Theopolis VS. Heiser — Who’s Right?
This video explores the theological conversation between Dr. Michael Heiser’s Divine Council Worldview and Christopher Kou’s review for Theopolis Institute, showing how both perspectives ultimately point toward the same supernatural and sacramental vision of reality. Heiser and Theopolis share more common ground than disagreement—each affirming the Divine Council as a real biblical concept, a heavenly assembly under God’s authority, and each placing Christ as its reigning head. This worldview demonstrates how we can restore the wonder lost to modern materialism, portraying the cosmos as alive with God’s presence and humanity as participants in Christ’s rule. Along the way, we examines topics like the nature of the “gods” in Psalm 82, the meaning of Genesis 6 and the Nephilim, and the role of 1 Enoch in Second Temple Jewish thought, urging discernment without dismissing historical context. Ultimately, believers are called to recover an enchanted faith—one that sees Scripture as a living, supernatural story of Christ’s victory over the rebellious powers and his ongoing reign over heaven and earth.
TRANSCRIPT
Hey everyone, I’m Anthony Delgado with Biblical Reenchantment, and my goal on this channel is to re-enchant the Christian faith—to see and undo some of the influences of philosophical materialism that have so secularized Christianity, especially in the evangelical world, draining it of its wonder. If that’s something you care about, if you want to see a re-enchanted faith, type “enchanted” in the comments and let me know who’s along for the ride.
Today, I’m responding to an article published by Theopolis Institute, written by Christopher Kou, a former Theopolis graduate, reviewing Dr. Michael Heiser’s Divine Council Worldview. I’m not here to argue or take sides. When I say I’m responding, what I really mean is that I want to enter the conversation—clarify some points and carry it forward. Honestly, I agree with a lot of what Kou says, and I don’t think he disagrees with Heiser as much as some readers of the article suggest. There’s a link to that article in the description, along with some other important resources to check out.
In my view, both Heiser and Theopolis hold deeply enchanted and sacramental understandings of Scripture and the Christian faith. That shared foundation is why I wanted to make this video. I already believe they’re having the same conversation from the same side. This isn’t about who’s right or wrong—it’s about mutual respect and learning from one another.
Don’t forget to type “enchanted” in the comments if you love Dr. Heiser, Theopolis Institute, or just want to see some re-enchantment in the church. I’ve followed Heiser’s work for years. While I don’t agree with him on everything, most of our differences are matters of nuance, not major disagreements. He was a key influence for me, opening up portions of Scripture I had overlooked or misunderstood because of how my theology developed in my early evangelical upbringing.
I also have deep respect for Theopolis Institute. I fully affirm their sacramental view of the church and of reality, and I plan to complete their institute training in the future. It’s not easy being all the way over here in Southern California, but I hope to make it happen eventually. This isn’t about tribalism—it’s about iron sharpening iron.
I completely agree with one of Kou’s critiques from the article: that sometimes Heiser didn’t take his own logic far enough. That’s where I think the sacramental worldview that Theopolis brings to the table can really help. If you’ve read any of my books, you’ll see that I’ve tried to do that too—to bring sacramental and practical dimensions alongside the supernatural worldview. That’s why I call myself a sacramentalist.
So today, we’re going to walk through some of the main points of the Divine Council: the nature of the gods, angels, giants, and humanity’s role. After all, what’s a Divine Council Worldview conversation without mentioning giants at least a couple of times?
So let me know in the comments what you know about giants. I started a comment thread there for you, so if there’s something you’re curious about, post your questions there. If it’s something quick, I’ll reply in the comments, or if it needs more detail, I’ll make a video about it. Be sure to jump in and add your thoughts.
Now, I want to show where Heiser and Theopolis overlap. That’s going to be the first part of each of these critiques. Then we’ll look at where they don’t overlap or where they perhaps disagree—especially regarding Christ’s rule and the church’s place in the heavenly council. I actually think there’s a great deal of agreement between Theopolis and Heiser on those points.
Remember, the gospel is bigger than you think—that’s the title of my book, The Gospel is Bigger Than You Think. And I believe all of these discussions about the gods of the nations, divine beings, and even giants ultimately point us to the gospel, to the grand narrative of Jesus’ kingship and his victory over the rebellious spiritual powers. So definitely keep that in mind and stick around to the end. This isn’t going to be a short video, so hit like, hit subscribe, and let’s get re-enchanted.
Alright, let’s talk about where there’s disagreement—who’s reading the Bible wrong? Theopolis begins at the root of the issue by examining Michael Heiser’s approach to interpreting Scripture, and I think that’s a smart place to start. Here’s where they agree: both Heiser and Theopolis affirm that the Divine Council is a real feature of Scripture. They’re not denying it or trying to reinterpret it away. Both acknowledge that the ancient Near Eastern background of Scripture sheds light on biblical imagery when used correctly—or, to use their own nuances, Theopolis might say “used cautiously,” while Heiser might say “used carefully.” But that’s a matter of nuance, not substance.
They both also share a commitment to the supernatural worldview of Scripture. They believe in a world filled with spiritual beings created by God, actively at work in creation. Neither wants to reduce the faith to a kind of philosophical rationalism that strips away the supernatural. In much of modern evangelical preaching, there’s an emphasis on “practical” Christianity, but very little engagement with the supernatural realities that Scripture affirms. We’ll talk about Jesus’ resurrection as supernatural, or maybe a six-day creation, or heaven—but then people don’t want to talk about demons, angels, or the sons of God.
I see this as a move away from the classical literalism that came out of dispensational thought, particularly the grammatical-historical method of interpretation. In this, I think Theopolis agrees with Heiser: we need to step away from strict rationalism and literalism and instead read Scripture in its original context—using the language and worldview of the ancient world to understand what Scripture is saying.
Now for the disagreement. Kou writes, “It is impossible to read without filters. They are not only necessary but good. It is only a question of which filters you choose to read through. Canonical reading is much firmer ground than an ANE filter because we cannot truly enter into an ancient Near Eastern frame of reference the way Heiser attempted to do.” In other words, Kou is concerned that we can’t fully inhabit the ancient Near Eastern world or see things exactly as they did.
When we start to read the Bible purely through the lens of the ancient Near Eastern world, it can create a hermeneutical problem in how we understand Scripture. Kou believes that additional interpretive tools are needed to balance that perspective. I’m not convinced that Heiser would have disagreed entirely with that assessment—though he may have balanced the lens differently. The question becomes, should we read the Bible as if it were being read by an ancient Canaanite or Egyptian? I think that’s the underlying concern, and while it may be a bit of a caricature of Heiser’s approach, it captures the tension. The answer, of course, is no—we should read it as ancient Israelites would have read it.
We have a historical understanding of the Scriptures that’s reflected in the creeds, and in the case of the Hebrew text, the New Testament serves as a hermeneutical guide. It furthers and fulfills the covenant of the Old Testament, showing us what those earlier writings were ultimately about. The New Testament helps us interpret where our understanding of the Old Testament has fallen short. In that sense, Scripture interprets Scripture, providing its own internal tools for proper understanding.
The ancient Near Eastern worldview should inform our understanding of Scripture, but it must never lead us away from the orthodox Christian faith. Some people argue that we should dismiss the writings of the church fathers because they’re not Scripture, but that’s a mistake. The writings of the early church—especially the apostolic fathers—offer valuable insight into how those closest to the events interpreted the biblical narrative. As time passed, interpretation grew more complex, but the early creeds and ecumenical councils still represent the church’s unified understanding of core truths.
Heiser himself remained firmly orthodox. He didn’t approach the Hebrew text as a Canaanite or Egyptian might. If he had, he would have ended up with a syncretistic, pluralistic faith, thinking Israel’s beliefs were just minor variations of its neighbors. That’s not what Heiser did, nor what he promoted. However, his skepticism toward giving authority to the creeds or allowing progressive revelation in the New Testament to shape his reading of the Old Testament could be seen as risky. I think we should view the Apostles’ and Nicene Creeds as essential guides—not equal to Scripture, but deeply important for understanding it. We should ask why so many early bishops and fathers agreed on these principles and allow their insights to inform our own reading.
In this, Theopolis makes a valuable point: Scripture often corrects and clarifies the ancient Near Eastern worldview rather than merely echoing it. There’s a polemic nature to the text. Understanding that helps us see why Israel’s narrative overlaps in some ways with Canaanite, Egyptian, or Phoenician myths. There’s truth embedded in those ancient stories, even if not all of them are true.
This is where some people get confused or even go too far. They start treating Heiser as if he held books like 1 Enoch, the Ugaritic texts, or the Epic of Gilgamesh on the same level as Scripture. Then they begin reading those materials into the Bible and end up with distorted interpretations—misunderstanding both Israel’s faith and its fulfillment in the new covenant. They often end up rejecting the creeds and the apostolic tradition altogether because they’ve lost sight of the original purpose of the Hebrew text.
Language and literary context matter, but they can either clarify or cloud the meaning of Scripture depending on how they’re used. Under the topic of interpretation, Theopolis raises an important question about ancient Near Eastern parallels related to the Divine Council. Both Theopolis and Heiser agree that texts like those from Ugarit and Canaan help contextualize the Bible’s council language. They explain how the idea of a divine assembly or pantheon operated in the ancient world and help us see how Scripture uses similar imagery while also redefining it.
Their point of disagreement is methodological. Kou writes that Heiser’s approach follows a common academic method that leans heavily on ancient Near Eastern context. But he cautions that the available evidence is uneven and incomplete. The ancient world wasn’t a monolithic culture. Egypt wasn’t Ugarit, Ugarit wasn’t Phoenicia, and Phoenicia wasn’t Israel. We shouldn’t assume that all these civilizations shared one universal religious framework.
Orthodox Christians read the Scriptures as divine revelation given to Israel by Yahweh himself. We believe that the law was delivered by God—though through intermediaries—to Moses, who met with the Lord in the tent of meeting. So, while there are shared cultural touchpoints, revelation gives Israel’s faith its distinct character. I understand how someone unfamiliar with Heiser’s broader work could misread his approach, but I don’t think Theopolis fully captured his intent. Heiser didn’t claim that Israel’s religion was merely one expression among many. Rather, he saw Israel’s theology as a revealed correction of the surrounding worldview.
So, both sides actually share more common ground than it might seem. And for those wondering about Heiser’s discussions of the Anunnaki or Greek myths like Gaia and Uranus producing tyrannical giants—yes, he draws parallels, but even Kou and Theopolis recognize the value in contextualizing those comparisons. Both agree that such parallels exist and that Israel shared a cultural memory with its neighbors.
Everything that develops through culture isn’t necessarily error. Sometimes there’s truth embedded within a culture’s stories and language. We can see this in the crossover between ancient Mesopotamian and Hebrew languages. Because Israel spent time in Egypt, certain Egyptian words and ideas were naturally adopted. So there are indeed parallels and points of contextual overlap.
Kou acknowledges this but draws an important line. He writes, “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t use ancient Near Eastern literature in biblical studies, but the ancient Near Eastern context must not become the controlling lens by which we read the Bible. Do not dismiss historical evidence for the sake of faith, but interpret evidence in light of it.” That’s a valid point—and it’s more a warning for Heiser’s followers than for Heiser himself.
If you’re a follower of Heiser’s work, this is worth noting. There’s a temptation to read him as if he brought all the ancient Near Eastern mythologies into the Bible and reinterpreted Scripture through them. But that’s not what he taught. That impulse toward hype or fanaticism comes from us. It’s easy to get excited about topics like giants, aliens, and the spirit world—I do too. I’ve explored the pantheons of the gods and Greek mythology extensively, especially on my podcast. These things are fascinating. But Heiser never told us to import those stories into the Bible. Instead, he taught us to use Scripture polemically—to see how mythological stories may reflect glimpses of truth, and how Scripture corrects and reframes those truths under divine revelation.
So where does the concept of the Divine Council come from, and why does it appear in the Hebrew text? The answer is simple: the Bible actually teaches it. We shouldn’t make the opposite mistake of rejecting everything in the ancient mythologies out of fear of going too far. The parallels exist for a reason. If you’re new to this topic, the Divine Council refers to a real assembly of created spiritual beings under God’s authority.
Both Heiser and Kou at Theopolis agree that Scripture presents this Divine Council. God is its head, and under him are divine beings who carry out his purposes. Some describe them as “lesser gods,” others prefer the biblical term “sons of God,” and still others use the Enochic term “watchers.” Personally, I favor Paul’s phrase “so-called gods,” so long as we understand these as created beings subordinate to God. The terminology matters less than the reality they describe—spiritual beings who serve under God’s rule.
Now, Kou raises an interesting question: “Who are the counselors, and what makes the council divine?” He notes that the Hebrew term most often associated with the Divine Council is sod—Yahweh’s sod—which the prophet Jeremiah mentions when saying, “If they had stood in my council.” In that passage, Jeremiah is referring to human prophets, not heavenly beings. This shows that the ancient Near Eastern context shouldn’t control our interpretation; not every use of the word council or assembly in Scripture refers to a heavenly court.
That’s a fair and important distinction. But we also shouldn’t pretend that words lose their range of meaning outside a specific passage. The term sod can refer to a human assembly in one context and a divine assembly in another. Its usage depends on the surrounding text. The point is to let Scripture’s own context determine meaning rather than flattening it through either rationalism or over-enthusiastic mythological readings.
The mistake can go both ways, and that’s what needs to be fleshed out here. Take Psalm 82, for instance—one of the key Divine Council passages. Does it use sod? And if so, does sod mean “humans” in that context? Theopolis discusses the Divine Council in both the Bible and the ancient Near East, and there’s some important agreement here. Both sides affirm that Psalm 82, Job 1–2, and 1 Kings 22 depict God presiding over a heavenly assembly—a Divine Council. These scenes parallel Canaanite council imagery, meaning there’s overlap with the broader ancient Near Eastern culture. Both agree these passages describe a divine, not merely human, council.
But here’s where disagreement arises. Kou points out that in Psalm 82, the Hebrew word used for “council” is edah, which most often refers to the congregation of Israel. He notes that the word most commonly used for a Divine Council is sod, a Hebrew term with no known ancient Near Eastern cognate. Kou seems to suggest that this difference implies a human council in Psalm 82 rather than a divine one.
However, that distinction doesn’t hold up linguistically. Hebrew, like English, uses multiple words for “council,” “assembly,” or “gathering,” sometimes with overlapping meanings. Words can carry nuances, but they’re often interchangeable depending on context. So to argue on syntax alone that Psalm 82’s edah must refer to a human gathering seems overly rigid. The word edah simply means an assembly—a coming together of a group. It can refer to a human congregation or even to a flock of animals. The specific meaning depends entirely on context.
In Psalm 82, the context clarifies that this is no ordinary gathering. The psalm refers to “the divine assembly” or “the council of the gods.” Virtually every major English translation renders it that way, which indicates a consensus that the scene describes a heavenly council. To deny that requires substantial effort to reinterpret the passage away from its plain sense.
The question then becomes: who exactly are these divine beings? Are they angels or gods? Many people get uncomfortable with the term “gods” because it sounds polytheistic. Yet if we simply call them angels, we risk flattening the biblical categories. There’s agreement that “angel” means “messenger,” and that angels serve God as part of his heavenly host. Both Heiser and Kou affirm that heavenly beings populate this council.
The disagreement lies in how to classify those beings. Heiser argued that the council is composed of gods—created divine beings under Yahweh’s supreme authority. Kou pushes back, saying there’s no strong textual basis to distinguish between angels, elohim, and “sons of God” as separate ranks within the council. He views the Divine Council more broadly as a collection of spiritual intermediaries through whom God works, without establishing a clear hierarchy among them.
If that’s his meaning, I agree that caution is wise. Scripture doesn’t give us an exact ranking system for heavenly beings, and it’s easy to become speculative. Even in The Unseen Realm, Heiser proposed several categories of angels—three of which are explicitly biblical, with a possible fourth that is not clearly attested. His model presents a three-tiered hierarchy with angels at the bottom, but the text itself never lays out such a formal structure.
In short, the debate isn’t over whether a Divine Council exists—it clearly does—but over what language best captures it and how much we should infer about its internal order. The key is to let the text speak on its own terms: a divine assembly of created spiritual beings under the authority of Yahweh, who alone is God.
Kou hesitates to call the members of the Divine Council “angels,” but I think there’s good reason to retain that terminology. Many ancient writers, particularly those who produced the Septuagint, had no issue equating the “sons of God” with the “angels of God.” That translation choice alone shows that the early Jewish interpreters saw significant overlap between those categories.
Theopolis is right, though, that we shouldn’t imagine all divine beings arranged in a rigid hierarchy. Too much energy has been spent trying to sort out exact divisions and ranks of angels—often leading into speculation and even strange teachings. There’s clearly overlap in how the biblical writers use these terms. In English, for example, we can call both a personal guardian angel and the archangel Michael “angels,” even though those two figures have vastly different roles. The term “archangel” simply means “ruling messenger” from arche and angelos, yet even that is a bit misleading in Michael’s case.
Michael doesn’t seem to act as a messenger at all. He’s one of the two angels who bring destruction on Sodom and Gomorrah and the one who contends with the devil over Moses’ body. To my knowledge, there isn’t a single instance—certainly not in the biblical or even Second Temple literature—where Michael actually delivers a message. If someone knows of one, I’d love to hear it in the comments. The point is that terminology overlaps. Roles are fluid. A being might be called an angel in one passage because it functions as a messenger, and elsewhere be described as a seraph or cherub when performing a different role.
Scripture itself shows this blending of categories. The descriptions of seraphim and cherubim often overlap, and other divine beings appear without formal titles at all. Then you have Pauline terms like “powers,” “principalities,” and “cosmic rulers,” which introduce yet another layer of vocabulary to describe spiritual beings. Later Jewish and medieval writers tried to systematize all this into rigid hierarchies, but those efforts often crossed into fantasy and led to unbiblical doctrine. We should avoid that.
There’s also a progression of terminology in Scripture itself, and “angel” provides the clearest example. Consider Deuteronomy 32:8. The Masoretic Text reads “sons of Israel,” but the Dead Sea Scrolls preserve an older reading, “sons of God.” The “sons of God” are divine beings—a supernatural family under Yahweh’s rule. The Masoretic version seems to reflect a later development in Jewish thought, perhaps an attempt to distance the text from surrounding mythologies during or after the exile. The translators of the Septuagint, working centuries later, rendered the phrase as “angels of God.”
That evolution—from “sons of God” to “sons of Israel” to “angels of God”—shows how the concept of angel gradually broadened. It no longer referred solely to a messenger but became an umbrella term for divine beings in general. The change likely reflects both theological caution and linguistic adaptation, but it also demonstrates that biblical terminology about the spiritual realm is dynamic. We should respect that flexibility without turning it into speculative hierarchies or denying the supernatural reality that the text affirms.
We see this same shift in terminology in the book of Jude, where we’re told about “angels who sinned.” That phrase clearly references Genesis 6, where those same beings are called the “sons of God.” In 1 Enoch and Daniel, they’re referred to as “watchers.” So the terminology changes across time and context—“sons of God,” “watchers,” “angels”—all referring to the same class of divine beings.
Today, most people are more comfortable using the term angels. If someone tries to insist that we must call them “sons of God” or “gods,” it often creates confusion. When we move from the Old Testament—where these beings are called “sons of God” or “gods”—to the New Testament, where they’re called “angels,” people assume the meaning has changed. But what has really happened is that language has broadened. In the modern church, “angels” functions as a catchall term for divine beings, whether ruling or serving.
Paul’s language in 1 Corinthians helps clarify things. When he refers to divine beings associated with the nations—cosmic powers or rebellious rulers—he calls them “so-called gods.” I think that phrase is deliberate. It allows us to acknowledge that these beings exist and exercise authority, but they are not “gods” in the same sense Yahweh is God. They are ruling-class angels, created and subordinate. The term “so-called” guards against polytheism while maintaining the supernatural worldview of Scripture.
This progression of terms—sons of God, watchers, angels, so-called gods—demonstrates both overlap and distinction. And I think Theopolis’s main concern is right here: we shouldn’t be too quick to fix a single definition to one term or to force one label to mean the same thing in every context. Their hesitation seems to be with calling the Divine Council members “gods.”
So are they gods, or are they angels? What even is a “god”? That’s the heart of the question. On this, there’s agreement: Yahweh is utterly unique. He is, as Heiser would say, “species unique.” There is none like him. Scripture repeatedly affirms that the only true God is worthy of worship. Any other being called elohim—no matter how powerful—is still a created being existing under Yahweh’s authority.
This distinction sets biblical theology apart from pagan pantheons. In Greek or Canaanite mythology, gods could be overthrown, killed, or replaced. But the God of Israel cannot be dethroned or destroyed. He is transcendent, eternal, and uncreated. He cannot be chained or defeated, as fallen angels can. This is why orthodox Christianity never teaches a dualistic view of reality—where God and the devil are opposing but equal forces. Satan is not the “bad god” to Yahweh’s “good god.” He is a rebellious creature, already defeated under God’s rule.
Here’s where Kou raises an important critique. He writes that Heiser’s definition of elohim essentially equates the term with “spiritual beings.” And that, he argues, reflects a Christian or Greek philosophical assumption about divinity that doesn’t match how ancient Near Eastern cultures understood gods. To pagans, gods weren’t necessarily purely spiritual; they were often imagined as embodied, localized beings who could interact directly with the physical world.
I think Kou makes a fair point here. Heiser sometimes described elohim in overly abstract terms—as purely spiritual beings. But the biblical text shows that elohim often engage the physical world. Think of the “angel of the Lord” who eats with Abraham, the heavenly visitors who strike Sodom, or the being who wrestles with Jacob. These episodes suggest that divine beings possess some form of corporeality when interacting with creation. They are not mere spirits in the Greek philosophical sense but real, created beings who can appear and act within the material world.
So while Heiser’s broader framework—that elohim designates any inhabitant of the spiritual realm—is useful, it can be nuanced further. The Scriptures portray divine beings as truly spiritual but not immaterial in the way later philosophical categories would define it. They are part of God’s created order, able to traverse between the heavenly and earthly realms at God’s command.
Hebrews 13:2 comes to mind, where the author warns believers not to neglect hospitality because “some have entertained angels unaware.” That passage clearly assumes that angels can appear in tangible, physical form. Hospitality implies welcoming someone into one’s home, offering a seat at the table, sharing food—things that require corporeality. A disembodied apparition couldn’t sit on a couch or pick up a fork. So there’s an embodied reality to these spiritual beings when they interact with humans.
That’s why I don’t think Heiser denies corporeality. He allows Scripture to speak on its own terms. He doesn’t claim that divine beings are strictly incorporeal, nor does he force them into one fixed category. His approach is fluid—he lets the text define what these beings are in context. For that reason, I’m not sure where Kou’s disagreement comes from unless it’s based on an oversimplified or secondhand reading of Heiser’s work.
The way we understand divine beings naturally shapes how we understand humanity. That’s where Kou turns next—biblical anthropology. Both Heiser and Theopolis agree that humanity is made as God’s image, not merely in his image. This distinction emphasizes vocation and rulership—the calling to exercise dominion over creation as God’s representatives. Genesis 1 describes this beautifully: “In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. Be fruitful and multiply, fill the earth and subdue it.” Imaging God, then, is about participating in his governance of creation.
Kou critiques Heiser here, claiming that Heiser’s view of the Son— the second person of the Trinity—puts Christ in the same category as the angels. He argues that Heiser’s understanding of the incarnation becomes a union not only between God and humanity but between “the gods” and humanity. Kou also contends that Heiser focuses so much on “imaging” as a verb that he fails to explain what it means to be the image of God apart from that activity.
I think that critique misunderstands Heiser. Heiser repeatedly emphasizes that humans image God by exercising dominion—that imaging is about vocation, not ontology. Being an imager means bearing God’s authority to steward and expand his kingdom on earth. Exercising dominion includes cultivating creation, multiplying life, and spreading the order and beauty of paradise outward.
If Kou wants to bring the discussion back to divine attributes—saying that imaging means reflecting God’s moral qualities like generosity or mercy—I understand that instinct. But those attributes naturally flow from the dominion mandate itself. Acting with generosity, justice, and mercy is precisely how humans extend God’s reign and demonstrate his character within creation.
Heiser’s caution about defining the image of God through attributes stems from his concern for human dignity. If the image were defined by traits like rationality or moral understanding, then those lacking such capacities—a newborn child, a person with severe cognitive limitations—could be considered less than fully human or less than bearers of God’s image. That’s a theological danger Heiser wants to avoid.
So, I would put it this way: we are imagers by nature, and therefore we are called to image. A newborn child is already the image of God, even before demonstrating any attributes or actions. As that child matures, learns, and grows within a faithful community, they live out that imaging vocation more fully. Our worth doesn’t depend on how well we reflect God’s attributes; our calling is to reflect them precisely because we are already made as his imagers.
I’m honestly surprised by the claim that Heiser placed the second person of the Trinity in the same category as angels. I don’t see that in his work at all. In fact, Heiser consistently argued for a two powers in heaven framework within the Old Testament—the idea that there is both Yahweh incorporeal and Yahweh corporeal. He identifies the latter, Yahweh corporeal, as the preincarnate Christ. That is an entirely different category than the angels or the “gods of the nations.” To equate Jesus with the angelic beings would not only misrepresent Heiser’s position but also veer into serious theological error, even bordering on heresy depending on one’s Christology. I’ve never seen Heiser affirm anything like that, regardless of his views on creeds or councils.
There is, however, a real point of discussion about humans joining the Divine Council. This is where some of the confusion arises. Heiser taught that redeemed humans are destined to take the place of the fallen or rebellious elohim—that those who reign with Christ will, in a sense, participate in the administration of God’s rule in the heavens. This is the telos, or ultimate purpose, of the Divine Council: the union of heaven and earth under Christ’s authority.
I’ve written more about this in an article called Where is the Divine Council Now? on my website (anthonydelgado.net, under “Articles”), but to summarize briefly: both Heiser and Kou agree that Christ unites heaven and earth and that redeemed humanity now shares in God’s rule as members of his council. The disagreement lies in the timing and emphasis.
Kou writes that Heiser concluded men and gods must each have a permanent place in the council but that humanity has taken the place of the rebellious elohim. His critique is that Heiser rarely references Hebrews 12 in The Unseen Realm and only briefly elsewhere—even though Hebrews 12 is arguably the climactic moment in the book of Hebrews, describing believers’ participation in the heavenly assembly.
Kou’s point is that Heiser’s framework underemphasizes the present reality of this participation. Many people speak of believers joining the Divine Council only after death—as we saw reflected in the language surrounding Heiser’s own passing, that he had “finally entered the Divine Council.” While that’s true in one sense, it’s also true that believers are already part of it now.
Hebrews 12:22–23 says, “You have come to Mount Zion and to the city of the living God, the heavenly Jerusalem, and to innumerable angels in festal gathering, and to the assembly of the firstborn.” The verbs are in the present tense—“you have come.” The author of Hebrews isn’t describing a future hope but a present spiritual reality. The saints on earth are already part of that heavenly assembly, seated in authority with Christ.
Paul says the same thing in Ephesians 2:5–6: “He made us alive together with Christ... and raised us up with him and seated us with him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus.” The verbs again are past tense in Greek, indicating an already accomplished reality. This is what theologians call inaugurated eschatology—the “already but not yet.”
So, while Heiser often emphasized the future aspect of humanity’s participation in the Divine Council, Kou is right to remind us of the present aspect. Both perspectives are true. We are already seated with Christ, sharing in his authority, even as we await the full consummation of that reign when heaven and earth are finally united under his kingship.
The pattern of inaugurated eschatology shows that the reign of the Divine Council has both an “already” and a “not yet” dimension. There’s a present reality in which believers participate in Christ’s heavenly rule, and that present participation typologically points toward the future, consummated reign of God in the new creation. Both Heiser and Theopolis affirm this framework—they simply emphasize different aspects of it. Theopolis leans into the already, while Heiser tends to highlight the not yet. I think this is less a theological disagreement and more a matter of emphasis or perhaps an omission in The Unseen Realm that Heiser later clarified elsewhere. In his later writings and lectures, he explicitly discussed inaugurated eschatology, so I don’t see a real conflict here—just a misunderstanding.
Now, let’s talk about the giants. Don’t forget, if you have questions about the Nephilim, there’s a comment thread on the YouTube video where you can post them. I’ll be checking that over the next couple of weeks and will either respond directly or point you to places where I’ve already addressed those questions in previous videos, podcast episodes, or articles. And if you bring up something new, I’ll probably make a video about it—there’s always more to explore when it comes to the giants.
When it comes to the Nephilim, both Heiser and Theopolis agree that Genesis 6 is an essential text for understanding the Divine Council worldview. It’s not a Divine Council scene per se, but it’s clearly connected. The “sons of God” in Genesis 6 take human women, and their union produces the Nephilim—the giants. I think the most straightforward reading of the text is that these “sons of God” are rebellious angels engaging in illicit relations with human women. There are other interpretations, but the supernatural one best fits the wider biblical and Second Temple context.
This episode in Genesis 6 also links conceptually to Deuteronomy 32, Psalm 82, and other Divine Council passages. These texts together describe how spiritual rebellion among the heavenly beings impacts the earthly realm, culminating in idolatry, violence, and divine judgment.
Here’s where Kou disagrees with Heiser. He claims that Heiser’s interpretation depends on the assumption that Genesis 6 was composed during the Babylonian exile. I have to question that, because I don’t recall Heiser ever emphasizing that point, let alone making it central to his argument. Kou goes on to reject the “angelic interpretation,” proposing instead that Genesis 6 describes “cultic unions” in sexual terms—a metaphor for human idolatry rather than literal relations between angels and women.
Heiser certainly mentioned that metaphorical reading as an option, but he saw it as secondary and inconsistent with the textual and historical context. He didn’t advocate for it. If Kou’s critique is that Heiser ignored that view in later discussions, it’s likely because Heiser found it inadequate to explain the narrative on its own terms.
Even if Heiser had accepted the idea that Genesis 6 was written or edited during the exile, that wouldn’t necessarily affect his interpretation. The date of composition isn’t the same as the date of the events described. The text records ancient history, regardless of when it was compiled in its final form. And as far as we can tell, Jewish tradition—from before the time of Christ—already understood Genesis 6 in supernatural terms.
I think it’s speculative and ultimately unhelpful to argue that Genesis 6 was a later addition to the Torah. While some literary scholars note stylistic differences between Genesis 1–4 and Genesis 5–6, that doesn’t necessarily indicate multiple sources or later insertions. The Hebrew Bible as we have it today has an unbroken textual tradition stretching back to the Second Temple period. Without any concrete evidence of a textual alteration, theories about exilic additions remain conjecture.
Even if Heiser had ever entertained that idea in passing, it wouldn’t undermine the underlying claim that Genesis 6 describes real divine-human transgression. Moses wrote Genesis 6 under divine inspiration, and the account stands as part of the unified Torah. The timing of its writing doesn’t change the meaning or the reality of the rebellion it records.
Clearly, Genesis 6 preserves an ancient oral tradition passed down through generations and recalled by the inspiration of the Holy Spirit as Moses composed the Scriptures. The timing of its writing has no bearing on the truth of what it records. Even if Heiser believed Genesis 6 was written or edited later, that doesn’t affect its divine authority. God’s Word was true before it was written. The events it describes actually happened, and the Spirit ensured their accurate transmission. So using the date of writing to undermine the text’s validity seems like an insignificant criticism.
Heiser does affirm the possibility that Genesis 6 describes a literal encounter between the sons of God and human women—an event that could have taken place in a cultic or occult context. This is what Kou is referring to when he suggests that Heiser might have imagined a ritual setting, where humans, through pagan practices, invited demonic powers into the human realm. Heiser allowed for that possibility, not as a primary explanation but as one consistent with ancient ritual practices.
But even if that’s the case—if the event occurred through occult summoning or demonic possession rather than direct physical manifestation—it still represents the same underlying rebellion. In any demonic encounter, the demon is never under human control. Demons deceive and manipulate. So whether Genesis 6 describes divine beings physically taking human wives or demons using human intermediaries, the moral reality is the same: spiritual rebellion and corruption of God’s creation.
We see this reflected even in popular portrayals of occult activity, where humans believe they’re summoning spirits, but in truth, those spirits are the ones controlling the process. That image fits perfectly with the biblical worldview. So if Genesis 6 represents fallen angels working through humans, the source of evil still lies with those divine beings. From a theological standpoint, the distinction between a direct encounter and a mediated one doesn’t change the spiritual dynamics.
Personally, I’m inclined to believe the account happened through some form of occult ritual, but I also think the biblical language in Genesis 6 is the right way to describe it. In other words, the writer of Genesis described these events in ancient terms that communicate the same reality: fallen spiritual beings transgressed divine boundaries to corrupt humanity.
This is where I think both Heiser and Kou can be right. The natural reading of Genesis 6 supports the traditional supernatural view, but the ritual framework helps explain how such a transgression might have occurred. Both perspectives highlight human complicity with demonic rebellion.
The Book of Enoch and other Second Temple writings expand on this story, describing the Watchers and their descent, and while those texts aren’t Scripture, they provide insight into how early Jews and Christians understood Genesis 6. I’ve written about this at length in The Watchers and the Holy Ones, where I argue that Enochic literature is helpful for understanding the worldview that shaped much of the New Testament—especially Jude, 2 Peter, and the apocalyptic imagery in Revelation.
All of this matters because the Nephilim are mentioned only twice in Scripture: once in Genesis 6 and once in Numbers 13. That limited use raises important questions. Why is the same word used for the antediluvian giants and the later inhabitants of Canaan? Some suggest it’s a literary connection linking both periods of rebellion—spiritual corruption before the flood and human defiance afterward. Others see it as an intentional echo meant to show that the same spiritual forces opposed God’s people throughout history.
Heiser approached this as a biblical theologian rather than a systematic theologian, and that’s an important distinction. His goal wasn’t to construct a rigid theological system but to trace the development of themes across the biblical narrative. He often said, “All systems cheat,” meaning that any systematic framework simplifies or distorts something in order to make Scripture fit neatly. I agree with that to a point, though I also think systematic theology has been invaluable for defining doctrines like the Trinity and the divinity of Christ. Systematic reflection has its place, but Heiser’s method—tracing ideas through the biblical story—helps us see the texture and progression of revelation without forcing it into a single grid.
Certainly, Heiser didn’t engage much with systematic theology, and that’s part of where the interpretive gap between Kou and Heiser likely comes from. Kou is approaching Scripture from a systematic and sacramental framework—something deeply characteristic of the Theopolis Institute. Theopolis reads Scripture through a theological structure that integrates liturgy, symbolism, and typology, while Heiser approaches it narratively and contextually as a biblical theologian. That difference in method explains much of their disagreement.
This all unfolds within the discussion of the Nephilim. Personally, I think both men capture something true. However, I do believe Heiser understates the linguistic nuance of the Hebrew root. The word nephilim comes from the root naphal, meaning “to fall.” Kou argues that this suggests “fallen ones,” whereas Heiser insists that it simply means “giants.” I find it difficult to exclude either meaning. While I’m not a Hebrew scholar, it seems perfectly reasonable—given the significance of names in Scripture—to see both ideas embedded in the term.
Biblical names often carry dual meanings: they describe both nature and identity. “Nephilim” could very well signify beings who are both fallen and giant. That synthesis fits the context. These beings are physically imposing, and their very existence represents a spiritual fall—an aberration resulting from rebellion. The tendency to isolate one meaning over the other feels artificial. I think Heiser downplays the “fallen” aspect, while others overemphasize it and minimize the giant motif. The Hebrew allows for both, and the narrative makes sense when both are acknowledged.
Now, moving into the next issue: the question of whether the sons of Elohim could actually have children. That brings us to the corporal nature of the giants and the ongoing debate over whether they were entirely physical or had some hybrid nature.
The Theopolis article raises the question, “What is a son of an Elohim?” Both Theopolis and Heiser agree that this title refers to heavenly rulers—members of God’s divine council. They also agree that the fall in Genesis 3 disrupted humanity’s participation in that council. Humanity, originally designed to share in God’s rule, was estranged from that vocation through sin. In that sense, Adam and Eve “fell from the council.”
The disagreement reemerges when Kou revisits Genesis 6. He maintains that the passage doesn’t describe literal relations between angels and women but instead refers to human cultic unions. In this reading, the “sons of God” are men devoted to pagan deities, and the “daughters of men” are temple priestesses ritually “married” to those gods. Their children, the Nephilim, would then be humans consecrated to these deities—symbolic “offspring of the gods.”
That interpretation, however, leans heavily on speculation. It assumes an elaborate religious framework not evident in the Genesis text itself. Kou essentially envisions a scenario where temple priestesses engage in sexual acts with human men, and their association with pagan deities confers supernatural status on their offspring. But that stretches the text considerably.
Even if such cultic practices existed elsewhere in the ancient world, Genesis 6 doesn’t explicitly frame the event that way. The straightforward reading—echoed in Second Temple literature and referenced by Jude and Peter—depicts a supernatural transgression: divine beings crossing the boundary into human flesh. That reading also aligns better with the thematic trajectory of Scripture, where rebellion in the spiritual realm directly influences human corruption and violence on earth.
So, while Theopolis’s view offers an interesting cultural hypothesis, it ultimately relies on conjecture. Heiser’s view, by contrast, stays closer to the canonical and intertestamental context, recognizing the Nephilim as the result of a real spiritual rebellion that blurred the boundaries between heaven and earth.
Kou’s interpretation of Genesis 6 materializes the story in one sense—acknowledging demonic possession and occult ritual as possible—but then demythologizes it in another by refusing to accept that the text might describe actual giants or hybrid offspring. That tension feels inconsistent. If one is willing to affirm the supernatural reality of demons influencing people through ritual, why draw the line at the existence of giants? It reflects, as you said, a kind of post-Enlightenment rationalism that is hesitant to take the supernatural dimensions of Scripture at face value. The absence of giant skeletons isn’t a convincing argument against the account; depending on how one defines “giant,” we may even have archaeological data that points to unusually large ancient peoples. So while there’s speculation involved on both sides, dismissing the biblical depiction because it sounds mythic feels premature.
The larger hermeneutical irony is that Kou seems to rely on pagan ritual context to explain away the supernatural elements, rather than letting Scripture and the Hebrew tradition interpret themselves. The occult practices of the ancient Near East were real, and studying them can help us understand the background of Genesis 6—but they shouldn’t override the plain sense of the biblical text. The passage reads most naturally as describing a transgression between divine beings and human women, which produced the Nephilim. That understanding is consistent with Hebrew tradition, later Jewish interpretation, and the way texts like 1 Enoch, Jude, and 2 Peter expand on the story.
So while both views have merit—acknowledging the presence of occult ritual while still affirming the supernatural rebellion described in Scripture—it doesn’t need to be an either-or. The rituals may have been the human mechanism through which the rebellion manifested, but the heart of the story remains a spiritual violation of boundaries.
Kou concludes his article by opening several avenues for further exploration, the first being the connection between Psalm 82 and John 10—a topic that often arises in Divine Council discussions. Both he and Heiser agree that Psalm 82 and John 10 are pivotal for understanding the Divine Council and Jesus’ self-identification, but they diverge on how to interpret that connection.
From the Theopolis perspective, Kou writes that, contrary to Heiser, Jesus is not merely identifying himself as “an elohim among the gods.” Instead, he believes Psalm 82 portrays a familiar Divine Council scene but one that addresses Israel’s human council—its judges or rulers. In John 10, when Jesus cites this psalm (“I said, you are gods”), Kou argues that Jesus is using the passage to affirm his identity with Yahweh himself. In other words, Jesus isn’t placing himself alongside the elohim; he’s claiming to be the one who presides over them.
It’s an interesting reading, but I think the evidence points elsewhere. The Qumran manuscripts of Deuteronomy 32 offer an important backdrop. In Cave 4 we find two textual variants—one reading “sons of Israel” and the other “sons of God”—and the Septuagint later translates the phrase as “angels of God.” These three traditions coexisted in the Second Temple period and reveal that ancient Jews were already wrestling with the question of whether the “assembly of God” in passages like Psalm 82 referred to heavenly beings or human rulers.
Archaeological and textual evidence from Qumran and the broader Second Temple corpus supports Heiser’s view that Psalm 82 depicts a heavenly assembly of divine beings under Yahweh’s authority, not merely an earthly council. When Jesus cites that psalm in John 10, he is doing something remarkable—he’s invoking the Divine Council imagery to identify himself as the unique Son who shares Yahweh’s nature and authority. The Jewish leaders understood the claim’s gravity; they accused him of blasphemy because he was “making himself equal with God.”
So while Kou’s human-council interpretation fits neatly within a sacramental and covenantal framework, the broader textual and historical data—including the Qumran variants and the ongoing “sons of God” versus “sons of Israel” debate—leans toward a supernatural reading. Jesus’ use of Psalm 82 reinforces his divine identity as the embodied Yahweh, not simply as a member of a human or angelic council, but as the Lord who stands above it.
Exactly—and that’s where the whole debate over John 10 and Psalm 82 ultimately lands. The question is whether the text is talking about Israelite leaders or divine beings that oversee nations. This isn’t a modern argument; it stretches back to the Second Temple period itself, the very era when the Dead Sea Scrolls were written and stored.
What seems to be going on is that there were two textual traditions—and behind them, two theological traditions. One tradition, reflected in the Masoretic Text, aligns more closely with the Pharisaic school that preferred a highly material, human-centered interpretation. The other, preserved in the Septuagint and the Dead Sea Scrolls, maintains a supernatural worldview in which “sons of God” refers to divine beings. It shouldn’t surprise us that ancient Jews disagreed about theology—just as we do now. The existence of multiple textual streams only highlights those disagreements.
When Jesus cites Psalm 82 in John 10:34—“Is it not written in your law, ‘I said, you are gods’?”—that pronoun your is key. Why didn’t he say our law? Jesus is a Jew speaking to Jews. The distinction suggests he’s identifying a difference in interpretation, not in the authority of Scripture but in the way his audience reads it. They understood “gods” to mean humans—Israel’s judges or leaders. Jesus points out their inconsistency: if they’re comfortable calling human rulers “gods,” how can they accuse him of blasphemy for calling himself the Son of God? He’s exposing their hypocrisy, not affirming their view.
The Deuteronomy 32:8 text helps clarify this. The “sons of God” (or “angels of God” in the Septuagint) were allotted authority over the nations when Yahweh divided humanity at Babel. The biblical vision is that God temporarily delegated rulership to these heavenly beings, while retaining Israel as his own inheritance.
Both Heiser and Kou agree that Deuteronomy 32 describes this divine allotment, but they differ on its duration. Kou emphasizes that the allotment was temporary—that it was undone by Christ in what he calls the “great Jubilee,” the restoration of all nations to Yahweh’s direct rule. In that sense, Jesus’ ministry fulfills the typology of both the Day of Atonement and the Year of Jubilee. Through his atoning death, resurrection, and ascension, he reclaims authority from the rebellious powers and returns creation to its rightful owner.
On this point, I fully agree with Kou. The New Testament consistently portrays Christ’s victory as the dethronement of the rebellious elohim. When Jesus declares, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me” (Matt 28:18), he’s announcing the cosmic Jubilee. The “rulers and authorities” that once held sway (Eph 6:12; Col 2:15) have been disarmed. Christ’s exaltation fulfills Psalm 82’s promise that Yahweh will “arise and judge the earth, for all nations belong to him.”
If Heiser ever implied that these rebellious sons of God still hold real authority, I think that would be mistaken. Their rule has been broken. Yet, that doesn’t mean that loyal heavenly beings no longer serve in God’s council. Revelation 4–5 and the letters to the seven churches (Revelation 2–3) still portray a heavenly assembly of angelic representatives who participate in divine governance. The difference is that, since Christ’s enthronement, all authority is now mediated through him. The council still exists—but it exists under the dominion of the risen King.
Exactly. We shouldn’t assume that the Divine Council is now composed only of humans or that every divine being other than the seventy rebellious ones was cast out. Scripture never says there are no remaining loyal members of God’s heavenly host. Revelation gives us glimpses of worshiping angels around the throne—holy beings who still serve God’s purposes. So while the rebellious sons of God have been dethroned and stripped of their authority, that doesn’t mean the entire spiritual order has been dissolved. What I affirm, and where I agree with Theopolis, is that there are now vacancies in the council that are being filled by redeemed humans. Heiser consistently taught this idea—that humanity’s destiny is to share in the governance of God’s creation. The confusion comes from differing emphases: Heiser focused on the telos—the eschatological completion of the council—while others interpret that emphasis as meaning the fallen powers still retain some delegated authority. I don’t think that’s what Heiser intended. The rebellious elohim may still exist, but only as demonic powers acting against God’s purposes, not as beings with legitimate divine sanction.
Now, regarding 1 Enoch and other Second Temple writings, both Heiser and Kou agree on two crucial points: 1 Enoch is not canonical Scripture, and yet it was influential in shaping Second Temple Jewish thought. It’s important but not inspired; useful but not authoritative. The disagreement is really about how much weight to give that influence.
Kou writes that Heiser reasoned that because 1 Enoch informed the worldview of Jude and Peter, we should treat it as reliable. His concern is that readers influenced by Heiser might begin treating 1 Enoch as though it were canonical. But that’s less a critique of Heiser himself and more a caution about how some of his followers handle the material.
The real question is: how should 1 Enoch affect our interpretation of Scripture? The answer, I think, lies in balance. 1 Enoch isn’t a hermeneutical lens—it’s not the framework through which we interpret the Bible—but it’s a key part of the context that helps us interpret certain passages responsibly. When Jude or Peter quote or allude directly to 1 Enoch, understanding that text helps us grasp what they’re addressing. Without knowing the story of the Watchers, for instance, it’s nearly impossible to follow Jude’s logic or Peter’s argument about divine judgment and cosmic rebellion.
So, we don’t read the Bible through Enoch, but we do read parts of the Bible with Enoch in mind. That’s just good historical and literary practice. It’s the same reason evangelical commentaries often reference ancient Jewish traditions without realizing they’re drawing from Second Temple or apocryphal sources. You’ll read a line like “ancient Judaism believed…” and, if you chase the footnotes, you find it leads right back to texts like 1 Enoch, Jubilees, or Maccabees.
The irony is that many conservative scholars—those who would publicly dismiss 1 Enoch as heretical or “of the devil”—unknowingly rely on ideas that come straight out of it. They affirm the theological fruit but deny the soil it grew in. Recognizing 1 Enoch’s role doesn’t mean elevating it to Scripture; it just means acknowledging that the biblical writers and early Christians lived in that same intellectual and theological ecosystem.
So, the responsible approach is to let 1 Enoch serve as background, not blueprint. It provides insight into how Second Temple Jews understood Genesis 6, the nature of evil, the Watchers’ rebellion, and the expectation of divine judgment. It helps us read Jude and Peter—and even parts of Revelation—with greater clarity, without confusing literary influence with divine inspiration.
If you trace back the thinking behind many conservative commentaries, you’ll find that when they talk about understanding the cultural context of a passage or knowing what was happening in Rome or Israel, they’re actually drawing from the same ancient sources we’re encouraging you to read. That’s the irony of it. Many who warn against reading 1 Enoch or other Second Temple texts are still depending on scholarship that does exactly that. They just aren’t consistent. If someone truly wanted to reject anything that comes from ancient Israelite folklore or history, they’d have to ignore nearly every cultural reference in their own teaching.
I’ve been preaching through Jude, and I’ve already preached through 1 and 2 Peter in recent years. It’s not because I’m obsessed with the supernatural topics—it’s simply where my ministry has led me. In studying those letters, I’ve realized how important it is to understand their context. Jude, for instance, is mostly about the normalization of sexual immorality within the church, not primarily about 1 Enoch or The Assumption of Moses. But if we don’t know those texts, we miss the cultural background that Jude’s audience would have recognized. When he mentions the devil disputing with the archangel Michael over the body of Moses, his readers already knew that story. We, however, have to go back and study it to grasp his point.
That doesn’t mean we affirm those writings as true or inspired, but we do need to know them. We read them as folklore or cultural narrative, understanding where they align with Scripture and where they don’t. We shouldn’t give them no authority—just the exact authority they deserve: valuable for context, not for doctrine. And Kou’s right about one thing—we must never let those writings control how we interpret Scripture. Discernment is key.
So, what about Jesus? That’s where Kou closes his article, and it’s a fitting place to end. Both he and Heiser affirm that Christ now reigns as the head of the Divine Council, and that redeemed humanity participates in that rule. Paul says we are already seated with him in heavenly places—a reign that has begun and will be consummated in eternity. Kou writes, “While it is not perhaps the controlling lens by which we read all Scripture, it is a prevalent theme that often lies closely in the background of the text. Heiser has done a great deal to shine light on that background. Once seen, it cannot be unseen—but let us see more clearly.”
I completely agree. Heiser’s work has illuminated this theme for thousands of readers. His influence extends far beyond his own books—even shaping projects like The Bible Project that have helped millions rediscover the supernatural worldview of Scripture. And he places Christ at the center of that narrative. Jesus is the ruling head of the Divine Council, the one with all authority in heaven, on earth, and—as Paul adds in Philippians 2:10—even under the earth. That theme runs through the New Testament: the heavens and the earth renewed, paradise restored, and Christ reigning over all. It’s the heartbeat of the gospel itself.
The Divine Council reminds us that the cosmos are alive with God’s presence. We live in an enchanted world where Christ reigns and we share in his rule. Both Heiser and Theopolis, in their own ways, call us back to that reality—to see Scripture as a living, supernatural story. The supernatural worldview of Heiser and the sacramental worldview of Theopolis are not opposed; they are parallel paths leading us toward the same end: the re-enchantment of the Christian faith.
Philosophical materialism has stripped the church of its wonder, making us read spiritual truths as mere metaphors. But the gospel restores that wonder, showing us that heaven and earth are intertwined under Christ’s rule.
If this conversation has helped re-enchant your faith, type “enchanted” in the comments. Be sure to like and subscribe for more biblical theology that restores a supernatural vision of the world—because it really is more beautiful than you realize. And as always, drop your thoughts on where you see Heiser and Theopolis agreeing or differing, or send your questions about the giants. Thanks for watching Biblical Reenchantment.
Christ reigns, and that changes everything.
