The Servant King: The Glory of Christ’s Humility

Go Deeper with the Philippians 2 Study Guide

What kind of King chooses the lowest place?

The Glory of Christ’s Humility is a focused study of Philippians 2:1–11, exploring how Jesus is revealed as both truly divine and truly human. Following the movement from divine glory to humble servanthood, from the cross to exaltation, this guide helps readers see why Christ’s humility is central to Christian worship, discipleship, and life together.

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There are some incredible scenes and imagery in Isaiah 6:1-8. Isaiah looks up and sees the Lord sitting on His throne. Interestingly, Isaiah sees the Lord in his vision and immediately sees his own weaknesses. How often do we feel like that? Sitting in church on a Sunday morning, perhaps, about to take communion, and we wrack our brains to what we have been doing over the last week that we might need to get right before the Lord, before we feel ready to take communion with a pure heart, (well, at least pure enough once we have repented and recognised the assurance of forgiveness). This seemed to be the experience of Isaiah when he responded:

“Woe is me!” I cried. “I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the LORD Almighty.” (Isaiah 6:5)

Have you ever stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon or stared up into a clear, star-filled night sky and felt overwhelmingly small? There are moments when beauty and majesty are so immense they don’t just impress us; they expose us, reminding us of our own finiteness. The prophet Isaiah had such a moment, but it wasn’t a canyon or a cosmos that undid him. It was a vision of God Himself. It happened at a low point in Israel’s history. Their long-reigning king, Uzziah, had just died, a king whose reign ended in the disgrace of prideful sin. The nation felt unstable, leaderless. And into that vacuum of earthly power, God gave Isaiah a vision of the true, eternal King, seated on a throne that is never, ever vacant.

Meeting the King: What Is Divine Holiness?

When Isaiah saw the Lord, “high and exalted,” the first thing he heard was the sound of heaven’s worship. Angelic beings called seraphim, whose name means “burning ones,” circled the throne. These magnificent creatures, models of pure worship, covered their faces, unable to look upon the fullness of God’s glory. They cried to one another in a chorus that shook the temple’s foundations: “Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of his glory!” This thrice-repeated cry, the Trisagion, is the Hebrew way of expressing the absolute superlative. God isn’t just a little bit holy; He is the very definition of holiness. The word for ‘holy’ (*qadosh*) means ‘set apart’ or ‘cut off.’ It tells us two crucial things about God: He is utterly separate from creation, unique and transcendent. And second, because He is separate from creation, He is completely separate from sin. His holiness is both His majestic ‘otherness’ and His perfect moral purity.

“A genuine encounter with God’s holiness doesn’t first affirm our goodness; it exposes our sinfulness.”

Undone by Glory: Conviction and Cleansing

How did Isaiah respond to this stunning vision of purity and power? Not with excitement, but with terror. “Woe is me!” he cried, “For I am lost.” A genuine encounter with God’s holiness doesn’t first affirm our goodness; it exposes our sinfulness. The blinding light of God’s purity revealed the deep stain of Isaiah’s own heart. He confessed he was a man of “unclean lips,” a devastating admission for a prophet whose job was to speak for God. In that moment, he felt utterly disqualified. But conviction is where God’s grace begins. A seraph flew to Isaiah, not with a word of condemnation, but with a burning coal from the altar, the very place of sacrifice and atonement. Touching it to Isaiah’s lips, the angel declared, “Your guilt is taken away, and your sin atoned for.” This act is a stunning picture of the gospel: God Himself provides the purification we could never achieve on our own, a cleansing that points forward to the ultimate sacrifice of Christ.

Remade for Mission: The Call That Follows Cleansing

It is only after being undone by holiness and remade by grace that Isaiah can finally hear the divine call. The Lord asks, “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” The question hangs in the air, waiting for a willing heart. Isaiah, his guilt removed and his lips now consecrated by fire, responds without hesitation: “Here am I! Send me.” This is not the arrogant boast of a qualified expert but the grateful surrender of a pardoned man. His mission is born directly from his experience of holy grace. This pattern is timeless. Our calling from God does not flow from our own strength or resume, but from an honest encounter with His holiness that leads us to Christ for cleansing. As the Apostle Peter would later write, our new identity is rooted in the very character of God: “But as he who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, since it is written, ‘You shall be holy, for I am holy'” (1 Peter 1:15-16).

“Mission is not born from human confidence but from the grateful, willing surrender of a pardoned and consecrated soul.”

Living This Out

We may not get a dramatic throne-room vision like Isaiah, but we are called to behold God’s holiness every day. We see it revealed in the pages of Scripture. We reflect on it in worship and prayer. We are also called to carry our cross daily, when we hear the voice of the Lord as Isaiah did saying, ‘Who will go for us?’ the challenge for us is to be willing to stand up in our workplaces and neighbourhoods and being ready to give an answer to those who would ask why we believe as we do. With this in mind, we too can respond, “Here I am Lord, send me!”.

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Life often feels like a constant effort, doesn’t it? We push ourselves through challenges, endure setbacks, and try to maintain a brave face. In such moments, the biblical phrase ‘The joy of the Lord is your strength’ (Nehemiah 8:10) can sound almost counterintuitive. How can an emotion like joy be a source of strength, especially when our circumstances feel anything but joyful? Early Christian readers, always searching for the spiritual meaning and Christological echoes in every scripture, understood this declaration not merely as an ancient maxim, but as a living truth, a divine promise woven into the fabric of faith.

This powerful statement, given at a pivotal moment in Israel’s history, offers a perspective on resilience that transcends mere human willpower. It invites us to consider where our true strength lies and how God intends for us to face the difficulties of life. By exploring its original meaning and how it reveals God’s heart for us, we can uncover practical ways to embrace this joy as Christians today, finding renewed vigor for our walk with Jesus.

A People Restored: The Context of Divine Joy

The famous declaration, ‘The joy of the Lord is your strength,’ comes from a passage in Nehemiah 8. The people of Israel, having returned from exile, gathered in Jerusalem. For the first time in generations, Ezra the scribe publicly read the Law of Moses. As the words of God’s covenant were proclaimed, the people listened and understood their sin, and began to weep bitterly. Their response was one of deep conviction and sorrow for their disobedience, a powerful moment of spiritual awakening.

It was in this atmosphere of repentance and lament that Nehemiah, Ezra, and the Levites intervened. They urged the people not to mourn, for it was a holy day. Instead, they commanded them to ‘go your way, eat the fat and drink the sweet, and send portions to those for whom nothing is prepared; for this day is holy to our Lord. Do not sorrow, for the joy of the Lord is your strength’ (Nehemiah 8:10). This spoke of a joy rooted in God’s presence and His word, even amidst their troubles. True spiritual strength does not come from denying our sorrow or trying to generate happiness on our own. Rather, it comes from a joy that originates in God Himself, a joy that can exist even alongside sorrow over sin. They saw the people’s weeping as a necessary step, but the subsequent command to rejoice as a divine invitation to find power in God’s holiness and His unfailing faithfulness, which overcomes human weakness. This joy was not about forgetting their failures, but about finding hope and renewal in God’s mercy and the restoration He offered.

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When we hear the name Thomas Aquinas, we tend to picture a dense medieval theologian, buried in Latin manuscripts and ancient debates that seem far removed from our world today. His Summa Theologica often appears as a monument to complexity, a relic from another time.

But to see Aquinas only as a historical figure is to miss the point. Beneath the scholarly language is one of the sharpest minds in history, wrestling with questions that still matter deeply: justice, mercy, and the nature of God. His ideas often cut against modern assumptions, offering a unique and intriguing perspective that challenges our own and reveals how differently the medieval mind saw reality.

Here are three of Aquinas’s most profound and thought-provoking insights about heaven, hell, and the mind of God. These ideas, while challenging, have the power to stimulate our intellect and deepen our understanding of these profound concepts.

The Saints in Heaven Rejoice in the Sufferings of the Damned

In Aquinas’s vision of eternity, the saints in heaven will be able to witness the sufferings of the damned. It sounds cruel at first, but for Aquinas, their joy is not born from malice. It comes from a complete understanding of God’s justice and mercy.

Seeing both the justice of God and the mercy that saved them gives the saints a deeper appreciation of divine goodness. Their joy is not in suffering itself but in the realisation that all things are set right, that the order of God’s creation is perfect and complete.

For a modern audience, that idea is difficult to grasp. We instinctively recoil at the thought of finding joy in another’s pain. But Aquinas isn’t describing joy in cruelty. He is describing joy in truth — in finally seeing God’s justice and mercy with perfect clarity.

“What do they not know, who know Him Who knows all things?”

Your Forgiven Sins Won’t Be a Secret at the Last Judgment

Aquinas also taught that at the Last Judgment, everyone’s sins will be revealed, even those that have been forgiven.

This is not, he says, an act of shame or punishment. It is a revelation of mercy. By making every sin known, the whole story of God’s redemption is displayed for all to see. The saints’ past sins become evidence of grace, proof of how deeply they were forgiven.

To hide those sins would, in Aquinas’s view, conceal the greatness of God’s compassion. The point of the revelation is not humiliation but glory — glory to God for His mercy and redemption.

It’s a sobering thought, but also a freeing one. The story of forgiveness will not be a private memory between a soul and God. It will be part of the universal praise of His mercy.

God Doesn’t Think Step by Step

For Aquinas, even the way God thinks is utterly beyond our imagination. God’s knowledge is not a process like ours. He doesn’t move from one thought to another or reason from cause to effect.

God’s knowledge is one single act — complete, perfect, and eternal. Aquinas likens it to looking into a mirror and seeing everything reflected in a single instant. God doesn’t “work things out.” He knows all things in knowing Himself.

As Aquinas writes, “God sees all things in one thing, which is Himself. God sees all things together, and not successively.”

It’s a concept that forces us to recognise the limits of our own reason. We see truth in fragments. God sees everything at once.

Conclusion: The Enduring Questions of a Medieval Mind

The ideas of Thomas Aquinas are strange and demanding, but they still challenge the modern mind. They make us question what we mean by justice, mercy, and knowledge.

Philosophy is not meant to make us comfortable; it is intended to make us think clearly. Aquinas shows us how even ideas from the thirteenth century can disturb our assumptions and draw us toward more profound truths.

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Picture the scene. The dust of Athens clings to your sandals as you make your way toward the courthouse. Crowds murmur, rumours swirl, and the air feels heavy with judgement. In the middle of it all, a man named Euthyphro strides with confidence. He is on his way to prosecute his own father. His father killed a man who had killed one of Euthyphro’s slaves. Most people would have called the case tragic but settled. Not Euthyphro. He was determined that justice had to be done, even if it meant dragging his father into court.

At the courthouse steps he meets Socrates. The old philosopher is also facing trial, accused of corrupting the youth. Instead of rushing to defend himself, Socrates turns his attention to this young man and asks, “Why?” Why prosecute your own father? Why are you so sure this is the right thing to do?

The Question of Piety

Euthyphro believes that to prosecute his father is an act of piety, something pleasing to the gods. But Socrates is not satisfied. He asks, “Which gods?” The gods of Greece are notorious for disagreeing. If one god is pleased, another may be offended. How can an action be both pious and impious at the same time? The more Socrates questions, the more uncertain Euthyphro becomes. He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought his actions were clear and righteous but Socrates questioning challenges Euthyphro’s assumptions.

Why This Ancient Story Still Echoes

I find this story fascinating because it is not just about a father and a son. It is about us. How often do we assume we are right without ever asking the deeper questions? How often do we go along with the crowd, convinced that what everyone else believes must be true? Socrates’ questions echo down the centuries:

Why do you believe what you believe? Who told you this was right? Have you ever stopped to examine it? 

The Spiritual Danger of Unquestioned Beliefs

For me, this is not only an intellectual challenge but a spiritual one. The Bible warns us that “the devil comes to steal, kill and destroy” (John 10:10). Lies rarely look like lies. They are dressed up as truth. They sound persuasive, they stir up strong emotions, and they can even feel righteous. That is the real danger. We can be poisoned by hate but believe it is justice. We can be swept along by anger and convince ourselves it is holy zeal. But hatred does not produce the righteousness of God.

Jesus’ Call to Love

Is there such a thing as righteous hate? Jesus did not think so. He told us to love our enemies, to pray for those who persecute us, and to forgive as we have been forgiven. That is a radical call, and it cuts against every instinct we might have to lash out or justify revenge. What looks like piety in the moment may in fact be rebellion against the very God we claim to serve.

Living With Eyes Wide Open

That is why I believe the story of Socrates and Euthyphro still matters. It calls us to live with eyes wide open. It urges us to test our motives, to question the voices we listen to, and to weigh everything against the truth of God’s Word. The Christian life is not blind following. It is not simply agreeing with the loudest voice or the strongest emotion. It is about living examined lives — rooted in truth, guided by love, and anchored in Christ.

Socrates left Euthyphro unsettled and uncertain, yet it was a good kind of unsettling. Perhaps we need that same experience today. The best thing we can do is pause, question, and think deeply before God, asking whether what we call righteousness is truly aligned with His truth. Too often we interpret being challenged as being attacked. But why? Why are we so quick to take offence when someone asks a hard question? In our culture, even honest questioning is sometimes labelled as hate speech. The problem is a failure to recognise that questions are not hateful. They may stir our emotions, expose our assumptions, and make us uncomfortable, but that is not hatred. At its best, questioning is an act of love, a desire to set us free from false narratives and the grip of hate.

And that is exactly what Christ calls us into. He does not invite us to cling to our pride or protect our comfort. He calls us to walk in truth, even when it unsettles us, because only the truth has the power to set us free. To welcome the challenge of truth is not weakness; it is the beginning of wisdom, and the path that leads us closer to the heart of God.

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I found an article from the British Archive Newspapers which was written in 1857 from The Paisley Herald and Renfrewshire Advertiser titled “Charles Spurgeon and the Pulpit”, it caught my attention not because it goes on about how wonderfully Spurgeon preached and how good his message was, but because it gave a pretty honest look at how people might have viewed Charles Spurgeon based on his physical presentation. The writer seems genuinely amazed and even a bit confused by Spurgeon’s popularity because, well, he didn’t really fit the usual image of what might be classed as a great preacher.

For example, the editor writes:

“Mr. Spurgeon is a notability. He filled Exeter Hall with eager listeners for months together… Professional men, senatorial men, ministers of state, and peers of the realm are among Mr. Spurgeon’s auditory. These are facts that cannot be questioned.”

Why did the editor think these facts should be questioned? I imagine somewhere along the line people have said that his crowds were imagined perhaps. What’s fascinating to me is that the writer openly admits Spurgeon doesn’t have any of the usual “qualifications” you’d expect for someone who packs halls like that. No fancy degrees, no impressive background, and apparently not even a particularly great physical presence:

“He comes direct and openly from what John Foster called ‘the morass of Anabaptism’… His figure is short, and chubby, and rather awkward… His voice, clear and bell-like, lacks richness or tenderness.”

He also went on to say that he had a loud voice that could reach 10,000 but then questioned what it was about him that drew 10,000 in the first place. But the funny thing is, all those “shortcomings” might actually have been exactly why people loved him. He was real. No pretensions, no acting all sophisticated, didn’t particularly dress fancy, he was perhaps just honest and relatable:

“His diction is idiomatic Saxon, plain and direct, understandable to every man or woman… Even when impassioned, he remains natural… He might be a Chartist addressing a crowd in Kensington—such is the absence of pulpit mannerisms.”

And at the end of it all, the writer has to admit the obvious:

“Mr. Spurgeon has made the pulpit more attractive than any living man, not through oratorical excellence but through natural elocution.”

For me, Charles Spurgeon’s story is an important reminder about what really matters when it comes to speaking and influencing others. Sure, there’s a place for polished speeches and fancy words, but Spurgeon shows us something deeper and more lasting, the power of being genuine, straightforward, and sincerely believing in what you’re saying, but as well as that, he clearly had a calling. He was where God had called him to be. We don’t really see many Spurgeon’s about nowadays with the impact he clearly had not only in his time, but even today, but it shows that walking in the calling God has prepared for you brings much fruit!

Even though the article tries to pick at his lack of formal training and polished manners, it actually ends up highlighting how his authenticity and passion were his greatest strengths. Spurgeon managed to cross all the usual boundaries of his day, social classes, education levels, you name it, just by being himself and genuinely being careful to share the message accurately before God. Another article said that he was a man of the bible. Even his letters to his father is a bit like reading Paul writing to the church – I don’t mean he was giving instruction, but more that he was so consumed by the things of God, his letters were more about his relationship with God than what he was up to in his general day to day.

I guess my main takeaways from reading this article was first how surprised I was that the writer did not even mention what Spurgeon preached on, but was more fascinated by his appearance and how he managed to draw so many people to listen to his message, and not just your normal average day to day Joe (like me), but people of stature who were perhaps far more educated than he was. This once again shows that God can use whoever He wants to fulfil His purposes and His ways are far higher than our ways. We don’t have to have a theology degree in order for God to use us to speak to others, we have the Holy Spirit! What on earth more do we need?

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In a newspaper article from a Welsh service in Caernarfon, a striking line by Dr. Martyn Lloyd-Jones stands out like a light over the modern landscape:

“The great periods in the life of the Church, and also in the affairs of the world, have been when this life was looked upon as a pilgrimage.”

In a time when society was becoming increasingly fixated on materialism, self-interest, and the here-and-now, he pointed backward to the mindset of the Puritans and upward to the heavenly city described in Hebrews 11.

What does it mean to see life as a pilgrimage? And why would Lloyd-Jones suggest that such a view is essential for renewal, both personally and collectively?

The Puritans are often caricatured as grim-faced moralists who banned Christmas and were fun sponges. But the heart of Puritan spirituality was not all doom and gloom, it was Godward longing. They saw themselves as pilgrims in a foreign land, pressing on toward the New Jerusalem.

This was no minor theme. The Puritan mind was shaped by Scripture, particularly passages like Hebrews 11:13–16:

“These all died in faith, not having received the things promised, but having seen them and greeted them from afar, and having acknowledged that they were strangers and exiles on the earth.”

The Puritans believed that to be faithful in the present, you had to live in light of eternity. They weren’t trying to escape the world, they were trying to walk through it faithfully, eyes fixed on the city whose builder and maker is God (v.10). They read the Bible as a pilgrim manual. Their journals, sermons, and letters are full of language about wayfaring, progress, endurance, and hope. When Lloyd-Jones refers to the “great ages,” he isn’t being nostalgic for the 17th century. He’s calling the Church back to a biblical imagination that sees life through the lens of journey, not destination.

Martyn Lloyd-Jones: A Voice in the Wilderness

When Lloyd-Jones stood in Hermon Chapel that day, he was not offering theological theory but sounding an alarm. He observed that people had “lost this idea and are absorbed in the life and the world of today.” To him, this was spiritual blindness. Life had become narrow, self-centred, and disconnected from God. He warned of the foolishness of living as if the present world is all there is:

“It was the height of foolishness to think otherwise, and tragedy followed.”

He could see it: a Church dulled by comfort, a culture drifting from its moorings, a people too busy tending the fires of life to notice that the fire itself was sinking. The tragedy wasn’t just that people sinned, it was that they forgot they were pilgrims. What a powerful message that resonates with us even today! We live in the here-and-now and become consumed with the world around us that we lose sight of where our priorities really lay. The writer of Ecclesiastes 1 says it well – we chase after the wind!

No Abiding City

Hebrews 13:14 echoes the same idea:

“For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come.”

To live as a pilgrim is to be rooted in that hope. The Greek phrase “no abiding city” (ou gar echomen menousan polin) doesn’t imply aimlessness but intentional movement. The Christian life isn’t stagnant. It’s a sojourn. And it changes how we:

• See suffering: Trials become tests of faith, not signs of abandonment.
• Handle success: Earthly achievements are not ultimate rewards.
• Engage culture: We serve our communities but know our citizenship is in heaven (Phil. 3:20).

Lloyd-Jones emphasized that we can only live rightly in this world when we’re anchored in the next. A pilgrim can enjoy life, warm his hands at the fire, but he never forgets that this world is not his home.

The Gadarene Contrast

In his evening sermon that day, Lloyd-Jones preached on the Gadarene demoniac (Luke 8:26–39). One phrase captures the crowd’s disturbing response to Jesus:

“They asked Him to depart.”

Why? Because Jesus disrupted their lives. He healed a man, a miracle! But instead of rejoicing, the people feared what His presence might cost them. Their priority was stability, not salvation. Like modern skeptics, they preferred a predictable status quo over the unsettling nearness of God. Keeping Jesus around was too risky to their business! How crazy is that, Jesus was an inconvenience!

Lloyd-Jones used this text to draw a chilling parallel: many today still want a Christ who heals, but not a Christ who interferes. The healed man, by contrast, wanted to follow Jesus. And Jesus sent him back to tell others. This, too, is part of pilgrimage: we walk the road, but we also call others to join us on it.

Recovering the Pilgrim Mentality

So what can we do to change our mindset? In a world even more saturated with distraction, convenience, and comfort than Lloyd-Jones’s day, how do we remember that we too are to live a life as pilgrims?

1. Read Scripture as Pilgrimage Literature

The Bible is full of journey language:

• Abraham left Ur.
• Israel wandered in the wilderness.
• Jesus walked the road to Jerusalem.
• The Church awaits the marriage supper of the Lamb.

These aren’t isolated stories; they form the narrative spine of God’s redemptive plan. Read Scripture with that trajectory in mind.

2. Re-evaluate What Feels Like “Home”

Pilgrims are grateful for rest stops, but they don’t build their lives on them. Ask: what have I made into a permanent structure that should be a temporary tent? Comfort isn’t bad. But it can be numbing. We need regular reminders (through prayer, fasting, reflection) that we are sojourners.

3. Revive the Language of Longing

Talk more about heaven. Not as an escape, but as a destination worth pressing toward. The early Church longed for Christ’s return. Do we? The world if full of distractions, it takes our focus away from God and onto the things that surround us. This means we miss what really matters, we need to stop chasing after the wind and instead, quiet ourselves before the Lord, looking up to Him – rest in Him, worshipping Him for who He is and who we are in Him.

4. Live Simply and Generously

Pilgrims travel light. We don’t need to swear off all possessions, but we can ask: Does this help me on the journey, or weigh me down? Generosity is a natural outflow of this mindset. If our treasure is in heaven, we’re freer to give away what we have here.

5. Tell Others Where You’re Going

The Gadarene man didn’t get to join Jesus’ earthly travels, but he got something better: a mission. Pilgrims are witnesses. We don’t just journey in private—we invite others to walk with us.

Reflections from the Road

In my job, I often encounter people who have lived full, rich lives. And yet, even the fullest life passes quickly. The things we accomplish, the comforts we pursue, the status we gain, these eventually become distant memories.

The apostle Paul’s life reminds us that it’s not death that defines a person, but the fruit they leave behind. We can chase success, comfort, and personal gain, but to what end? If it bears no eternal fruit, then what have we truly achieved? As Ecclesiastes says, it is like chasing the wind.

But if we see ourselves as sojourners, recognizing that this life is brief compared to eternity, we begin to lift our eyes. We start living not for ourselves but for God’s will, with our minds fixed on Him. And when the time comes, when the noise of life dies down and we’re left only with memory, we’ll be able to look back, not with regret, but with peace because we’ll know that we left behind a trail of fruit: not for our own legacy, but for the good of others and the glory of God.

Final Thoughts: The Fire Sinks

Lloyd-Jones referenced a poem where the cynic reflects on life’s joys but eventually concludes: “the fire sinks.” Even the pleasures of life fade. But for the pilgrim, that’s not tragedy. That’s clarity. The dimming fire isn’t the end of the story. It’s the cue to move on.

In an age that says “You only live once,” Lloyd-Jones calls us back to the ancient truth: You live now to walk with God into the life to come. May we be counted among those who desire a better country. Not as nostalgic moralists, but as joyful pilgrims whose eyes are set on the city that will never fade.

Here is the original article titled: The Puritan Pilgrimage

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In a world constantly reshaping its understanding of what it means to be human, Peter Hicks offers us something rare: a patient, humble, and balanced walk through history. In his essay “One or Two? A Historical Survey of an Aspect of Personhood,” Hicks explores how the concept of personhood has shifted over the last two and a half millennia. The piece is not only scholarly but quietly pastoral, inviting us not just to look back, but to think more clearly about who we are today.

Peter Hicks, a Christian philosopher and former Lecturer in Philosophy at the London Bible College (now London School of Theology), doesn’t aim to dazzle with a dramatic thesis. Instead, he reflects on the evolution of personhood through key thinkers from the Pre-socratics and Buddha, through Plato and Aristotle, to Aquinas, Descartes, Hume, Kant, and beyond.

At the heart of his article is the theme of dualism, the idea that the human person might consist of two distinct elements, often soul and body, or mind and body. Hicks charts how this idea appears, disappears, and transforms across time:

• The Presocratics and Buddha both rejected the idea of a distinct soul or permanent self. They saw humans as deeply embedded in the world, a collection of changing events, not enduring substances.
• Plato, in contrast, introduced a sharp dualism between the eternal soul and the transient body. His view elevated the soul as the true self and the body as a source of corruption and limitation.
• Aristotle rejected this: the soul, he argued, was the life-principle of the body, not a separate entity, but an integral part of being human. This view emphasized unity.
• Aquinas built on Aristotle with Christian theology. He taught that body and soul form a single human substance, though he retained belief in the soul’s persistence beyond death and its eventual reunion with a resurrected body.
• Descartes reignited dualism in the Enlightenment era, separating the thinking mind (res cogitans) from the extended body (res extensa).
• Critics like Hume reduced the self to a bundle of perceptions, and Kant complicated things by introducing a dualism between the phenomenal (what we can perceive) and the noumenal (true reality, beyond our grasp).

By the time Hicks reaches the 20th century, he highlights how psychology fractured our view of the person into ever smaller parts: rational, emotional, unconscious, social, volitional. Yet in more recent years, he sees a hopeful move toward integration. Holistic approaches like Gestalt psychology or Neuro-Linguistic Programming aim to bring these fragmented parts back into a unified understanding of personhood.

Hicks doesn’t argue for a single answer, but his sympathies are clear. He affirms the complexity of human beings while resisting both cold materialism and rigid dualism. His Christian worldview surfaces gently throughout the text. He speaks positively of Aquinas’ view of unified personhood and hints that modern attempts to integrate emotion, reason, spirituality, and physicality are moving in the right direction. He concludes by welcoming this turn toward wholeness:

“This willingness to accept the incredible complexity of the human person is a very welcome corrective to the reductionism of the last few centuries.”

Hicks’ approach is one of quiet authority and generosity. He avoids dogmatism and instead offers a long view of our intellectual heritage, helping readers see that debates over what it means to be human have always been with us, and likely always will. In doing so, he reminds us that the question “Who am I?” isn’t just philosophical, it’s deeply personal, and profoundly theological.

Credit: This blog post is based on Peter Hicks’ article “One or Two? A Historical Survey of an Aspect of Personhood,” published in Evangelical Quarterly. Used here with appreciation for his thoughtful and generous contribution to Christian philosophy. The full article can be access via Brill, but unfortunately a subscription is required to read it.

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