidence that supports it.

Upon this narrow textual foundation, Heiser erects an interpretive framework drawn primarily from the genres least suited to serve as governing theological authorities for clearest theological articulation: the imagery of poetic, apocalyptic, and visionary texts, read in a maximally literal cosmological key against the controlling testimony of the narrative and didactic witness of Scripture. The hermeneutical procedure inverts the classical principle that the clear governs the obscure. One does not even have to commit to such an idea to still understand that such texts remain unclear and thus demand far more from their readers to hear well.

This framework is then confirmed and elaborated by appeal to Second Temple Jewish literature (primarily from the Enochic tradition and the Qumran community) which is treated as an exegetical authority for the meaning of canonical texts rather than as reception-historical evidence of how those texts were later read in particular sectarian contexts. The canonical text is effectively governed from both directions by extra-canonical literature with its own theological agendas.

The theological results compound these problems. The allotment of the nations thesis requires a limitation of divine sovereignty that sits in severe tension with the prophetic and apostolic witness. The divine council hierarchy raises unresolved questions about the nature, moral responsibility, and ultimate destiny of its members that Heiser’s disclaimers about ontological subordination do not seem to adequately resolve.

None of this is to deny the genuine value of Heiser’s ANE scholarship, the legitimacy of attending to divine council imagery in the Old Testament, or the interest and stimulation his readings generate. The Unseen Realm is a work that rewards serious engagement, and it has helpfully pushed readers toward texts and backgrounds that deserve more attention than they typically receive in popular biblical theology. However, it has also fed the “weird” or “strange” (something which Heiser specifically says are the texts that matter most).

But as a hermeneutical and theological project (as a claimed key to the whole of Scripture) it rests on foundations that will not bear the weight placed upon them. A single isolated Qumran manuscript supplies the preferred text; a body of sectarian Second Temple literature supplies the interpretive framework; a collection of poetic and apocalyptic texts, read against classical hermeneutical priorities, supplies the canonical evidence; and the whole is presented as recovering what the mainstream traditions of both Israel and the church somehow failed to transmit. That pattern, taken as a whole, should give any careful reader serious pause and perhaps even a turn toward the seen realm that is more clearly present in the texts.

PR

Notes

[1] By saying “community” I am not indicating by such that this was only a singular group or even that the nature of the group/s involved in the texts of the Judean Desert are to all be identified only with some narrow vision of such. Yet, in common speaking those who were responsible for the community texts seem likely to have also been those responsible for texts like 4QDeut^j and 1QEnGiants^ab, for example.

[2] The explanation is that bene el or bene elim is the proposed Vorlage that was altered to bene yisrael in the MT, but prolongated to bene elohim in 4QDeut^j.

Select Works Consulted

Collins, John J. The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to Jewish Apocalyptic Literature. 3rd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2016.

Goldingay, John. Old Testament Theology. 3 vols. Downers Grove: IVP Academic, 2003–2009.

Heiser, Michael S. The Unseen Realm: Recovering the Supernatural Worldview of the Bible. Bellingham: Lexham Press, 2015.

Kline, Meredith G. Images of the Spirit. Grand Rapids: Baker, 1980.

Nickelsburg, George W. E. 1 Enoch: A Commentary on the Book of 1 Enoch. 2 vols. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2001–2012.

Sanders, James A. Torah and Canon. Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972.

Tov, Emanuel. Textual Criticism of the Old Testament. 3rd ed. Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012.

VanderKam, Javames C. The Dead Sea Scrolls Today. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010.

Waltke, Bruce K. An Old Testament Theology: An Exegetical, Canonical, and Thematic Approach. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2007.

Walton, John H., and J. Harvey Walton. Demons and Spirits in Biblical Theology: Reading the Biblical Text in Its Cultural and Literary Context. Eugene, OR: Cascade, 2019.

While most discussion of Bible translations take place around the traditional “free vs. literal” debate, modern, non-Biblical translation theory has become suspicious of such easy dichotomies (e.g. Pym 1997: 39).  Many translation scholars now tend to examine translations based on the purpose for which they were written.¹ This article will examine skopos theory, one of the most well-known purpose-based translation theories, in more depth and will discuss the potential objections to using it to examine and analyse Bible translations.  This theory has been chosen as it is the only purpose-based translation theory so far to have been applied to Bible translation.  I will argue for this theory to become the prevailing theory for examining entire Bible translations while the use of the more traditional terminology would then be restricted to the description of small-scale translation decisions, if used at all.

Skopos theory explained

In skopos theory, translation is seen as “an intentional, interpersonal, partly verbal intercultural interaction based on a source text” (Nord [1997] 2007: 18). To fully examine this theory, we must first examine the core notion of translation as an ‘intentional’ activity.

Nord admits that viewing translation as “intentional” or “purposeful” seems to be self-evident (ibid p. 1).  After all, the very act of doing anything implies intent or purpose (Sire 1988: 103, 227 [note 21]).  However, to view translation specifically as an “intentional” activity means that the translation itself must be judged according to how well it fulfilled its purpose (Schäffner 1997: 2).  This is the basis that forms the skopos rule, which is as follows:

[To] translate/interpret/speak/write in a way that enables your text/translation to function in the situation in which it is used and with the people who want to use it and precisely the way they want it to function. (Nord [1997] 2007: 29, translating Vermeer 1989: 20)

How this rule operates can be demonstrated from professional practice.  A translator working on a CV that is to be submitted to an employer in a target culture² will deliberately translate in such a way that the CV will function in that culture.  This may involve seeking target culture equivalents for qualifications mentioned, converting job titles into recognisable target language titles or even changing the grammatical class of words.  In my own work, one of the most frequent changes made to such documents is to change nouns into verbs given the preference in English-language CVs for action verbs (as shown in Yate [1993] 2003: 59-61).

Judging the success of a translation on how well it fulfilled the “intention” for which it was written means that its relation to the source text will necessarily become a secondary concern.  The translation strategy chosen and therefore the relation between the two texts will be determined by the intention of the translation (Nord [1997] 2007: 32).  In CVs, this would lead the translator to weigh up strategies for handling the use of target culture equivalents of qualifications – e.g. adding them next to the source culture term, using footnotes or replacing the source term completely.  In Bible translation this might mean weighing up strategies for handling source language terms for which there is no real target culture equivalent (see Fee and Stuart [1993] 2002: 37, 38 for examples).

This view tends to reduce the tendency for any particular translation strategy to be seen as an “ideal.”  While there may be some occasions and intentions that call for the strategy Fee and Strauss (2007: 28) call “formal equivalence;” others will call for “functional equivalence.”  Rather than choosing one of these two, or indeed any other option, for purely theological or linguistic reasons, the translator will make his or her choice based on which is more likely to serve the purpose of the text (Nord 2002: 33; 2003: 34).  This view forms an alternative to the more traditional theories, which have caused so much debate in the past.  In fact, many skopos theorists see it is a real opportunity to solve the debates over “free vs. faithful translation, dynamic vs. formal equivalence, good interpreters vs. slavish translators, and so on” (Nord [1997] 2007: 29).

This challenges the traditional supremacy of the source text as the sole basis on which translations must be assessed.  While, Hans Vermeer, one of the originators of skopos theory, stated that there must be a relationship between the source and target text (Nord [1997] 2007: 32); he also claimed to have “dethroned” the source text as an unchangeable and unchanging basis of comparison (ibid p. 37).  Some theorists feel that this could easily lead to any and all translation purposes being seen as acceptable, even if they are incompatible with the apparent purpose of the source text (ibid p. 124; Pym 1997: 91).  Following this principle, there would be nothing inherently wrong with changing universities mentioned on a CV to UK equivalents (“Oxford” for “Sorbonne,” for example) or changing all references to places in the Bible to equivalents in modern-day USA, as one Bible translator is reported to have done (Fee and Strauss 2007: 33).

In both cases, such changes, while possibly being defensible as “equivalents” on a purely cultural level, are very likely to mislead the reader.  If, for instance, the writer of a CV attended “Sorbonne” but the translator uses “Oxford,” the client could be accused of lying if the prospective employer decides to verify their claim.  Similarly, no matter how familiar US cities are to US Bible readers, the fact is that Jesus was born in Bethlehem, not Boston.  Skopos theory therefore lacked logical and ethical limits to what could be seen as acceptable translation practice (Pym 1997: 91).

Are you a warrior-leader?

Bobby Welch’s book is an impassioned and heartfelt call for Christians, laymen and clergy alike, to adopt a warrior-like approach to Kingdom work and Christian living. One of the later chapters, “Dying Words Of A Warrior Leader,” illustrates the title’s stated desire for a whole-life commitment. In fact, if there were more warrior-leaders in the pulpits and pews, God’s Kingdom today would advance as never before.

The book is organized in four main sections; The Warrior Leader’s Motivation, The Warrior Leader’s Mind, The Warrior Leader’s Mission, and The Warrior Leader’s Maturity. The chapters in these sections provide valuable advice and instruction in Kingdom-building, especially soul-winning. The illustrations and teaching-stories used to support the concepts are all powerful and almost exclusively military in nature.

Motivation

The chapter “You’re a Warrior, Not a CEO,” illustrates Welch’s approach in this work. Welch is quick to state that chief executive officers are a vital part of society, but they are not the model for Christian living or Church management. Christians and the Church are called to loving and careful but assertive, if not aggressive, evangelism and discipleship. Efficiency should take a back seat to effectiveness when it comes to souls. Borrowing from business management practice should be sparing and careful.

Mind

Unconventional Warfare speaks to the common yet unique nature of Christian Kingdom building. Some concepts are universal in strong organizations: “Take care of the people,” or “Achieve the mission.” How do these ideas find practice with Sunday School teachers and youth leaders? God-work is always unique and different, no matter how much it looks like something secular.

Mission

The Twelve Ways To Win is a chapter of valuable insight and good instruction. The twelve principles outlined, used in correct concert, will enable any Church-body to impact its community for Christ. Here Pastor’s Welch unique perspective and experience wins the day. He can speak to leadership “among the troops” that few others can. When he says leaders need to have front-line mentalities, you have to give serious consideration to what he says.

Summary

Despite the many good points and worthy message of You, The Warrior Leader, it is a challenging reading experience. The teaching stories and illustrations tend to be over long in the reviewer’s estimation. There is a jarring effect that calls attention away from from Pastor Welch’s intended message.

As a highly decorated combat veteran, and a high profile Gospel minister, there is much to commend Pastor Welch. This book contains much valuable material and insight. Be prepared to to work hard to draw the God-sent message off the pages and into your life.

Reviewed by Kirk Hunt

The review of this 2004 book was originally published on the Pneuma Foundation (parent organization of PneumaReview.com) website. Later included in the Spring 2026 issue of The Pneuma Review.