Threefold Office of Jesus as Prophet, Priest, and King

Paul Dafydd Jones

The threefold office (munus triplex) identifies Jesus Christ as prophet, priest, and king, and it draws on these titles to advance theological accounts of his saving work. Although the munus triplex is typically associated with John Calvin and the Reformed tradition, it holds broad significance for the study of Christian thought. Employed as an exegetical framework, it illumines important trajectories in the Hebrew Bible and enables one to read the New Testament as a continuation and recasting of earlier biblical claims. Used as an interpretative tool, it sheds light on patristic and medieval works’ description of Christ’s past, present, and future activity. During and after the Reformation, it becomes a staple of Reformed theology and an occasion to pay tribute to the multidimensional nature of salvation. In recent years, it has become a site of ecumenical interest.

To illustrate these claims, this article proceeds in five steps. First, it considers the titles of priest, prophet, and king in the scriptural witness. Second, it notes the meaning and significance of these titles in selected patristic and medieval texts. Third, it attends to the codification of the munus triplex in Calvin’s writings. Fourth, it considers the application of this dogmatic construction in Christian theology from the sixteenth to the twentieth century, with a particular interest in Reformed confessions, Protestant scholasticism, nineteenth-century Protestant theology, the work of Karl Barth, and some contemporary thinkers. Finally, comments are offered on the affordances and limitations of the threefold office.

1 Introduction

The contention that Jesus Christ is the holder of a threefold office (munus triplex) is aptly associated with John Calvin. Initially in the Geneva Catechism, then more expansively in the Institutes of the Christian Religion, Calvin developed a powerful account of Christ as the unification and fulfilment of the ancient offices of prophet, priest, and king. Calvin’s admirers then turned his insights into a dynamic tradition. The munus triplex became a mainstay of Reformed confessions and scholastic texts, played an important role in nineteenth-century Protestant theology, and served as an organizing rubric in Karl Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation.

To treat the threefold office as a parochial affair, however, is unhelpfully limiting. It forecloses the possibility that the titles of prophet, priest, and king, taken singly and in conjunction, could feature in a wide-angled inquiry that integrates scriptural, historical, systematic, and constructive modes of reflection. With an eye to broadening the view, then, this article begins exegetically. It suggests that the titles of prophet, priest, and king highlight key ‘institutions’ in the life of ancient Israel, and it considers how those institutions are reconceived in view of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. The second section engages patristic and medieval authors while confronting a disquieting fact: although the titles under consideration have great christological and soteriological value, they can also be used to buttress dangerous forms of anti-Judaism. The third section analyses the threefold office in Calvin’s writing, where Christ is identified as the saviour whose prophetic, priestly, and royal life fulfils God’s covenant with ancient Israel, and as the saviour who conveys transformative benefits to those who comprise his body. The fourth section considers the afterlife of Calvin’s insights, reflecting on Protestant confessions and Protestant scholasticism and exploring the career of the threefold office in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. While Barth’s innovative exposition is given close attention, earlier authors – particularly Friedrich Schleiermacher and Albrecht Ritschl – are also brought into play, and the section ends with remarks on the munus triplex as a site of contemporary interest. Finally, some evaluative observations are offered. A salutary function of threefold office, it is suggested, is its capacity to hold in view multiple dimensions of Christ’s saving work. More debatable is the degree to which it connects with other descriptions of what it means to become a ‘new creation’ (2 Cor 5:17) in Christ, and its pertinence (or lack thereof) for projects that connect Christian faith with the imperative of ecclesial and sociopolitical liberation.

2 Prophet, priest, and king in the Hebrew Bible and New Testament

Characterizing the God of Israel as ‘nonnegotiably sovereign’ and ‘endlessly faithful’, Walter Brueggemann advances the compelling suggestion that prophets, priests, and kings are presented as distinctive mediators of God in the Hebrew Bible (Brueggemann 1997: 567). Such mediators, obviously, do not stand apart from the covenant, the history of which is defined by God’s ‘glorious deeds’ (Ps 78:4; see also Wright 1952): God’s calling and blessing of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; the liberation of Israel from Egypt; God’s disclosing God’s name; the conveyance of the law to Moses; and God’s granting Israel its own land. Yet these mediators have profound significance within Israel’s history. Prophets, priests, and kings ‘made Yahweh available’ (Brueggemann 1997: 575) to Israel, serving – for better and for worse – as vehicles of God’s presence. Concomitantly, prophecy, priesthood, and kingship were ‘human enterprises’ (Brueggemann 1997: 698) whereby Israel expressed its commitment to God. It is thus unsurprising to find these titles used in the New Testament. As Israel’s Messiah, Jesus is acclaimed as ‘a prophet mighty in deed and word’ (Luke 24:19), ‘a merciful and faithful high priest’ (Heb 2:17), and the ‘king of Israel’ (John 1:49) who is now ‘seated at the right hand of God’ (Col 3:1).

One must of course proceed cautiously at this juncture, lest a manifestly complex set of texts be forced into over-narrow interpretative straits. The Hebrew Bible does not provide neat doctrinal formulations about prophecy, priesthood, and kingship. And it is significant that the titles do not feature in many early New Testament passages, which tend to trade in charged honorifics like ‘Christ’, ‘Lord’, or ‘Son’ (e.g. Rom 1:4; 1 Cor 16:22; 1 Thess 1:10), focus on Jesus being raised from the dead (e.g. Rom 4:24–25; 1 Cor 15:3b–4), or contend simply that God was ‘in’ Jesus (2 Cor 5:19). Moreover, when the New Testament tenders its boldest claims – Jesus being associated with God’s primordial decision to save (Eph 1:4–5), presented as the one through whom creation subsists (Rom 11:36; 1 Cor 8:6; Col 1:17; Heb 1:2b), identified as the ‘suffering servant’ of Deutero-Isaiah (Phil 2:6-11 and Rom 4:24–25) and the ‘lamb’ through whom God’s righteousness will be displayed (Rev 5:6 and passim), and described as the Word incarnate (John 1:1–18) – references to prophet, priest, and king are not explicitly foregrounded, much less systematically coordinated.

Nevertheless, the titles can usefully guide exegesis. They serve to highlight key trajectories in the Hebrew Bible, they signal how New Testament authors extend and recast earlier ideas, and they establish a foundation for the analysis of later texts.

2.1 Prophet

A typically Deuteronomistic statement, relayed by Moses (himself identified as a prophet; see Deut 18:15, 18; 34:10), summarizes Israel’s obligation to God and the covenant: ‘what does the Lord your God require of you? Only to fear the Lord your God, to walk in all his ways, to love him, to serve the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul’ (Deut 10:12). The principal activity of Israel’s prophets was to recall this obligation and to present it as a burning imperative. Following a divine summons and authorization, prophets spoke and acted passionately on God’s behalf in a particular historical moment, disclosing ‘the sovereign freedom of Yhwh’ (Miskotte 1967: 289) and demanding that Israel respond appropriately.

A divine summons marks an individual as singularly qualified to relay God’s will. If the specifics of the summons sometimes go unelaborated – little information is provided, for instance, about Miriam prior to her identification as a prophet in Exodus 15, and 2 Kings offers no real backstory to Elijah – many texts recount striking ‘calls’. Isaiah describes a vision of God in God’s temple, with an angel touching a coal to Isaiah’s lips and enabling him to speak (Isa 6); Jeremiah reports that ‘the Lord put out his hand and touched my mouth’ (Jer 1:9); Ezekiel ingests a scroll filled with ‘words of lamentation […] mourning and woe’ (Ezek 2:10). In each instance, an individual is authorized to serve as God’s representative.

In their passionate speech and action, prophets disclose the standing of God’s elected people vis-à-vis the covenant. A degree of confrontation is common, since prophets often attempt to ‘nurture, nourish, and evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the […] dominant culture’ (Brueggemann 2001: 3; see Prophecy, Interpretation, and Social Criticism). Amos’ and Hosea’s denunciation of the Northern Kingdom, Ezekiel’s and Jeremiah’s responses to the sack of Jerusalem in 587/586BCE, and Micah’s critique of metropolitan corruption illustrate the point: each charges God’s people with gross violations of the covenant. The stakes are further raised when prophets’ reaffirmation of God’s claim upon God’s people is paired with an association – sometimes even an equation – of human and divine speech, which is expressed through various discursive genres. Israel must reorient itself, learning again to ‘fear’ God and to ‘walk in all his ways’, lest it fall deeper into sin; and the demand for obedience is expressed through speech that is at once vivid and urgent. Israel is often called to steel itself, given an impending application of divine wrath. (Jon Levenson, with a nod toward juridical modes of discourse, puts it well: ‘one function of the prophet was to put Israel on trial for breach of covenant’ [1985: 54]). But on other occasions prophets reassure God’s people. There is a reaffirmation of God’s steadfast mercy and love, the possibility of healing and renewal, and even the prospect of a transformed cosmos.

Although Jesus makes artful use of the title (so Mark 6:4 and parallels) and others readily employ it (e.g. Mark 6:15 and 8:28; Matt 21:11, 46; Luke 7:16; John 6:14; see, more generally, Davies 1945), many New Testament books seem reluctant to identify Jesus as a prophet. The reasons for reticence are likely various, stretching from a concern to differentiate Jesus from John the Baptist to the fact that Jesus is presented as a discrete object of devotion, perhaps even to the point of being identified with God as such (see, among others, Hurtado 2003; Bauckham 2009; Tilling 2012; see also Novenson 2020). Yet the elements of prophecy delineated above stand in plain view throughout the gospel narratives. Jesus’ ministry begins with something akin to a divine summons (Mark 1:9–10 and parallels; John 1:29–34). There follows a proclamation of God’s word in a situation of crisis and a radical reassertion of the covenant. Declaring that ‘the kingdom of God has come near’ (Mark 1:14), Jesus is forceful in his calls for repentance, his critiques of the norms of his time, and his expectation of a future defined by judgment and salvation, all the while reprising his forebears’ challenge to wealth and privilege, performing eye-catching public actions, and extending compassion to the marginalized.

Two additional points are in order. First, the New Testament continues and intensifies the Hebrew Bible’s association of prophecy and teaching, with frequent references to Jesus as a ‘teacher’ (διδάσκολος, didáskolos) or a ‘rabbi’ (ῥαββί) whose authority exceeds that of others – contemporaneous scribes and Pharisees being singled out as particularly deficient (see Sherman 2004: 223–224). Yet Jesus does not only teach God’s word; he is sometimes presented as God’s Word, an unprecedented revelation of a heretofore unfathomable mystery and the inauguration of a new phase in God’s relationship with Israel and creation. Thus John 1:18: ‘No one has ever seen God. It is the only Son, himself God, who is close to the Father’s heart, that has made him known’. Second, Jesus is identified as the fulfilment of earlier prophecies. If this identification sometimes entails loose references (e.g. Matt 1:22–23, alluding to Isa 7:14; and Matt 2:6, alluding to Mic 5:2), on other occasions striking parallels are drawn between Jesus and broader scriptural patterns. Particularly important is Jesus’ appeal to Isaiah in Luke 4:18–19 (‘[t]he Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor’) and Paul’s association of Jesus with the suffering servant (see esp. Phil 2:5–11).

2.2 Priest

Although the Hebrew Bible typically portrays prophets as occasional actors, priests hold more established roles. Rather than conveying God’s word in specific historical moments, they mediate the divine through specialized practices over a protracted period, thereby securing Israel’s distinctive identity as a religious community. Granted that some kind of organized priesthood seems to have been central to Israel’s life from its inception, and granted that transgenerational priestly activity served as a ‘guarantee that the bond tied by Moses’ – a bond that bound Israel to God and Israelites to each other – ‘could not easily be severed’ (Eichrodt 1961: 395), priests were particularly significant for the preexilic temple. They operated as ‘the necessary legitimators, enactors, and guarantors of rightly hosted holiness’ (Brueggemann 1997: 664), mediating God’s favour and embodying Israel’s (aspirational) commitment to covenant obedience. They conveyed divine blessings, performed sacrificial and sacramental rituals, expressed thanksgiving and repentance, and restored broken relationships.

Yet Israel’s sacerdotal life was never uneventful. The Bible has no small number of biting critiques, with prophets frequently denouncing priests’ insincerity and corruption as tokens of a grievous defection from the covenant (see e.g. Isa 1:11–15; Mic 6:6–8). Furthermore, if the destruction of the First Temple in the sixth century BCE complicated the standing of the priesthood, during and after the exile, the time of the Second Temple (515BCE–70CE) included phases of revival and innovation. Particularly notable in this respect is the ‘collectivization of priesthood’ (Feldmeier and Spieckermann 2021: 66), wherein all of Israel was called to embody holiness, and a growing emphasis on the reading of scripture in diasporic communities.

The New Testament adds complexity. On the one hand, the canonical gospels’ depiction of priesthood is highly negative. Understandably so: Jesus’ actions in the temple (Matt 21:12–17 and parallels) represented a sharp critique of then-contemporary practices and mores, and his public remarks perhaps suggested that Israel’s sacerdotal system would become superfluous in the fullness of eschatological time (see Schröter 2014: 187–191). This sparked an aggressive response. Each gospel narrates how the ‘chief priests’ moved to seize and interrogate Jesus, prior to handing him over to Pilate, and each gospel draws a vivid contrast between a self-serving ‘high priest’ and Jesus’ unwavering commitment to his mission. On the other hand – and with the proviso that Christ does not self-identify as a priest and no other New Testament book refers thus to Christ – the Letter to the Hebrews describes salvation in terms of Christ being a ‘great high priest’ (4:14) and is aptly read as making explicit a sacrificial subtext that runs through the gospels. As ‘the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being’ (1:3), the Son became ‘like his brothers and sisters in every respect, so that he might become a merciful and faithful high priest in the service of God, to make a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people’ (2:17). And Jesus clearly acts in a manner continuous with his forebears. He offers gifts and sacrifices to God; he reckons with sin; he intercedes for others. At the same time, priesthood is drastically transformed and decisively concluded. ‘Transformed’, since Jesus offers a perfect sacrifice and gift of obedience, adopting the roles of priest and victim to ensure that sin no longer estranges creatures from God (8:3–6; 9:11–14; 10:1–10). ‘Concluded’, since Jesus’ resurrection and ascension go hand in hand with his continuing intercession (7:23–25). This high priest, who reaches behind Aaron and stands in the line of Melchizedek (7:1–10; cf. Ps 110:4 and Gen 14:17–20), is seated at God’s right hand. And his ongoing action is such that covenantal obligations are now converted into the demand to wait, in patience and hope, for Jesus’ glorious return. (For more detail, see Attridge 1989; Barclay 2002; Sherman 2004: 169–218; Bauckham et al. 2009; Greggs 2019: 47–78; Moffitt 2011; 2022.)

2.3 King

In the Hebrew Bible, the title of king applies primarily to God. David prays to ‘my King and my God’ (Ps 5:2) early in the Psalter, and towards its end he promises that ‘all your faithful’ will ‘make known to all people your mighty deeds, and the glorious splendour of your kingdom’ (Ps 145:10, 12). Other texts expand this line of thought. God is depicted as king of creation and the guarantor of Israel’s wellbeing (e.g. Isa 43:15–17); God’s favour and might as a warrior is disclosed in God’s triumph over the Egyptians (see esp. Exod 15:1–18; and Miller 1973); God’s majestic justice and care are demonstrated by God’s solicitude for the marginalized (e.g. Ps 10:16–18); and God’s sovereign mercy is evidenced in God’s determination to save Israel from ruin (Zeph 3:15). Martin Buber puts it well: Yahweh as king is none other than the ‘Lord of all reality […] the Lord Who […] had no rivals [and] no partners’. God’s rule intends to be ‘valid for, and to bear upon, all of life’, and his claim upon his people is so radical that one can even say that divine ‘uniqueness is perfected as a doctrine’, since ‘the idea of the King of Israel unfolds itself, without being emptied of meaning, to that of the King of the universe’ (Buber 1973: 109–110).

Human kingship, then, was perhaps destined to be viewed as a questionable undertaking, and there is no serious attempt to hide the fact that some regarded the institution as a grave challenge to God’s sovereignty (see e.g. Judg 8:22–23; 1 Sam 8; 10:17–24). Indeed, Israel’s actual kings are largely portrayed as failures, marred by a combination of shortsightedness, idolatry, corruption, and malevolence. Praise is reserved for David, Hezekiah, and Josiah – the first being the founder of a dynasty, then a symbol of hope; the second and third being reformers who attempted to stem the tide of wickedness as the nation hurtled towards the nadir of exile. Yet it remains the case that kings, like prophets and priests, could in principle mediate something of the divine. Although it ends in lament, Psalm 89 makes the point powerfully: it presents the monarchy as an institution that is singularly expressive of God’s commitment to Israel. Through the king, Yahweh’s blessings are communicated to God’s people (and, perhaps, eventually to ‘all nations’; see Feldmeier and Spieckermann 2021: 49). And it was through reflection on the Davidic tradition that postexilic Israel began to speculate about the Messiah, developing oral and textual materials that were used creatively by early Christians.

‘Jesus is Lord’ is commonly and correctly viewed as the foundation upon which the New Testament is built, and it supplies the basis on which multiple texts ascribe regal qualities to Jesus. In many epistles, he is depicted as one who has ascended to God’s right hand, protecting the church and ruling over a kingdom that awaits eschatological fulfilment. Ephesians 1:20–22, inclusive of an often-repeated allusion to Ps 110:1, is exemplary:

God put this power to work in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly places, far above all rule and authority and power and dominion and above every name that is named, not only in this age but also in the age to come. And he has put all things under his feet and has made him the head over all things for the church.

As with other passages (e.g. 1 Cor 15:23–28; Heb 1:3), Christ’s lordship is here presented in ‘royal-messianic’ terms (Hurtado 2003: 100 and passim). Now ‘exalted at the right hand of God’ (Acts 2:32), Jesus defeated the ultimate enemy of death, exercises sovereignty over the cosmos, and will render judgment at the end of time (2 Cor 5:10; Matt 25:31–46) – even as Jesus delivers some measure of salvation to those presently incorporated into his body. And while the synoptic gospels initially appear to hedge regarding Jesus’ identity, artfully leaving it open as to whether ‘he is the herald or the king’ ('t Hooft 1948: 75), their unabashed declaration of Christ’s resurrection soon makes it clear that he is ultimately vindicated as king and deserving of praise akin to that accorded to God Godself. ‘All authority in heaven and earth has been given’ to him (Matt 28:18, emphasis added).

2.4 Theological implications

The preceding remarks support three broad claims.

First, an exegetical consideration of the titles of prophet, priest, and king demonstrates that the Hebrew Bible relates to the New Testament as an ‘indispensable foundation and presupposition’ (Feldmeier and Spieckermann 2021: 2). Why so? Simply because the later Testament, while recasting earlier claims, consistently depends on and affirms the authority of its predecessor. Recognizing this fact invites a doctrine of inspiration. Just as Christians believe that the God of Israel is the God of Jesus Christ, so Christians suppose that both Testaments serve now as ‘creaturely auxiliaries’ of God’s Word (Webster 2012: 6). Moreover, when these ‘auxiliaries’ are engaged through the titles of prophet, priest, and king, there emerges a basis for the rejection of Schleiermacher’s infamous suggestion that the Old Testament should

follow […] the New as an appendix (Anhang), for the present relative position of the two makes the demand, not obscurely, that we must first work our way through the whole of the Old Testament if we are to approach the New by the right avenue. (Schleiermacher 1999: 611)

Maybe the ‘demand’ that troubles Schleiermacher is in fact the right way to proceed. Would it not be apt to consider how God mediated God’s presence to Israel, and how Israel represented itself before God, in advance of a discussion of how Israel’s Messiah unites and recasts the roles of prophet, priest, and king – even if one supposes that the work of person and work of Israel’s Messiah is fundamental to Christian faith? Ought not one to reckon with God’s foundational provision to Israel before trying to make sense of Christ’s expansion and fulfilment of God’s saving work?

A second, related claim: the dependence of the New Testament on the Hebrew Bible goes hand in hand with a subversion of expectation, with various titles acquiring new shades of meaning through their application to Christ. Christ as prophet, for instance, coincides with Christ being the consummation of prophecy, and this consummative work is framed in proto-trinitarian terms, with Christ having ‘received from the Father the promise of the Holy Spirit [which] he has poured out [as] you both see and hear’ (Acts 2:33). Christ’s kingship, complementarily, includes his willingness to adopt the form of a ‘slave’ who is obedient unto death (so Phil 2:5–11), as well as the disquieting insistence that ‘whoever wishes to be first among you must be slave of all’ (Mark 10:44). And Christ as priest sacrifices himself, expressing obedience to the Father by bearing the sins of others. Finally, there is an expansion of what is only hinted at in the Hebrew Bible, with Christ’s prophetic, priestly, and royal work rendering the covenant the basis on which salvation is delivered to Israel and the Gentiles – and perhaps the cosmos as such.

Third, if the ‘offices’ of prophet, priest, and king are differentiated in the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament implies that they are now united in a single person. No doubt, just as a particular title steers one towards a discrete dimension of Israel’s religious history and culture, so that same title might emphasize a particular quality of Christ’s saving work in the New Testament. But since Christ lives as the concrete person ‘to whom all of these [New Testament] Christologies’ and titles refer (Barth 2018: 89), each title now belongs definitively to him and no other. And at certain moments, the ‘unity’ of these three offices starts to become explicit. Hebrews again proves instructive. If this letter begins by framing the incarnation in terms of God’s speech to ‘our ancestors […] by the prophets’ (1:1), Christ is soon identified as ‘a merciful and high priest’ who makes ‘a sacrifice of atonement for the sins of the people’ (2:17). And this priest, like his forebear Melchizedek, is later hailed as the ‘king of righteousness’ and ‘king of peace’ (8:2). Is there not here the suggestion that as ‘Christ controls and determines’ the ancient offices of Israel as they are ‘assigned to one person, the eternal and incarnate Son of God, and […] mutually reinforce one another in ways they never could before’ (Sherman 2004: 265)?

3 Dogmatic history: patristic and medieval

The frequency of scriptural references to prophets, priests, and kings effectively guaranteed that these titles would feature in the earliest postbiblical writings. This did in fact occur in the final decade of the first century with the Apostolic Fathers. First Clement presents Christ as a teacher who ‘inculcate[s] gentleness and suffering’ and conveys ‘knowledge that never fades’, while also identifying him as the ‘High Priest and Ruler of our souls’ (Kleist 1946: 17, 31, 47, cf. 49). A little later, Ignatius of Antioch depicts the incarnation as the overthrow of an ‘ancient empire’, with the consequence that one is now able to become a ‘freedman of Jesus Christ’ – an intriguing theopolitical statement, to say the least. Gentleness, patience, and longsuffering, Ignatius further notes, can be learned from ‘Christ, our only teacher’, who is also ‘the High Priest, entrusted with the Holy of Holies’ (Kleist 1946: 67, 72, 82).

Justin Martyr and Eusebius set the stage for future developments. In his second-century Dialogue with Trypho, Justin declares that Christ is ‘spoken of as a King, and a Priest, and God, and Lord, and an Angel, and a Man’ (1948: 198; cf. 202, 299, 323, 330). The prophets of the Hebrew Bible, concomitantly, are presented as having predicted Christ’s suffering and Christ’s (impending) return, and Justin insists that Christ himself – whom he identifies as ‘our Teacher’ in the First Apology – speaks directly in Israel’s scriptures, summoning his followers to disavow ‘the teachings of men’ and to heed ‘those which have been announced by the Holy Prophets and Himself’ (Justin Martyr 1948: 45, 221). Later, in the first decades of the fourth century, Eusebius bundles the titles into a neat triad. He suggests that the Hebrew Bible bears witness to preliminary ‘types’ that find their completion in Christ, one who is now ‘honoured by his worshippers throughout the world as king, wondered at as more than a prophet, and gloried as the true and only High Priest of God’ (Eusebius of Caesarea 1926: 39–40; see also Wainwright 1997: 110).

It is instructive to broaden analysis to other patristic writers, even when their texts bear less explicit cues. In De Incarnatione, for instance, Athanasius writes about Christ’s ‘offering his own temple and his bodily instrument’ to convey incorruptibility to those labouring under the ‘corruption of death’, while reasserting himself as ‘King of all’ and dispelling ignorance by making himself ‘known to be the Word of the Father’ (Athanasius 2011: 58, 66) – sufficient reason, arguably, to ask if the titles of prophet, priest, and king underwrite his Christology and soteriology. Augustine’s theology of the totus Christus (whole Christ) is also ripe for exploration, perhaps with the Ennarationes as a primary source (e.g. Augustine of Hippo 2000: 274–275): one could inquire as to how the titles of prophet, priest, and king are deployed when ‘the person of the incarnate Word [is] considered together with the connections he bears to the created order’ (Walker-Lenow 2023: 21–22), ruling over history and drawing the redeemed towards the heavenly city.

Further study, however, is needed to reckon with the advent of theological anti-Judaism in relation to these titles. Consider again Justin Martyr. On one hand, the Dialogue’s identification of Christ as priest and king, and more subtly, as the fulfilment of prophetic teaching, discloses a vivid sense of the ‘aliveness’ of Christ as the Lord who acts, before the Father and in the power of the Spirit, to establish, lead, and grow the church – a sense of ‘aliveness’ that marks an intriguing intervention in the fluid religious context of the second century, the complexity of which far exceeds the crude binary of Christianity versus Judaism (Den Dulk 2018). On the other hand, this intervention often trades in worrying descriptions of Israel and Judaism. While the Dialogue is eager to identify earlier ‘types, symbols, and prophecies’ of Christ (Justin Martyr 1948: 211), it also seems reluctant to view the covenant that God made with Trypho’s forebears as fulfilled, expanded, and recast by the incarnation, preferring instead to present that covenant as passé to the point of obsolete. With this kind of supersessionism in play, the intertextual linkages on which the New Testament depends are weakened to the point at which Christ’s royal, priestly, and prophetic work seems less about his being the Messiah of Israel, more about God ‘pivoting’ to deliver salvation to Gentiles alone. And this ‘pivot’ runs alongside a tendency to describe Jewish rituals as divine punishments, meted out on a people who faithlessly rejected Christ and is ‘ruthless, stupid, blind, and lame’ (Justin Martyr 1948: 188). The first stirrings of an acclamation of Christ as prophet, priest, and king, it seems, are bound up with rhetorical forms that have had tragic application over the last two millennia.

While it is inadvisable to generalize about medieval European theology, the titles in question clearly continue to circulate. Thomas Aquinas is a case in point. Although the tertia pars (third part) of the Summa Theologiae does not promote the notion of ‘offices’, it shows a marked interest in connecting Jesus’ person and work with the institutions of Israelite prophecy, priesthood, and kingship, which dovetails with a broader concern to present Christ as the fulfilment of Torah and the temple (see Levering 2002; also useful is Congar 1983). The ‘gift of prophecy’, for instance, is presented as an effect of the hypostatic union upon the humanity assumed by the Word, such that Christ as ‘wayfarer’ imaginatively grasps and conveys truths that would otherwise remain hidden (ST III.7.8). As priest, Christ continues the sacrificial work of those who prefigured him: motivated by charity, he communicates grace and his death renders satisfaction to God (ST III.22.1, 2; note that here, as elsewhere, Aquinas integrates ‘Anselmian’ and ‘Abelardian’ emphases into his account of atonement). Christ as king, finally, sits at the Father’s right hand and ‘possesses over all other creatures royal and judiciary power’ (ST II.58.3) – such power being inseparable from the fact that he is both a man of Israel, descended from the ‘seed of David’ (ST II.31.2), and the saviour who fulfils God’s promise to Abraham, such that God’s blessings extend across the world (Gen 12:18). Aquinas’ commentarial work proceeds along similar lines. De commendiatione et partitione sacrae scripturae (Commendation and Division of Sacred Scripture) advances the intriguing suggestion that the three ‘dignities’ of Christ as king, prophet, and priest are reflected in the Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke respectively (see Aquinas 1954: 493). And the Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews (see Aquinas 2006) takes an additional step, suggesting that Christ’s ‘anointing’ is followed by his conferral of the gifts of kingship, priesthood, and prophecy upon Christians.

4 Dogmatic history: the Reformation

Precedents notwithstanding, it is only in the sixteenth century that the munus triplex becomes a dogmatic fixture. Erasmus of Rotterdam and Martin Bucer get the ball rolling in the 1520s, with the latter employing the titles to boost the standing of academically trained ‘pastor-teachers’ in the context of a christocratic vision for reformation in Strasbourg, and Andrew Osiander seems to be the first to conceive of Christ holding a threefold ‘office’ (Latin: munus/German: Amt) in 1530 (see Williams 2000: 44, 376, 483–486; see also Wainwright 1997: 103–104) – a term that treats the titles of prophetic, priest, and king as distinct (but related) aspects of Christ’s mediation of salvation. And with John Calvin, the munus triplex receives its first definitive articulation.

4.1 John Calvin

A useful orientation is Calvin’s revision of the Geneva Catechism in 1545, which declares that the name ‘Christ […] signifies that he was anointed by the Father to be a King, Priest, and Prophet’. The justification for this contention adverts to Calvin’s deep commitment to the principle of sola scriptura (scripture alone): ‘M[aster]. How do you know that? S[tudent]. First, Because Scripture applies anointing to these three uses; secondly, Because it often attributes the three things which we have mentioned to Christ’. The Catechism then explains that Christ stands in continuity with ‘ancient kings, priest, and prophets’, even as Christ is anointed with the Holy Spirit, not oil, and even as Christ’s exercise of these offices surpasses anything found in the Hebrew Bible. Christ’s kingship means his extensive and perfect spiritual rule; Christ’s priesthood signals his reception of grace and his ‘appeasing [God’s] wrath by the offering of a sacrifice’; and Christ’s prophetic work entails his being ‘an ambassador […] and an interpreter […] putting an end to all revelations and prophecies by giving a full exposition of the Father’s will’ (Calvin 2002: 42).

Calvin’s concern to clarify the shape of piety, as ever, accompanies his scriptural focus. The munus triplex is thus much more than a handy gloss on biblical descriptions of Christ’s person and work; it functions also to describe how union with Christ shapes the life of believers. If Calvin’s general claim is that the Father has anointed Christ, in the power of the Spirit, ‘and loaded him with a perfect abundance of all his gifts, that he might impart them to us’ (Calvin 2002: 42), the titles specify the consequences for those in whom the Spirit evokes faith. As king, Christ enables ‘liberty of conscience’, such that Christians can stave off ‘the perpetual enemies of our souls’; as priest, Christ’s mediation ‘reconciles us to the Father’ and enables believers to approach God as a loving parent, not a punishing judge; as prophet, Christ teaches ‘his […] servants’, so that ‘he may enlighten them by the true knowledge of the Father, instruct them in truth, and make them household disciples of God’ (Calvin 2002: 43). What holds together these dimensions of salvation is a vivid sense of the ‘flow’ of grace. God makes the riches of God’s perichoretic life available to humankind through the incarnation; the Spirit of Christ passes these riches on to who are united to and in Christ; and riches are given and received by those who live in Christian community. Indeed, to extol God as the ‘sole Author of all blessings’ (Calvin 2002: 38) and to acclaim Christ as prophet, priest, and king effectively comprise two sides of the same coin – something captured by the contention that the munus triplex is ‘not a speculative but a practical doctrine’ ('t Hooft 1948: 16).

The final edition of the Institutes (1559) expands on this initial sketch, with the express aim of enabling ‘faith [to] find a firm basis for salvation in Christ’ (Calvin 2006: 494).

With respect to his prophetic office, Christ provides a full revelation of God’s saving will. The ‘partial’ witness of the Hebrew Bible is of course given its due. Calvin reminds readers that the history of the covenant included ‘an unbroken line of prophets’ who provided ‘useful doctrine’, and he notes that Daniel stirred up messianic expectation so that ‘believers might patiently go without the prophets for a time because the fullness and culmination of all revelations was at hand’. Yet this witness is only preliminary. Only Christ as prophet was ‘anointed by the Spirit to be herald and witness of the Father’s grace’, such that ‘the power of the Spirit might be present in the continuing preaching of the gospel’. The Geneva Catechism’s interest in the impartation of grace is thus complemented with an interest in what one might call the confidence of piety, which Calvin supposes to be renewed constantly in the church. To make the same point from a different angle: the Spirit does not only ‘rest’ on Christ, confirming him as the Word of the Father and God’s final prophet; that ‘resting’ now entails the Spirit relaying Christ to the elect through an exposition of the Word, such that Christians can delight in ‘the whole immensity of heavenly benefits’ (Calvin 2006: 495–496). Notable here, also, is a nice qualification of the opening of the Institutes, with Christ’s ‘prophetic dignity’ providing believers with ‘all parts of perfect wisdom’. With Christ at hand, a confident church need not busy itself with anyone or anything but him; its sole concern can be the ‘simplicity of the gospel’ (Calvin 2006: 496). (Calvin likely has two targets in view at this juncture: ‘papists’ who supposedly acclaim Christ ‘coldly and rather ineffectually’, and radical reformers who supposedly forget that Christ has ‘made an end of all prophecies’ [Calvin 2006: 494, 496]).

In describing the office of king, Calvin’s focus is the spiritual protection that Christ affords those who comprise his body. There is again a backwards look at the Hebrew Bible. God’s promise to abide with Israel through the Davidic dynasty assures believers of ‘the perpetuity’ and ‘everlasting preservation of the church […] founded as it is on the eternal throne of Christ’ (Calvin 2006: 497, 498). But the protection that Christ provides the faithful now, in this very moment, most grips Calvin’s imagination. The vital reality of the unio cum Christo (union with Christ), provocative of hope for life in the hereafter, renders all manner of hardships survivable. It even converts tribulation into an occasion for growth. Because Christ rules, ‘we may patiently pass through this life with its misery, hunger, cold, contempt, reproaches, and other troubles’ (Calvin 2006: 498). And because Christ rules, even our failures as believers are mitigated, washed away by the flow of grace.

The Father has given all power to the Son that he may by the Son’s hand govern, nourish, and sustain us, keep us in his care, and help us. Thus, while for a short time we wander away from God, Christ stands in our midst, to lead us little by little to a firm union with God. (Calvin 2006: 500)

The kingdom of God is truly ‘among us’ (Luke 17:21) – even when trying circumstances, not to mention the grievous failures of Christian life, suggest otherwise.

An exposition of the priestly office, finally, enables Calvin to articulate key dimensions of his perspective on atonement. On one level, the cross is an occasion for Christ to bear God’s wrath against sin, as well as an occasion for Christ to ‘satisfy’ God by offering himself as a sacrifice. There is here a deftly parsed coincidence of receptivity and activity, expiation and propitiation: Christ vicariously bears the Father’s punishment of sin while, at the same time, gifting himself to God the Father for our sake (see Jones 2017). On another level – and one must of course recall Hebrews at this point – Christ’s priestly work involves a heavenly continuation of his earthly obedience. As an ‘everlasting intercessor’, the incarnate Son actively pleads our case before the Father – with momentous results: we are now rendered ‘pure and clean – and even as holy’ (Calvin 2006: 502). And while there is again a polemical slant, directed towards ‘papists’ who (supposedly) ‘consider […] the Mass as the sacrificing of Christ’ (Calvin 2006: 503), Calvin’s familiar concern for piety stands in plain sight. With Christ as our priest, there arises ‘not only trust in prayer, but also peace for godly consciences, while [believers] safely lean on God’s fatherly mercy and are surely persuaded that whatever has been consecrated through the Mediator is pleasing to God’ (Calvin 2006: 502).

4.2 Reformed confessions, Protestant scholasticism

Calvin’s peerless ability to combine exegetical reflection with a dogmatic presentation of Christ’s redeeming activity, which enables one to view Christ’s threefold office as ‘work for us and […] work in us’ (Gerrish 2015: 125, original emphasis) – a point missed by those who imagine that talk of ‘penal substitution’ suffices to describe the Reformer’s account of salvation, or who worry that he presents salvation as happening extra nos (outside ourselves) – spurred the swift uptake of the munus triplex. It soon made its way into important confessions, as Reformed churches in Europe sought to promote a distinctive grammar and lexicon in a newly diversified religious landscape. While confessions certainly aimed to discipline discourse (and thus, for better and for worse, expose doctrinal ‘error’), they were underwritten by a positive intention: the promotion of styles of writing and speaking alternative to medieval vernaculars and the rarefied rhetoric of late medieval scholasticism. The Heidelberg Catechism (1563) is a case in point. In response to the question, ‘Why is he called Christ, that is, Anointed?’, the answer – biblically allusive at every step – is as follows:

Because he is ordained of God the Father, and anointed with the Holy Spirit, to be our chief prophet and teacher (Lehrer), who fully reveals to us the secret counsel and will of God concerning our redemption; and our only high priest, who by the one sacrifice of his body has redeemed us, and lives always to make intercession before the Father; and our eternal king, who rules us by his Word and Spirit, and who defends and maintains us in the redemption won for us. (Schaff and Schaff 1983: 317–318, translation lightly revised)

Later statements of note include the Westminster Confession of Faith (1647; see Schaff and Schaff 1983: 619) and the Westminster Shorter Catechism (1647; see Schaff and Schaff 1983: 680–681).

The munus triplex also becomes a standard concern in Reformed scholasticism, as demonstrated by a number of important seventeenth-century texts: the Syntagma Theologiae Christianae by Amandus Polanus, the Compendium Theologiae Christianae by Johannes Wollebius, William Ames’ Marrow of Theology, the Leiden Synopsis, and – last but not least – Francis Turretin’s mighty Institutes of Elenctic Theology (see Polanus von Polansdorf 1624: 441–444; Wollebius 1965: 98; Ames 1997: 131–134; van den Belt et al. 2016: 99–129; Turretin 1994: 391–494). Although Lutheran confessions do not favour the munus triplex – their emphasis is typically the ‘twofold office’ of king and priest, which arguably amounts to a continuation of medieval lines of thought in the West (Bornkamm 1998) – it also found its way into Lutheran scholasticism (Gerhard 2009: 318–330; Schmid 1961: 337–376).

5 The (long) nineteenth century

It is tempting to presume that the nineteenth century was an inhospitable environment for a formulation with a scholastic reputation. Surely the cumulative impact of the European enlightenments, Romanticism, German idealism, and various modes of critical materialism set the munus triplex back on its heels? Not as much as one might expect – and certainly not once one jettisons outdated attitudes towards Protestant ‘liberalism’. Granted that many theological agendas were transformed by philosophical, political, and cultural developments, an identification of Christ’s prophetic, priestly, and royal office remained a dogmatic touchstone for many. Particularly significant on this front are works by Friedrich Schleiermacher, Albrecht Ritschl, and the unhappily maligned Ernst Troeltsch. At the same time, and more disappointingly, one finds otherwise capable authors handling the munus triplex derivatively or, worse, blithely casting it aside – Charles Hodge and Adolf von Harnack being notable examples.

A deep indebtedness to Calvin pervades The Christian Faith, and that debt is especially evident throughout Schleiermacher’s exposition of the threefold office. No doubt Schleiermacher’s point of departure is described in terms that differ from anything found in the Institutes:

[If] every activity of the Redeemer proceeds from the being of God in Him, and if in the formation of the Redeemer’s person the only active power was the creative divine activity which established itself as the being of God in Him, then […] His every activity may be regarded as a continuation of that person-forming divine influence on human nature […] [T]he activity of the Redeemer […] is world-forming, and its object is human nature, in the totality of which the powerful God-consciousness is to be implanted as a new vital principle. (Schleiermacher 1999: 427)

Careful readers, however, will soon discern that altered conceptual and rhetorical forms do not portend a drastic change in terms of dogmatic content. Although Schleiermacher does not engage the scriptural witness as explicitly as Calvin, the munus triplex continues to underscore that the ‘original activity of the Redeemer […] precedes all activity of our own’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 425), and it serves, once again, as a vehicle to describe how Christ’s activity ramifies in nobis (in us). It is an occasion to analyse the ‘payoff’ of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection, as God’s redeeming action is progressively ‘naturalized’ in Christian communities (and, in the fullness of time, in humankind as such).

The details of Schleiermacher’s perspective are laid out in a characteristically intense series of paragraphs. The office of prophet is understood in terms of Christ’s person and work effecting ‘the end of all prophecy’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 445). And, following Calvin, Schleiermacher emphasizes that Christ fully discloses what God intends for God’s children, even as Schleiermacher suggests that the ontological consequences of the incarnation exceed anything envisaged by his predecessor. (A good example: ‘whatever is yet in store for the human race, so far as fellowship with God is concerned, is to be regarded […] as a further development of Christ’s work’ [Schleiermacher 1999: 449].) The office of priest might initially appear to be a dogmatic nonstarter, since Schleiermacher does not seem to make the cross fundamental to redemption. Yet Schleiermacher’s capacity to rework the Reformed tradition soon pays dividends. Christ’s ‘active obedience’ is presented as an unflagging adherence to God’s will – an adherence that shapes those who comprise the church, and that leads human beings ‘to an ever more perfect fulfilment of the divine will’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 456). Christ’s ‘passive obedience’, concomitantly, is viewed as a priestly exhibition of ‘absolutely self-denying love’, such that Christ can be identified as our ‘satisfying representative’. There follows, in fact, a largely unnoticed willingness to recover some measure of substitutionary thinking, for Schleiermacher shares Aquinas’s concern to balance an ‘Abelardian’ emphasis with an ‘Anselmian’ complement when describing the atonement. Christ’s commitment to the redemption of humankind includes his entrance into a life defined by sinfulness, and Christ’s ‘sympathy’ for sinners, paired with the constancy of his God-consciousness unto death, ‘stimulate[s] a redemptive activity sufficient for the assumption of all men into His vital fellowship’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 458, 461–462). Finally, and with respect to the office of king, Calvin’s emphasis on spiritual protection is routed through a deft analogy, with the anhypostasic/enhypostatic relation of Christ’s human nature to Christ’s divine nature paralleled in the church’s relationship to Christ as its head. ‘He stands to the totality of believers in exactly the same relation as the divine nature in Him does to the human, animating and taking it up into the fellowship of his original life’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 468). As the being and act of God sets the terms for Christ’s human life, so Christ’s presence amongst his people defines the Christian community.

Although this précis signals the impropriety of reading Schleiermacher through the lens of some ill-conceived twentieth-century critiques (e.g. Brunner 1924; cf. Jones 2023), the question of whether Schleiermacher’s perspective succeeds is of course another matter. An obvious upside, and another indication of Schleiermacher’s dependence on Calvin, is that Schleiermacher’s deployment of these titles supports a ‘holistic interpretation of the meaning of Christ’s redemptive work’ (Ralston 2022: 96). The absence of a trinitarian framing, and thus the lack of reflection on the operations of Christ’s Spirit, however, seems problematic – even granted that the conclusion to The Christian Faith proposes a retroactive enclosure of each preceding dogmatic ‘part’ within a triune ‘whole’. Also worrisome is a lack of engagement with the Hebrew Bible. Granted that Schleiermacher supposes that the ‘whole redemptive and reconciling activity of Christ […] is completely [sic!] reproduced in terms of these three offices’ (Schleiermacher 1999: 440), his reluctance to consider how Christian piety is shaped by an engagement with the length and breadth of scripture opens the door to the kind of anti-Judaism that Justin Martyr helped to accredit. An emphasis on the ‘newness’ of redemption, secured through remarks on Christ as prophet, priest, and king, floats free of a robust account of God’s multifaceted relationship with ancient Israel.

Albrecht Ritschl stands among the most important European Protestant theologians at the end of the nineteenth century, and his work has had a lasting influence in Anglophone circles (mediated, in part, through the articulation of the ‘social gospel’ promulgated by Walter Rauschenbusch and others). The context in which Ritschl operated obviously differs from Schleiermacher. He writes after the heyday of German idealism, in light of revived interest in Immanuel Kant’s theoretical and practical philosophy, and in view of an increasingly well-established academic concern with the ‘historical Jesus’. A rejection of his august predecessor’s dislocation of dogmatics and ethics is also significant. Ritschl always sought to connect theological reflection and ethical life, with discipleship requiring ‘[p]ractical proof of sonship with God in spiritual freedom and labour for the kingdom’ (Ritschl 1972: 240, original emphasis) – a marked contrast to the Glaubenlehre’s interest in pious ‘affections’. Yet just as Schleiermacher’s account of the munus triplex connects with an analysis of Christ’s effects on the Christian community, so also Ritschl.

Although remarks on the munus triplex are offered in preceding volumes, the third instalment of Ritschl’s masterwork, The Christian Doctrine of Justification and Sanctification, holds most importance. In line with Calvin and Schleiermacher, Ritschl’s starting point is Christ as the decisive revelation of God’s will. More insistently than either of his forebears, however, Ritschl views the kingdom of God as ‘the common end of God and the elect community’ and understands the substance of Christ’s redemptive work to be the stimulation of ‘the freedom of the children of God’ for the sake of the ‘moral organisation of mankind’ (Ritschl 1902: 10, 13). Put in terms of a sequence of events: Christ is the gift of the Father, revealing God’s love to humankind and securing our justification; this gift establishes the Christian community, organized around a vital experience of Christ’s redemptive power; and the task of Christian community consists in passing on, through ethical action, Christ’s redemptive power, in order to realize the kingdom as a historical reality.

The basic function of the munus triplex is to elaborate how divine initiative and human response define Christian life. To be sure, earlier treatments are deemed deficient. Ritschl worries about the distinctiveness and the coordination of the titles of prophet, priest, and king in earlier authors. He also commends the category of ‘vocation’ (Beruf), instead of ‘office’ – a move that likely forestalled a substantive engagement with the witness of the Hebrew Bible and narrowed the possibilities for thinking about salvation. But the munus triplex nevertheless highlights the ‘significance of Christ for the community that believes on him’, and it points towards the importance of ethical actions that ‘found and maintain a community of believers’ (Ritschl 1902: 432–33). To make the same point differently: while Ritschl supposes the munus triplex to be a questionable reading of the New Testament and a less-than-adequate feature of the Protestant scholastic tradition, it nicely indicates how the Christian community’s receipt of justifying grace opens out into the broader project of reconciliation, wherein the world is transformed and ordered to God’s kingdom through free human activity. Because that community ‘stands to God in a relation essentially conditioned by the forgiveness of sins’ (Ritschl 1902: 3), so that community is summoned to demonstrate, through ethical relationships, what it means to have ‘been brought into a harmonious direction to God’ (Ritschl 1902: 78). Because Christ is at once prophet, priest, and king – or, better, a ‘royal prophet’ and ‘royal priest’ (see McCulloh 1990: 14–85), for Christ’s advocacy of God’s kingdom is most basic to his identity – so Christians are empowered to act as prophetic, priestly, and kingly agents of the kingdom he establishes and animates.

It is not necessary to determine here the extent to which Ritschl’s theology was beholden to parochial norms, with his ‘ideal of life’ being ‘the epitome of the national-liberal German bourgeois of the age of Bismarck’ (Barth 2002: 642). Suffice it to say that this critique has often been overstated, then treated as a pretext to suppose that Ritschl (and other nineteenth-century luminaries) have nothing to offer Christian theology today. More important, in this context, is the fact that one of the last great ‘liberals’ continued to view the threefold office positively, and in terms that indicate continued interest in the lines of thought laid down by Calvin. Ernst Troeltsch puts it thus in his Glaubenslehre:

as prophet, Jesus is the one who reveals God […] As high priest, Jesus is the one who leads us to God and mediates salvation and wholeness […] as king, Jesus is both the head and the original image of the community that gathers about him, calls itself by his name, confesses him as its unifying point, and celebrates his presence in the devotional cultus. (Troeltsch 1991: 89; see also 99–100)

Is there not here, perhaps, a starting point for further reflection about Christ as a ‘rallying point’ for the Christian community (Troeltsch 1990) and an opening for sociological insights, themselves tied to the titles of prophet, priest, and king, to inform theological inquiry?

Yet the news is hardly all good. Around the time that Ritschl was advancing a thoughtful critique of earlier articulations of the munus triplex, Charles Hodge and others promoted a pinched vision of Protestant orthodoxy as a bulwark against the (supposed) missteps of Western modernity. Hodge’s treatment of the threefold office is serviceable, in its own way, but it did not move theological conversation forward; it functioned as one more fusillade in an ill-advised attack on an increasingly diversified religious and political context. Still more problematic is the blithe disregard for the munus triplex in writings by Adolf von Harnack. In contrast to Hodge’s outsized emphasis on Christ’s priestly office, and without any of Hodge’s salutary concern for the Old Testament witness, Jesus’ saving work is now limited to his teaching office – an office itself reduced to a timeless message, routed through modern scholarship, such that Jesus is only a ‘prophet, guide and Lord’, who ‘takes possession of those who are his in their inward being’ (Harnack 1991: 310). The expansive account of salvation that Calvin developed, via the threefold office, seems now to be a distant memory. The coming kingdom of God, the reality of God qua Father and the absolute worth of the human soul, and the obligations of righteousness and love (Harnack 1978): if these bland tenets distil the ‘essence’ of Christianity, what need for the complexities of the munus triplex?

6 The twentieth and twenty-first centuries: from Karl Barth to the present

The history of the threefold office from the first decade of the twentieth century to the present day cannot be laid out in detail here. A full treatment would need not only to track doctrinal developments – it would also have to reckon with shifting relationships between the churches, the academy, and the public sphere; the utility – or lack thereof – of descriptions of various intellectual movements (‘modern’, ‘dialectical’, ‘evangelical’, ‘liberal’ and ‘postliberal’, ‘postmodern’, ‘liberationist’); the advent of new Christian formations, inside and beyond the northern hemisphere; and, most recently, the proliferation of various forms of ‘digital theology’. In this final subsection, however, the focus will necessarily be limited to Karl Barth and the career of the munus triplex in recent scholarship.

6.1 Karl Barth

As shown by the preceding section, Barth did not singlehandedly rediscover the threefold office by shucking off the unhappy error of Protestant ‘liberalism’ and manfully (re)seizing the mantle of the Reformation. Nor was Barth the first major twentieth-century European theologian to embrace this dogmatic construction. Herman Bavinck (2006) affirms its value, and a recent study discerns its presence in Emil Brunner’s important book of 1927, The Mediator (see Brunner 1947; cf. 1952: 271–307; see McGrath 2014: 47–48).

However, Barth’s treatment of the threefold office is unprecedented in scale, ambition, and sophistication. Across the first three parts of the fourth volume of the Church Dogmatics, he converts the munus triplex from an element internal to analyses of Christ’s mediatorial work into an organizing structure for the entire doctrine of reconciliation (pace Johnson 2012). To identify Christ as priest, king, and prophet – the starting points of Church Dogmatics [CD] IV/1, IV/2, and IV/3, respectively – establishes three distinctive lines of sight on Christ’s person and work. These lines of sight are dialectically related to Christ’s two ‘natures’ and Christ’s two ‘states’. In CD IV/1, Christ’s priestly office is considered in light of the status exinanitionis (state of humiliation), which is associated with Christ being the obedient Son of God; in CD IV/2, Christ’s royal office is engaged via the status exaltationis (state of exaltation), which is associated with Christ being the human exalted by God; and in CD IV/3, the states are considered in their unity, with the incarnate Word acting as a prophet whose reconciling work shines across creation as the ‘light of life’.

These lines of sight extend beyond Christology, narrowly construed, for Barth uses each office to order reflection on proximate dogmatic loci. In CD IV/1, Christ’s priestly work supports and guides an exposition of sin, understood as pride and fall, then an examination of justification, the gathering of the community, and God’s provocation of individual faith. In CD IV/2, an analysis of Christ’s kingly office anchors a different hamartiological slant, with sin construed as sloth and misery; there follows an exposition of sanctification, a consideration of the Spirit’s upbuilding of the Christian community, and reflection on the Spirit’s evocation of love in the individual. Finally, in CD IV/3 – the longest part of Barth’s doctrine of reconciliation – an exposition of Christ as the ‘true witness’ animates an analysis of sin as falsehood and damnation, reflection on vocation, and pneumatological remarks about the sending of the community and hope. (Dauntingly, Barth projected a further dialectical overlay: the ‘special ethics’ that would have comprised CD IV/4, which remained incomplete.)

The munus triplex, then, is rendered a prism through which there refracts the light of Christ, such that the entire realm of reconciliation is newly illumined. To behold this prism – or, more precisely, to reflect on how this prism scatters the light that emanates from Christ himself – is an occasion to follow discrete ‘tracks’ of God’s communicative and saving work. Each track has its own integrity and unfolds on its own terms, even as none is sufficient unto itself; each, correspondingly, is to be received and understood in relation to others. Christ’s identity as prophet sets in motion one clutch of discourses about sin, salvation, and the church; Christ’s identity as king sets in motion a different set; Christ’s identity as priest yet another. And Barth clearly intends for the overall impact to be close to overwhelming. It is not just that the import of Christ’s saving action exceeds the bounds of a single idiom; it is also that the employment of multiple, co-inherent idioms is a way to pay tribute to the inexhaustible richness of Christ’s reconciling gift. And Barth’s readers, in turn, are called to respond. The final part-volumes of the Dogmatics ought to be read together with the first pages of the Church Dogmatics, which summon the church to the ‘task of criticising and revising its speech about God’ (Barth 1956–1975: 3 [I/1]). Our task, as the church, is to ask if Barth’s description of reconciliation rings true, both with respect to the perichoretic fullness of Christ as one bearer of the threefold office and with respect to the distinct roles of priest, king, and prophet as they are ‘appropriated’ in the analyses of CD IV/1, IV/2, and IV/3 respectively.

Three further points are in order. First, Barth presents the priestly office in ostensibly juridical terms. This move indicates Barth’s commitment to a mainline of Reformed thinking; it also connects with a substitutionary account of atonement that figures Christ as the ‘judge judged in our place’. Yet it is noteworthy that Barth, much like Calvin, fills out his juridical-sacerdotal frame with a wide array of concepts, categories, and motifs, the culminative effect of which is to ‘de-legalize’ thinking about the atonement – or, at the least, to ensure that the prior ‘actuality’ of atonement (Gunton 1988) governs the meaning of theological concepts, as opposed to concepts governing the meaning of atonement. One of Barth’s most famous remarks on the cross illustrates the point:

For the sake of the best, the worst had to happen to sinful man: not out of any desire for vengeance and retribution on the part of God, but because of the radical nature of the divine love, which had to ‘satisfy’ itself only in the outworking of its wrath against the man of sin, only by killing him, extinguishing him, removing him. (Barth 1956–1975: 254 [IV/1])

Such figuratively diversified language, in turn, prompts one to ask if Barth was incorrect to view the sacerdotal idiom as being ‘remote’ for modern readers (Barth 1956–1975: 275 [IV/1]) and raises the question of whether a Barth-inspired perspective might recentre an acclamation of Christ as priest. Does not Barth suggest, after all, that Christ is ‘burned up’ in the fire of God’s love, bearing all iniquities, transgressions, and sins (Lev 16:21)?

Second, it is important to grasp how thoroughly Barth integrates the offices of priest/judge and king with his exposition of Christ’s divine and human natures and his exposition of Christ’s humiliated and exalted states. If Schleiermacher sought to consign such an integration to the past (Schleiermacher 1999: 473–475), Barth embraces it with gusto and with a particular concern to emphasize its ontological significance. On one side, identifying Christ as the divine Son who humbles himself on our behalf as priest/judge discloses an obedience internal to the Trinity as such – an obedience wherein the only-begotten Son exercises freedom by following the ‘command’ of God qua Father, perhaps in a manner that affects the eternal life of God. On the other side, identifying Christ as the human who, as king, brings about the exaltation of human nature as such, discloses what it means to bear the image of God as a primordial determination of human nature. (Both claims, incidentally, have their grounding in Barth’s decision to embed reflection on election within the doctrine of God, per CD II/2.)

A third point: while Barth’s ‘orthodox’ forebears construed the munus propheticum (prophetic office) in terms of the fullness of Christ’s disclosure of God’s saving will, and while some of Barth’s ‘liberal’ predecessors reduced this office to a lacklustre vision of Christ’s ‘teaching’, Barth views Christ’s prophetic work as that dimension of reconciliation wherein God decisively reveals Godself to humankind. This amounts to a massive amplification of the office. Jesus does not only define and fulfil God’s covenant with Israel and creation as such; he announces this fulfilment as the truth of his person, and he and his Spirit continuously convey this truth in ways that intend to shape our thought, speech, and action. ‘Our knowledge of Jesus Christ is ingredient within his reality, as the risen, ascended and self-communicative one’ (Webster 1998: 128) – and our knowledge sets in motion ethical (and thus political) subjects who are empowered to disavow falsehood and to promote truth in the world at large. It should not be missed, too, that the exposition of CD IV/3, the final full part-volume of the Dogmatics, returns us to the concern with revelation that courses through the first part-volume. But with new concreteness, for the self-authenticating ‘content’ of revelation is no abstraction, cast down to Earth from upon high. It is the luminous reality of Jesus Christ, the Word incarnate.

6.2 After Barth

While Barth’s audacious handling of the munus triplex of course influenced many who sought to continue and respond to his dogmatic programme, the nature of this influence is rather hard to describe. Certainly, German theologians who came to prominence in the 1970s (Eberhard Jüngel, Jürgen Moltmann, Dorothee Sölle, and Wolfhart Pannenberg in particular) were deeply indebted to Barth and appropriated key elements of his account of reconciliation. Yet these theologians did not make the munus triplex central to their work; they preferred to read Barth in relation to their own dogmatic preoccupations. Equally, while the ‘Barth renaissance’ (McCormack 2008: 281–284) continues apace in Anglophone scholarship, neither the doctrine of reconciliation, in general, nor the munus triplex, more particularly, have dominated discussion. These topics have often been eclipsed by sophisticated analyses of Barth’s theological ‘method’, reflections about Barth’s relationship to Western modernity, and debates about Barth’s theological ontology. However, a shift may be afoot, with German theologians showing new interest in the munus triplex as an occasion for christological reflection (see e.g. Welker 2012) and English-language theologians reprising Barth’s willingness to use the munus triplex to support constructive dogmatic work (see e.g. Ziegler 2018: 35–51; Greggs 2019).

Beyond Barth studies, it seems helpful to think about the munus triplex in relation to four current (and often overlapping) spheres of scholarship.

First, discussions of Christ’s threefold office have become a feature of Anglophone evangelical theology. Inspiration here is not consistently drawn from Barth, but rather from authors like Louis Berkhof and G. C. Berkouwer (see Berkhof 1996: esp. 356–412; Berkouwer 1965: 58–87), alongside an engagement with certain strands of biblical scholarship and contemporary studies of Calvin and Reformed scholasticism. Notable authors in this respect are T. F. Torrance (2009; cf. 1976: esp. 112–122) and Michael Horton (2011). The reasons for evangelical interest in the munus triplex are, needless to say, complex and dependent on context. But one can plausibly posit a resemblance between the motives of contemporary evangelicals and those who first promulgated the Reformed confessions: both groups seek to define, disseminate, and promote a distinctive doctrinal grammar and lexicon. The difference between the sixteenth century and the present day, however, is striking. If in early modern Europe there was a desire to distinguish Reformed discourse amidst other Christian options, many contemporary evangelicals write in view of a (supposedly) secular context that, to their mind, imperils the flourishing of Christian communities – and they do so with palpable nervousness about pluralism of various kinds (religious, social, etc).

Second, there has been a steady interest in the munus triplex in the broader realm of Protestant dogmatics over the last fifty years. The munus triplex is given passing but important attention in John Macquarrie’s Principles of Christian Theology (1977) and Daniel Migliore’s Faith Seeking Understanding (2004; see esp. 186–187). In a more ecumenical vein, Geoffrey Wainwright’s For Our Salvation: Two Approaches to the Work of Christ (1997) draws on Protestant, Catholic, and Orthodox traditions to demonstrate diverse ‘uses’ of the three offices – christological, baptismal, soteriological, ministerial, and ecclesiological – in order to illumine dogmatic and doxological concerns that crisscross two millennia of Christian thought. Robert Sherman’s King, Priest, and Prophet: A Trinitarian Theology of Atonement (2004) is a particularly notable attempt to coordinate the three offices with the triune economy and a holistic perspective on atonement, with the office of king connected with God the Father and victory over sin, the office of priest connected with God the Son and vicarious sacrifice, and the office of prophet connected with the Holy Spirit and the conveyance of saving truth. And, as noted above, the munus triplex is fundamental for Tom Greggs’ unfolding ecclesiological dogmatics.

Third, Roman Catholic interest in the munus triplex has grown in the latter half of the twentieth century. A noteworthy precedent is John Henry Newman, who delivered an important sermon on Christ and the Christian life in relation to the threefold office in 1843 (Newman 1879: 52–62), when still within the fold of the Church of England, and then returned to the issue – albeit with a sharper focus on the prophetic, priestly, and kingly dimensions of the church’s hierarchy – in the third preface to the Via Media (1877: xv–xciv). Most significant, however, is Yves Congar’s Jalons pour une théologie du laïcat (1954, translated into English as Lay People in the Church: A Study for a Theology of the Laity), which offers a vision of the entire church as continuing Christ’s priestly, prophetic, and royal work. This vision is consonant with key texts of the Second Vatican Council (esp. Lumen Gentium; see Denzinger 2012: 860–909), which of course lays great emphasis on the church as the ‘people of God’. More recently, Gerald O’Collins and Michael Keenan Jones (2010) and Andrew Meszaros (2016) have developed new lines of thought in conversation with Newman and Congar. O’Collins and Jones aim to develop a theology of Christ’s priesthood; Meszaros engages the titles to think constructively about the relationship of faith, history, and ecclesiology.

Fourth and finally, it is noteworthy that the threefold office does not pique the interest of liberationist thinkers. A missed opportunity? Possibly. Consider James Cone’s pioneering account of Christ’s empowerment of the oppressed in their struggle for justice (see Cone 1990: esp. 110–128; 1997: esp. 99–149). The munus triplex could, in principle, have been integrated into Cone’s analysis. The prophetic office could be framed as a reiteration and amplification of the Old Testament’s concern for liberation; the priestly office could be construed in terms of Christ’s solidarity with those afflicted by injustice; the royal office could be associated with the risen Christ’s animation and guidance of those labouring to realize a ‘new heaven and a new earth’ (Rev 21:1). But it is not at all obvious that deployment of these titles would substantively enhance Cone’s theology. The threefold office might even be judged a liability. It could obscure Cone’s all-important identification of Christ with Blackness – an identification that signals God’s solidarity with those victimized by white supremacism, and an identification that foregrounds God’s animation of diverse forms of ecclesial, political, and sociocultural resistance. It could suggest an uncritical endorsement of modes of reflection that have failed to connect Christian faith with projects of sociopolitical transformation. And it could suggest a lack of interest in the concrete life – discursive, political, sexual, cultural, etc. – of marginalized communities. As it goes with Cone, so may it go with other projects. Is it really desirable to lean on the munus triplex when developing, say, a feminist, queer, Minjung, or ecologically oriented account of Christ’s person and work? Would it not be better draw on idioms and concepts that speak directly to the ways that union with Christ animates struggles for dignity, justice, and care now, instead of looking ‘backwards’ to a tradition that has often enlisted Christ to bolster the political, social, and sexual status quo? Or, to turn the screw once more, might an integration of liberationist concerns with ‘traditional’ formulae like the munus triplex open up new possibilities for thought and praxis?

7 Conclusion

The affordances of the munus triplex, as well as some possible limitations, can now be articulated.

First, this dogmatic construction is aptly responsive to the scriptural witness. The titles of prophet, priest, and king are native to the Hebrew Bible and New Testament, not arbitrarily foisted upon them; and an engagement with these titles, singly and conjunction, proves exegetically valuable. It sets in vivid relief distinctive mediations of God in the life of ancient Israel and, in turn, enables reflection on how those mediations are recast in light of Christ’s life, death, resurrection, and ascension.

Second, the munus triplex proves helpful when reading ancient and medieval Christian texts. If the risk of anachronism looms at this point, it is a risk that is usefully run – not least because there seems to be a gradual consolidation of interest in this triad of titles among medieval Christian thinkers. Also significant is the issue of how elements that later coalesce into the munus triplex relate to theological anti-Judaism, which sometimes figures the unity-in-distinction of the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament not in terms of promise and fulfilment, continuity and expansion, but rather in terms of the (putative) obsolescence of Judaism in light of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection. Reckoning with this issue is imperative for contemporary Christian theologians. It is an opportunity to interrogate the dogmatic sources of anti-Judaic and anti-Jewish imaginaries and, by extension, an opportunity to ask how those imaginaries may have functioned as staging areas for modern racism (see Carter 2008; Jennings 2010).

Third, in numerous Protestant texts the threefold office anchors a multidimensional account of salvation, with Christ’s identity as prophet, priest, and king supporting a richly patterned account of the ways that Christ benefits those whom God saves. Calvin’s work remains exemplary. On one level, talk of offices mitigates the temptation to confine christological reflection to a single idiom or conceptuality. While one might think profitably about one or another office, no office exists in isolation from others; and it is only by thinking about Christ as prophet and priest and king that one begins to honour the richness of salvation. On another level, the munus triplex cautions us not to consider Christ in isolation from the benefits that he imparts. The threefold office, to make the point more positively, does more than span the gap between Christ’s ‘person’ and ‘work’. As it lends density and complexity to christological reflection, it urges one to understand how Christ transforms those whom the Spirit draws into Christ’s body, the church, such that prophecy, priestliness, and royalty become keynotes of Christian existence in the quotidian.

Fourth, the munus triplex is an occasion for dogmatic creativity. Karl Barth’s writing bulks large on this front. In Church Dogmatics he converts a dogmatic formula, previously internal to an account of Christ’s saving action, into a structuring motif for the entire doctrine of reconciliation; and his explication of each office guides reflection on Christ’s divine and human natures, the ‘states’ of exaltation and humiliation, the character of sin, the nature of the Christian community, and the dynamics of Christian life. There are signs that Barth’s penchant for innovation is now extending to others, not least those who think and write in an ecumenical key.

Fifth and finally, one must ask: is this dogmatic formulation the best way to describe Christ’s saving work? Is the threefold office a desirable option for theological reflection? Granted the open-ended quality of the question (desirable for whom, in what context, and for what ends?), one cannot dispatch it with a bluff response of ‘well, clearly!’. One can acknowledge the obvious advantages of the threefold office – its capacity to differentiate and unite diverse strands of the entire scriptural witness, its historic significance for the Reformed tradition, its facilitation of a rich and complex description of Christ’s work and its effects, etc. – while remaining cognizant of possible drawbacks. On this front, three points seem particularly worthy of consideration.

(1) Might an interest in the munus triplex risk marginalizing alternate descriptions of Christ’s person and work? Does it ‘tilt’ theological inquiry in such a way that other titles, names, and conceptualities are liable to suffer underdevelopment? To respond by noting that there is strong scriptural warrant for this trio will not do, since numerous titles and names in scripture present themselves as candidates for dogmatic analysis (Son/Word, Wisdom/Sophia, Torah, etc.). Moreover – and beyond the obvious point that theological reflection is not slavishly bound to biblical particulars – one cannot credibly suppose, on point of principle, that dogmatic mischief results if one frames reflection on Christ’s person and work not in terms of his bearing the offices of prophet, priest, and king, but rather in terms of his being a healer, an ancestor, our mother, our friend, the epitome of ‘new being’, or the lamb of God. So, the questions continue to press. What kind of ‘grip’ should the munus triplex have on the theological imagination? In what contexts might it prove useful or detrimental for dogmatic reflection? Should the threefold office be a ‘first port of call’ for inquiry, or should one view it as one option among many?

(2) Does the munus triplex help or hinder the development of theologies that acknowledge the complicity of Christian thought with various forms of anti-Judaism, which has itself served as an incubator for other discriminatory postures? One can hardly forget, of course, that the exegetical bases of the threefold office disclose a deep continuity between the (inspired) textual witness to the life of ancient Israel and the (inspired) textual witness to the ‘mighty deeds’ of God in Christ and the Spirit. Nor should it be missed that the New Testament depends on, and thus reinforces, the authority of the Hebrew Bible. But such caveats only raise the stakes. With an often lazy conflation of ancient Israel and rabbinic Judaism in hand, Christian thinkers have weaponized the New Testament, treating the fulfilment and recasting of ancient Israel’s priestly, prophetic, and royal traditions as an occasion to denigrate Jewish communities (and, by extension, the Jewish scriptures). So, again, questions press. Can the munus triplex be framed in ways that enable Christian theologians to repent of hostility and wrongdoing, past and present? Might the munus triplex be an occasion, in fact, for Christian thinkers to understand the deep connections between anti-Judaism and modern forms of racism, and thus pave the way for a mode of reflection that might contribute to better forms of interreligious and political cooperation? Or might it be prudent to set this dogmatic construction aside for a while?

(3) Finally, and relatedly: does the munus triplex have a role to play in theological projects that foreground the liberative dimensions of gospel? Granted that it has not yet been taken up by thinkers who advocate for a progressive theopolitics, could the munus triplex be articulated in ways that show Christ’s prophetic, priestly, and kingly action to be expressive of God’s preferential option for the poor, the marginalized, the downtrodden? Is there a way, to put it more bluntly, to connect Calvin’s concern for a scripturally shaped piety, keyed to God’s saving action in Christ, with the imperative ‘to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are oppressed, [and] to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favour’ (Luke 4:18–19)?

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Bibliography

  • Further reading

    • Aquinas, Thomas. 1981. Summa Theologica. 5 vols. Translated by Fathers of the English Dominican Province. Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press. First published 1948.
    • Barth, Karl. 1956–1975. Church Dogmatics. 13 vols. Edited by G. W. Bromiley and T. F. Torrance. Edinburgh: T&T Clark.
    • Calvin, John. 2006. Institutes of the Christian Religion. 2 vols. Edited by John T. McNeill. Translated by Ford Lewis Battles. Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press.
    • Schaff, Philip, and David S. Schaff (eds). 1983. The Creeds of Christendom, with a History and Critical Notes. Vol. 3: The Evangelical Protestant Creeds. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker.
    • Schleiermacher, Friedrich. 1999. The Christian Faith. Translated by H. R. Mackintosh and J. S. Stewart. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Translation of the 1830 edition.
    • Sherman, Robert. 2004. King, Priest, and Prophet: A Trinitarian Theology of Atonement. New York: T&T Clark.
    • Wainwright, Geoffrey. 1997. For Our Salvation: Two Approaches to the Work of Christ. Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans.
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    • Aquinas, Thomas. 2006. Commentary on the Epistle to the Hebrews. Translated by Chrysostom Baer. South Bend, IN: St. Augustine’s Press.
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