The Parable of the Elephant and the Blind Men

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Here in America, God has given us a remarkable gift: religious freedom. Our Constitution does not punish people for being theologically wrong. In a civil sense, you are free even to be a heretic. That allows people with profound differences about God to live side by side without the threat of persecution or prison time, and we should be genuinely thankful for that. But this blessing has brought with it a powerful illusion. Because the law treats all religions the same, many assume that all religious ideas must be equally valid. To say, “This is true and that is false,” has become the one unforgivable heresy in a culture that refuses to rock anyone’s boat.

Into that confusion, the Bible and the Christ it proclaims speak with a very different voice. Scripture does not treat beliefs about God as personal preferences; it distinguishes between truth and error. Some things are true, other things are untrue, and Jesus does not present Himself as one option among many, but as the only Lord and Savior.

The air we breathe today is full of two closely related ideas. The first is theological liberalism, which quietly trades the hard edges of biblical truth for warm religious feelings.

The second is religious pluralism, which insists that all religions are simply different paths up the same mountain.

Together, they create a message that sounds kind, humble, and generous. In reality, they strip Christianity of its substance and leave people groping in the dark, clutching their experiences, with no sure word from God.

Theological liberalism tells us that doctrine divides, but “God’s love” unites. It says that what really matters is not what is true, but what feels authentic and affirming to you. The historic truths of the faith, a real incarnation, a bloody atonement, a bodily resurrection, a coming judgment, are quietly pushed to the edges. In their place comes a vague sense of “divine love” and a Christianity reduced to moral uplift and spiritual therapy. The problem is simple and devastating: if you replace God’s revealed truth with your religious experience, you no longer have Christianity at all. You have a tailor-made spirituality that sits in judgment over the Bible instead of kneeling before it.

Religious pluralism takes this one step further. It insists that God is at work in all religions as “pathways” to Himself and uses a familiar story to make its case. The parable goes like this.

Several blind men approach an elephant. One feels its side and says, “It is like a wall.” Another feels the trunk and says, “It is like a snake.” A third takes hold of a leg and declares, “It is like a tree.” They argue, each sure he is right. The moral to be gleaned from the parable is that every religion has a piece of the truth, and no one should claim to see the whole.

It sounds humble. It appeals to our compassion and to the mystery of a God we cannot fully understand.

But look more closely. Hidden inside this “humble” story is a staggering arrogance. For the parable to work, someone must stand above all the blind men and see what they cannot see. Someone must know that there is an elephant, that each man has only a part, and that no one has the whole truth. Religious pluralism quietly assigns itself that role. Pluralism says, “No religion can claim to know God as He really is,” while at the same time claiming to know how all religions relate to God. In other words, it insists that no one can see the whole elephant, while reserving the right to see the entire elephant for itself. That is not humility. That is a sweeping claim to superior insight dressed up as tolerance.

There is another fatal assumption buried in this story. The parable only works if the elephant is silent. It assumes that God never speaks clearly, never makes Himself known in words, never breaks into the darkness with light. Everyone is blind, everyone is guessing, and no one can do any better than grope and argue. But what if the elephant speaks? What if the living God has not left us to our own religious experiments, but has spoken with clarity and authority? That is precisely what Christianity proclaims. We are not boasting that Christians are the sharpest of the blind. We are saying that God has opened His mouth.

The Bible declares that “God, who at many times and in many ways spoke to our fathers by the prophets, has in these last days spoken to us by His Son.” God has not mumbled. He has not stuttered. He has spoken in the Scriptures He breathed out, and supremely in the Lord Jesus Christ, the eternal Son made flesh. Christ is not one more religious perspective. He is “the way, the truth, and the life,” the one Mediator between God and man, the only name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved. This is not arrogance. It is obedience to what God Himself has said.

So when the world tells you that doctrine must bow to feelings, and that all religions are equally valid guesses about a silent God, do not be intimidated. You can be gentle with people and unashamed about Christ at the same time. You do not claim to see farther because you are wiser; you rest on the fact that God has spoken when you were blind and lost. In a fog of spiritual opinion, the Christian does not stand on personal brilliance, but on divine revelation. The elephant has spoken. Our call is to listen, believe, and lovingly point others to the One who is not one path among many, but the living Lord over all.

Context Makes Sense Of Hard Passages

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Our task as students of the Scriptures is not to interpret the Bible by staring at our own culture, but by entering the Bible’s world, its language, history, and culture, and asking what the text meant to the original hearers. Here are a couple of quotes from Dr. John MacArthur along this line:

“Realize that Scripture must first be viewed in the context of the culture in which it was written.”

He goes on to say that without an understanding of first-century Jewish culture, it is difficult to understand the Gospels, and that Acts and the epistles must be read in light of Greek and Roman culture.

Another quote:

“What does it mean period is the issue, not what does it mean to you… What did it mean before you were born? And what will it mean after you’re dead? What does it mean to people who will never meet you?”

Dr. MacArthur was right to warn against prioritizing “our culture” (the slide to “cultural dress”) and to call for fidelity to the Bible’s own context (for example, first-century Jewish culture when we read the Gospels) to ensure accurate interpretation. We call this the historical-grammatical method of interpretation: start with what the text meant, then, in its cultural and literary setting, before asking what it means now.

When we read Mark’s Gospel carefully, one thing that can unsettle us at first is how Jesus sometimes tells people to speak and at other times to stay quiet. Just yesterday, a friend wrote me an email asking about this, especially in light of Mark 8:26, where Jesus says to the man He has just healed, “Do not even enter the village.”

How do we make sense of that, especially when in another place, He says, “Go home to your friends and tell them”?

Is Jesus sending mixed messages?

Context is vital. If we take a single verse out of its setting, the Bible can appear to say almost anything. But reading in its immediate context, its historical setting, and the flow of the whole Gospel clarifies the picture and resolves apparent tensions.

In Mark 8:26, we read, “And he sent him to his home, saying, ‘Do not even enter the village.’” Jesus speaks these words before the cross and resurrection, at a time when people’s ideas of “Messiah” were very muddled. Many wanted a miracle worker or a political liberator, not a Savior who would die for sinners. So when Jesus restricts publicity, it is not because He is against people knowing Him, but because He is guarding how and when His identity is spread. He knows that if the story of this particular healing in Bethsaida goes “viral,” it will stir up more excitement and resistance without real repentance.

That is why it is helpful to set Mark 8 alongside Mark 5 and read them together. In Mark 5, with the former demoniac, Jesus is in a largely Gentile region—the Decapolis—where there is almost no light. The people beg Him to leave after the herd of pigs rushes into the sea. There, He wants the story told, because a clear mercy story in a spiritually dark place will prepare many hearts for later. In Mark 5:19, we read: “And he did not permit him but said to him, ‘Go home to your friends and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.’” That one man becomes a kind of early missionary, a living testimony to the Lord’s power and compassion in a place that has very little truth.

In Mark 8, by contrast, Jesus is near Bethsaida, a Jewish town that has already seen many miracles and remains unrepentant. Elsewhere in the Gospels, Bethsaida comes under a solemn “woe” for its hardness in the face of great light. There, more noise about a miracle will only feed shallow curiosity and harden people further. Same Jesus, same love, but different instructions: one region has barely heard of Him, the other has already resisted a lot of light. The difference is not that one group is naturally more spiritual than the other, but that one has already had much greater exposure to His works and still refused to bow the knee.

It also matters that Mark 8 is a turning point in the Gospel. Right after this healing, Peter confesses Jesus as the Christ, and Jesus begins to teach clearly that He must suffer, die, and rise again. The two-stage healing of the blind man is really a picture of the disciples themselves. At first, they see Jesus in a blurred way, then more clearly as He teaches them about the cross. The man says, “I see people, but they look like trees, walking,” and then, after a second touch, he sees everything clearly. That is a living illustration of how the disciples’ spiritual sight will be sharpened as they come to understand that the Christ must suffer before entering His glory.

By keeping the miracle out of the village, Jesus uses it as a lesson for His followers, rather than turning it into a show for a town that has already resisted the light. The “do not enter” is part of His wise plan to lead the disciples toward the cross, not a sign that He wants the good news hidden forever. He is shepherding events toward Calvary in God’s appointed time, refusing to feed a craving for spectacle in a place that has already had ample evidence.

After the cross and resurrection, the pattern changes very clearly. The same Jesus who sometimes says “do not tell” before Calvary later says, “Go therefore and make disciples of all nations” (Matthew 28:19). The temporary secrecy was meant to protect the path to the cross and to restrain false expectations in certain places. It was never meant to be the permanent posture of His church. On this side of the resurrection, His settled word to His people is to speak, not to be silent. We do not live in the Mark 8 moment before the cross. We live in the Great Commission age, where the risen Christ sends His people out with the gospel to the ends of the earth.

So the “do not tell” in Mark 8 is not a permanent rule for us to copy, but a glimpse of His wisdom in managing revelation at that particular moment in history. When we hold Mark 5 and Mark 8 together, we see no contradiction at all. In one setting, He is sowing first seeds into deep darkness through the testimony of a delivered man. In another, He is restraining further display in a town that has already refused to repent, while using the miracle itself as a quiet lesson for His disciples. Far from undermining our call to share the gospel, it shows that our Lord always knows exactly what to say in each situation, and that today His clear command to us is the Great Commission.

For us, the application is simple and searching. We are called to “go and tell,” but we are also called to trust the wisdom of the Lord, who knows every heart and every place. We do not know all the history of light and resistance in the lives of those around us, but He does. Our task is to be faithful, to read and teach passages in their God-given context, and to speak of “how much the Lord has done” and “how He has had mercy,” and then trust Him with everything we cannot see or control. When we meet verses like Mark 8:26, instead of doubting His goodness, we are invited to marvel at the careful wisdom of our Savior, who never wastes a word, never wastes a miracle, and always moves history toward the glory of His cross and the gathering in of His people.

The Future Resurrection of the Body

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Jason L. Bradfield writes (on facebook):

Gary DeMar and Kim Burgess dropped the first of their podcasts on 1 Corinthians 15 today. If either of them turned this in at Whitefield Theological Seminary, it’d get an F. It’s that bad. I immediately got to typing and here is my quick reaction:

– The Same Old Word-Game on Mellō

Gary (and Kim) is still stuck insisting that mellō always means “about to,” even though he’s never proven it and has flat-out ignored my challenge to him on Acts 26:22.

They do the same thing with the word parousia. Now, a person may agree that every use of parousia refers to the same event, but it’s one thing to demonstrate that exegetically, and quite another to assume it because you’ve bought into this strange notion that words in Scripture can only ever mean one thing.

That’s not scholarship; that’s laziness.

– Twisting the Creeds: The False Claim About the Nicene “Correction”

It gets worse. They actually claim that the Nicene Creed corrected the Apostles’ Creed by changing “resurrection of the body” to the supposedly more “biblical” phrase, “resurrection of the dead.” As if the body isn’t even in view in 1 Corinthians 15! From verse 35 through verse 44, Paul uses the Greek word sōma (“body”) ten times. Yet Kim goes so far as to say that “resurrection of the flesh” is a “contradiction in terms.”

How? Of course, Kim never explains how. The only way he could possibly arrive at that conclusion is if he treats flesh (sarx) the same way they treat mellō; as if it only has one meaning everywhere it appears. But “flesh” in Scripture clearly has a range of meanings.

– Christ’s Resurrection Was of the Flesh

And what then are we to do with Christ’s resurrection, which these men claim to affirm? Christ’s resurrection was bodily. It was of the flesh. His fleshly body died and rose again.

“As they were talking about these things, Jesus himself stood among them, and said to them, ‘Peace to you!’ But they were startled and frightened and thought they saw a spirit. And he said to them, ‘Why are you troubled, and why do doubts arise in your hearts? See my hands and my feet, that it is I myself. Touch me, and see. For a spirit does not have flesh and bones as you see that I have.'” (Luke 24:36–39)

“For a spirit (pneuma) does not have flesh (sarx) and bones (osteon) as you see I have.”

Obviously, then, “resurrection of the flesh” is not a “contradiction in terms.”

– The Historical Record: No Evidence of a Bodiless Creed

There’s absolutely no evidence that the Nicene Creed was “correcting” the Apostles’ Creed to avoid the idea of flesh being involved in the resurrection. And if that were their intent, it would actually be a denial of the Apostles’ Creed itself; a point that completely flies over DeMar’s head. You can’t redefine a doctrine and then claim to affirm it.

The hyper-preterist claim that the 381 Creed was a “corrective” to deny bodily resurrection has no support in the sources whatsoever.

On every front—creed manuscripts, council records, and patristic theology—the early Church consistently taught that bodies will rise again. The phrase “resurrection of the dead” in the Nicene Creed was always understood in full continuity with “resurrection of the body” or “resurrection of the flesh,” not as a covert denial of a physical resurrection.

The Fathers used dead and body/flesh interchangeably in reference to the same hope. The idea that Nicaea (or Constantinople) quietly erased bodily resurrection is historical revisionism of the worst kind.

– The “Burros of Berea” Problem

And all of this follows a rather dishonest admission from Gary at the start of the episode. He claims he was dragged into this controversy because of comments he made years ago on the Burros of Berea podcast.

According to him, he was merely describing that some people believe you receive your resurrection body at death, and he supposedly just said he “had no problem” with that view. He insists he wasn’t rejecting the traditional view; just acknowledging another perspective.

But the dishonesty lies in the fact that Gary was specifically asked what he personally believes:

“When your body takes its last breath, what is your belief?”

He answered, and I quote:

“I believe that when you die, you go to be with the Lord, and you get a new body at that time.”

Here’s the recording: https://www.reformation.blog/…/gary-demar-denies-the…

So no, Gary wasn’t simply pointing out what others believe. He explicitly said that he believes that very thing. He denied the resurrection of the body in that podcast—plain and simple—and now he’s trying to rewrite history as if he didn’t.

– “It Doesn’t Affect Worldview”? Think Again

What makes this even more absurd is his claim in this latest episode that he didn’t have a problem with that belief because, in his words,

“…to me, it’s not a factor in terms of worldview thinking. What happens when we die doesn’t come into play in terms of how we’re living out the Christian faith in the world in which we live today.”

Oh, really? Ever read 1 and 2 Peter, Gary? Or Romans 8? Or Philippians 3?

I would argue, and have argued in our sermon series, that the hope of bodily resurrection is precisely the foundation for how we live as Christians in the world today. It’s not some detached doctrinal curiosity; it’s the heartbeat of Christian ethics and endurance.

Peter grounds the entire moral and pastoral force of his letters in the certainty of the coming judgment and the future resurrection. The call to holiness, perseverance, and hope flows directly out of that eschatological reality.

“He has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God’s power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time.” (1 Peter 1:3–5)

In 1 Peter 1:13-16, the imperative “set your hope fully” is explicitly future-oriented. Holiness in the present is the ethical outworking of fixing one’s hope on the eschatological revelation of Christ. Peter’s “therefore” shows that eschatology drives ethics.

“Therefore, preparing your minds for action, and being sober-minded, set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ.”

In 1 Peter 1:17-21, Peter ties obedience in this life to the coming judgment. The believer’s conduct is shaped by the knowledge that the Father will judge impartially; a future eschatological reckoning.

“If you call on him as Father who judges impartially according to each one’s deeds, conduct yourselves with fear throughout the time of your exile…”

In 1 Peter 2:11-12, the “day of visitation” is a future day of divine judgment or vindication. Present moral purity and good works serve evangelistic and eschatological purposes.

“Beloved, I urge you as sojourners and exiles to abstain from the passions of the flesh, which wage war against your soul. Keep your conduct among the Gentiles honorable, so that when they speak against you as evildoers, they may see your good deeds and glorify God on the day of visitation.”

In 1 Peter 4:7-10, Peter explicitly links ethical behavior—sobriety, prayer, and love—to eschatological imminence. The nearness of “the end” demands alert, holy living. And no, we’re not ignoring the so-called “time texts,” such as verse 7. Kim and Gary keep slanderously accusing us of that, but it’s simply false.

“The end of all things is at hand; therefore be self-controlled and sober-minded for the sake of your prayers. Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins. Show hospitality to one another without grumbling. As each has received a gift, use it to serve one another, as good stewards of God’s varied grace:”

In 1 Peter 4:12-13, present suffering is interpreted through the lens of future glory. The eschatological revelation of Christ’s glory gives meaning and endurance to persecution.

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you to test you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed.”

In 1 Peter 5:1-4, pastoral faithfulness and humility are sustained by the expectation of Christ’s future appearing and reward. Again, eschatology shapes vocation and character.

“When the chief Shepherd appears, you will receive the unfading crown of glory.”

In 2 Peter 1:10-11, ethical diligence leads to eschatological assurance. Present godliness confirms the believer’s readiness for entry into Christ’s eternal kingdom.

“Be all the more diligent to confirm your calling and election, for if you practice these qualities you will never fall. For in this way there will be richly provided for you an entrance into the eternal kingdom of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.”

Furthermore, Peter makes it unmistakably clear that false doctrine and moral corruption go hand in hand. The heretics he describes in 2 Peter 2–3 are not merely confused interpreters; they are willful deceivers whose denial of the Lord’s return is directly linked to their immoral lifestyle.

In 2 Peter 2, their character and conduct are on full display: they are “bold and willful” (2:10), “slaves of corruption” (2:19), and “blots and blemishes” (2:13). Their theology accommodates their lusts. They deny “the Master who bought them” (2:1) and twist the promise of His coming into an excuse for sin. Their doctrinal deviation is moral at its root. They scoff at judgment because they love their own depravity.

Peter ties the progression together in 2 Peter 3:3–4:

“Scoffers will come in the last days with scoffing, following their own sinful desires. They will say, “Where is the promise of his coming? For ever since the fathers fell asleep, all things are continuing as they were from the beginning of creation.””

They dismiss the Second Coming because it threatens their autonomy. The denial of eschatological judgment becomes the license for unrestrained living.

Peter answers their cynicism by reminding believers of two things: the certainty of divine judgment (3:7) and the patience of God in salvation (3:9). The same God who once judged the world by water will again judge by fire. Far from being delayed, the Lord’s timing is merciful, giving room for repentance before the final reckoning.

In other words, to scoff at the Second Coming is to scoff at holiness itself. When false teachers erase the future return of Christ, they remove the moral horizon that keeps the church sober, humble, and watchful.

And Peter could not be any clearer than 2 Peter 3:10-14:

“But the day of the Lord will come like a thief, and then the heavens will pass away with a roar, and the heavenly bodies will be burned up and dissolved, and the earth and the works that are done on it will be exposed. Since all these things are thus to be dissolved, what sort of people ought you to be in lives of holiness and godliness, waiting for and hastening the coming of the day of God, because of which the heavens will be set on fire and dissolved, and the heavenly bodies will melt as they burn! But according to his promise we are waiting for new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells. Therefore, beloved, since you are waiting for these, be diligent to be found by him without spot or blemish, and at peace.”

Having exposed the false teachers’ denial of judgment, Peter brings his letter to a climactic close by grounding true Christian living in the certainty of that judgment and the promise of renewal. The destruction of the old and the creation of the new are not speculative curiosities — they are moral imperatives.

Eschatology is not an appendix to doctrine; it is the heartbeat of Christian ethics. The same certainty that “all these things will be dissolved” also guarantees that there will be “new heavens and a new earth in which righteousness dwells.” Those twin truths — dissolution and renewal — demand lives marked by holiness, godliness, diligence, and peace.

Future righteousness defines present conduct. The believer’s anticipation of the coming age shapes his moral integrity in this one. We live as citizens of the world to come, waiting for what God has promised, and our purity now is the visible evidence that our hope is genuine.

That is why Peter closes his letter with this sober exhortation:

“You therefore, beloved, knowing this beforehand, take care that you are not carried away with the error of lawless people and lose your own stability. But grow in the grace and knowledge of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.” (2 Peter 3:17–18)

Sound doctrine and sound living rise and fall together. A distorted eschatology always leads to ethical collapse, just as we see today among those who, like Gary and Kim, scoff at the promise of Christ’s appearing while claiming to defend biblical consistency.

To argue, as Gary does, that the resurrection and the new heavens and new earth have no bearing on our present lives is not merely misguided, it is spiritually disastrous. Peter would have called such reasoning blindness. The entire moral framework of Christian faithfulness rests on the certainty of future resurrection and renewal.

“If the dead are not raised, “Let us eat and drink, for tomorrow we die.” Do not be deceived: “Bad company ruins good morals.” Wake up from your drunken stupor, as is right, and do not go on sinning. For some have no knowledge of God. I say this to your shame.” (1 Corinthians 15:32-34)

The apostles never treat the promise of the new creation as a minor point for debate. For them, it is the engine that drives Christian perseverance and purpose. The coming reality of resurrection gives meaning to obedience, courage to suffering, and direction to hope. Because this world will be dissolved and remade, believers live now as heirs of that world, walking in holiness and hope.

To detach Christian ethics from eschatology is to strip Christianity of its horizon. Without the expectation of bodily resurrection, holiness becomes optional, suffering loses its context, and hope collapses into sentimentality.

Peter’s eschatology does not pull believers away from faithful living; it propels them into it. It sanctifies our present engagement in the world by fixing our eyes on the one to come. The creation itself will be freed from corruption; righteousness will dwell upon a renewed earth; and our resurrected bodies will share in that glory. The future is not irrelevant to the present. It defines it.

To deny that connection, as Gary does, is to preach a Christianity without resurrection power and a faith without forward motion.

And this is precisely what Peter warns against. The false teachers of his day scoffed at the coming judgment and therefore abandoned holiness. Their denial of Christ’s return was not an innocent exegetical error; it was a moral rebellion disguised as theology. Once the expectation of resurrection and renewal is stripped away, the call to righteousness loses its urgency, and corruption rushes in to fill the vacuum.

That same pattern repeats itself today. Those who mock the future hope of Christ’s appearing — while boasting of their “consistency” — reveal that their theology serves their desires, not the text. And Peter would have recognized them instantly.