Intelligibility and the Ontological Priority of Law and Gospel
Modern theology habitually begins with the self. Law and Gospel are therefore read first as modes of human experience, as the ways in which God confronts consciousness. The Law accuses, the Gospel consoles. Within this horizon they function as psychological or existential dispositions, structures of address within the drama of conscience. There is truth here, but it is only a derivative truth.
What if this familiar orientation were reversed? What if Law and Gospel were not first about how human beings experience God, but about how reality itself is rendered intelligible before God? What if they name not anthropological postures, but ontological structures? What if they belong not merely to theology’s linguistic grammar, but to the grammar of being itself?
This is the wager of the reflection that follows.
The inquiry does not begin with salvation, piety, or the psychology of faith. It begins with intelligibility itself, with the question of what must be the case for finite being to be knowable at all. If intelligibility is real and not merely projected by human cognition, then it must exhibit distinct and irreducible modes. Finite being is intelligible either as grounded in itself or as grounded in another. There is no tertium quid.
This fundamental differentiation yields the primal metaphysical distinction between necessity and contingency. What is necessary is intelligible in virtue of itself. What is contingent is intelligible only by reference to another. Yet necessity and contingency cannot stand as isolated poles. Contingency must be intelligible as received rather than arbitrary, as given rather than brute. At this juncture possibility emerges, not as a merely logical modality, but as ontological openness, the teleological space within which being can be bestowed, received, and sustained.
Intelligibility therefore exhibits a twofold structure. There is intelligibility in se, in which being is measured by what it must be in virtue of itself, and intelligibility ab alio, in which being is constituted by what it receives from another. These are not optional perspectives. They are the only two ways in which finite being can stand as intelligible at all.
At this level, what theology will later name Law and Gospel are already operative as the two basic structures of intelligibility. Law names the mode of necessity, that which is self-measured and self-grounded. Gospel names the mode of donation, that which lives from another and by gift. These are not affective states, moral descriptions, or linguistic conventions. They are ontological modalities of intelligibility itself.
To collapse one into the other is not a minor theological error. To moralize the Gospel is to convert gift into requirement. To reduce the Law to description is to evacuate necessity of its binding force. In either case, the architecture of intelligibility is destroyed.
Only on this basis can Luther’s distinction be properly understood. The polarity of Law and Gospel is not a pastoral invention, nor a merely rhetorical contrast within preaching. It is a faithful theological articulation of a metaphysical differentiation already inscribed into being itself. The Word of Law and the Word of Gospel do not merely address human consciousness in different ways. They disclose different modes of being and therefore different structures of understanding. Human beings do not generate this polarity. They find themselves always already located within it.
The priority of Law and Gospel is therefore neither chronological nor epistemic. It is ontological. They name the two fundamental ways in which finite being stands before God, either under the intelligibility of self grounded necessity, which is Law, or under the intelligibility of gifted contingency, which is Gospel.
Theology does not invent this distinction. It confesses it. For when reality is pressed for intelligibility, it yields nothing else.
Law and Gospel Are Older Than We Are
The claim is simple to state and difficult to absorb. Law and Gospel are ontological before they are experiential. They do not arise from moral reflection, religious sentiment, or linguistic convention. They are not products of human awareness. They are conditions that make awareness itself possible. They name two real and irreducible ways in which intelligibility is given.
Law names the order of intelligibility grounded in itself. It designates the mode in which what is stands under necessity, coherence, and closure. In the Law, reality is intelligible as that which must be so. This is not moralism but metaphysics. It names the structure of being that is self measured, self contained, and internally determined. In this mode, being is intelligible because it conforms to its own necessity.
Gospel, by contrast, names the order of intelligibility grounded in another. It designates the mode in which what is stands as gift, as reception, as donation. In the Gospel, reality is intelligible not as what must be, but as what is given. This too is not sentiment but ontology. It names the structure by which being receives itself from beyond itself. In this mode, what is depends upon generosity rather than necessity, upon grace rather than self-sufficiency.
Law and Gospel are therefore not two competing interpretations of a neutral world. They are not alternative descriptions imposed upon the same reality. They are the two real modes in which reality itself can stand as intelligible. One names necessity. The other names gift. One is self-grounding. The other is received.
Human beings do not invent these structures. We discover and inhabit them. We find ourselves always already located within their tension, already addressed by their grammar. To exist at all is to dwell within the polarity of Law and Gospel, to live between the closure of necessity and the openness of donation.
To say that Law and Gospel are older than we are is to recognize that they belong to the constitution of creation itself. They are woven into the fabric of reality, into the rhythm of being’s self coherence and being’s givenness. They are not doctrines imposed upon the world from without. They are the world’s own ways of standing before God, the measure of what must be and the gift of what is.
Why Speak of Intelligibility at All?
A fair question arises at this point. In speaking of Law and Gospel, why turn to intelligibility at all? Why not remain with Scripture, proclamation, or experience? Why introduce a term that sounds abstract, philosophical, perhaps remote from the concrete life of faith?
The answer is unavoidable. Theology already presupposes intelligibility. The only question is whether this presupposition will be acknowledged or left unexamined. To speak of God, to confess Christ, to distinguish Law and Gospel, to proclaim grace, to discern truth from falsehood, already assumes that reality can be understood. Theology does not create intelligibility. It depends upon it. The task is therefore not to stipulate that the world is intelligible, but to ask what must be true of reality for theology to be possible at all.
Modern thought has trained us to assume that intelligibility is something we supply. Meaning is said to arise from the subject, from cognition, language, or social practice. When meaning becomes difficult to ground, it is psychologized, reduced to experience. Or it is linguisticized, reduced to use. Or it is proceduralized, reduced to rule following. Despite their differences, these strategies share a single conviction: intelligibility is derivative of human activity.
What if this conviction were mistaken? What if intelligibility were not the product of thought, but its precondition? What if intelligibility were ontologically prior to perception, judgment, language, and will? On this account, human understanding does not generate meaning but participates in it. We do not first think and then discover a meaningful world. We awaken within a world that already gives itself as capable of being understood.
For this reason, intelligibility must be addressed as such. If it is not, it will be quietly replaced by something else, by consciousness, discourse, power, or will. When this substitution occurs, theology is forced to speak of God within a framework that God did not give.
Once intelligibility is acknowledged as real and prior, several consequences follow.
First, Law and Gospel can no longer be treated as human reactions to divine address. They are not psychological responses but ontological orders. Law names intelligibility closed upon itself and grounded in necessity. Gospel names intelligibility opened as gift and grounded in another. They are not rhetorical tools of preaching but conditions that make preaching truthful.
Second, grace can be conceived without arbitrariness. Grace is not a rupture in an otherwise self-sufficient system. It is the manifestation of how reality itself is constituted, as reception rather than possession, as givenness rather than achievement. What metaphysics names possibility, theology encounters as the work of the Spirit.
Third, truth itself must be rethought. Truth is not merely the correspondence of language to fact. It is participation in the Logos through whom being and meaning coinhere. To inquire into intelligibility is to ask after the deepest grammar of truth.
In this light, the question of intelligibility is not a speculative luxury. It is a theological responsibility. It is the refusal to allow theology to borrow its foundations from accounts of reality that cannot sustain them. The move is bold because it reverses the settled habits of modern thought. Instead of asking how human beings make sense of God, it asks about the conditions under which anything can make sense at all.
When intelligibility is once again recognized as a real feature of creation, the Lutheran distinction between Law and Gospel is freed from the confines of psychology and proclamation. It appears instead as something far more basic: a differentiation woven into the very fabric of reality itself.
Why the Modern Turn Went Wrong
Much of modern thought has operated with a single, rarely questioned assumption: if intelligibility exists, it must be grounded in the subject. Kant’s so-called "Copernican Revolution" marks the decisive articulation of this conviction. When it became untenable to anchor meaning directly in the empirical self, Kant reconstituted the self as transcendental, assigning it the task of supplying the conditions under which anything could appear as meaningful at all. The move was extraordinary in its rigor and fertility. It yielded lasting insights into cognition, judgment, freedom, and normativity. Yet it carried a cost that has only gradually become visible.
Necessity was relocated into the structures of experience itself. What must be so was no longer a feature of reality but a function of the mind’s synthesizing activity. Contingency was displaced into the realm of practical reason. Teleology was retained only in attenuated form, as purposiveness without purpose. Nature no longer possessed an end of its own. Intelligibility ceased to be something reality had and became instead a heuristic imposed upon it. Meaning survived, but only as method.
The outcome of this shift was not atheism but anthropocentrism. Reality increasingly appeared as a mirror reflecting our own operations back to us. Theology, often without realizing it, absorbed this posture. Law and Gospel were reinterpreted as expressions of conscience, existential moods, or linguistic practices. The deeper question was quietly abandoned: What must reality itself be like for Law and Gospel to be true? Once that question falls away, theology becomes commentary on experience rather than confession of what is.
Luther stands on the far side of this modern reversal. For him, the human being is not an origin but a site. The spirit is not sovereign but inhabited. His unsettling image remains decisive: the human being is like a beast that is ridden, either by God or by the devil. This is not a piece of religious psychology. It is an ontological claim about how intelligibility is borne.
To live curvatus in se ipsum is not merely to feel guilt or anxiety. It is to exist under a false grounding, to live as though intelligibility could be secured by the self. The Law exposes this condition and kills precisely because it names what is. It strips away the illusion that being can justify itself from within.
To live by the Gospel is not to adopt a new affective posture or a more hopeful interpretation of existence. It is to be re-grounded in reality itself, to exist as gift rather than possession. The Gospel does not negate the Law. It relocates intelligibility. What was falsely assumed to be self-grounded is revealed to live from another.
At this point the governing metaphysical problem comes fully into view. How can necessity and contingency both be real without collapsing into determinism on the one hand or arbitrariness on the other? The answer is possibility, understood not as unrealized potential but as the ontological openness of intelligibility itself. Possibility names the space in which contingency can be received rather than forced, and necessity can give without coercion.
What metaphysics names possibility, theology encounters as grace. Grace arises necessarily from God, who is love, yet it is received contingently by creatures. This contingency is not a defect. It is the very form divine love takes in time. The Holy Spirit is not an addition to this structure but its living enactment, the divine act by which eternal necessity becomes temporal gift. Grace is not God’s response to us. It is the continual donation of reality itself anew.
This same structure extends into the nature of truth. Theology cannot rest content with defining truth as correspondence between propositions and an already settled world. That account presupposes what it cannot explain. Christian theology confesses something deeper. The Logos gives being and meaning together. Reality is intelligible because it is spoken.
Truth, therefore, is not merely descriptive. It is participatory. We do not stand outside the world and measure it. We are drawn into the act by which reality becomes intelligible at all. Law, Gospel, grace, and truth are not late theological overlays. They belong to the primal order of creation, to the rhythm by which being is both coherent and given.
None of this requires the rejection of modern philosophy, nor does it indulge nostalgia for a pre modern certainty. Kant’s detour was illuminating. Existentialism disclosed genuine anxiety. The linguistic turn taught us to attend to the density of speech. But the time has come to recover what these movements forgot. Reality does not depend on being human. Humanity depends on reality.
Law and Gospel do not arise from within us. They name the way the world itself stands before God. Only because this is so can preaching still kill and make alive, grace still arrive as surprise, and truth still exceed the mirror of our own reflection.
This is not an argument for demolition but an invitation. It is an invitation to leave the playground of self-enclosed thought and return to the open field of reality itself. At this point one may cautiously recover Luther’s language of the Left and Right Hands of God, provided it is properly understood. Law and Gospel are not two competing principles, nor are they reconciled by a higher synthesis. They arise from a single ground of intelligibility, the teleological space in which reality stands before God. As the Left and Right Hands are united in the one God without confusion of their work, so Law and Gospel are united in their ground without collapse of their modes. The unity is ontological, not dialectical. The distinction remains irreducible. The Law still kills. The Gospel still makes alive. And precisely because their unity does not neutralize their opposition, preaching can still strike reality itself rather than merely reflect our own thought back to us.
