Second naivete

Probably the most important element of C. S. Lewis’s conversion, at least in his telling of it, was that for a definite period of time between atheism and Christian faith he lived as a theist without any expectation of reward or afterlife. He knew from experience that one could believe in God, relate to God, obey the will of God just because; that is, just because God is God and one is not. Afterward, believing in the promises of Christ came with a certain sweetness but also a certain lightness or liberty: he did not feel compelled to believe, the way “God” and “pie in the sky” are conflated for so many people, but free to believe. The freedom lay in the gut-level knowledge that grace was grace, neither earned nor automatic.

I feel similarly about historical events reported in the Bible, especially in the Old Testament. For a definite period of time it was not important to me whether this or that discrete happening in Scripture “really” occurred, or occurred in the precise way reported, or occurred at the time and place reported. Perhaps Job or Daniel or Esther were pious fictions; perhaps the Israelites came out of Egypt but in some far less magnificent manner; perhaps David’s many origin stories were folk tales “rightly” remembered and surely worth retelling but not exactly what we would today judge to be “historically accurate.”

My faith was not threatened by these possibilities; it still is not. I am not and never have been any kind of strict inerrantist. If it turns out that, like a nineteenth-century painting of a days-long battle, stories in Scripture are not historical in the way we use that term or measure reportage today, the sum total of my response remains a shrug of the shoulders. If you tell me that Acts and Galatians’ chronologies are finally irreconcilable, I will do well if I suppress my yawn.

As I said, though, for a period of time this was my default setting: “The following ‘historical’ passage I am about to read from the canon may or may not be ‘historical’ at all.” A giant if invisible question mark floated above the text whenever I read, heard, or taught the Bible. Let’s say this ran for about a decade, from 18 to 28 years old, roughly my undergraduate, Master’s, and beginning doctoral years.

Then a funny thing happened. The default setting slowly shifted, mostly without my knowing it. I saw firsthand how the historical-critical sausage is made. I digested a good deal of it for myself. And I came to see that the confidence with which its assured results were delivered was entirely unearned.

Lowered confidence—from dogmatic pronouncements to measured statements of relative probability based on the available evidence (often minimal to begin with)—does not mean biblical criticism should be ignored, much less that it’s all wrong. But what it does mean, or at least has meant for me, is that it need not be treated with submission, docility, deference, or fear. The study of Scripture, whether secular or spiritual, is a humanistic enterprise. It involves interpretation, wisdom, good judgment, good humor, humility, and dispassionate assessment. Very nearly every one of the questions it poses admits of numerous good-faith answers, just as very nearly every one of its considered conclusions admits of good-faith disputation. It is healthy when it tolerates and nurtures dissent, unhealthy when majority positions calcify into dogmas that define the well-policed borders of “serious” scholarship. The one thing to hang your hat on in this field is that something “everybody knows” today will be contested, qualified, replaced, or surpassed in the next generation.

With the following result: The question mark has, for me, dissolved into thin air. I now read the Pastorals as Saint Paul’s without a troubled scholarly conscience; I read Acts as penned in the early 60s by Saint Luke; I read Daniel and Esther and Ruth as historical characters; the same goes for the patriarchs and Moses and Aaron and Miriam and Joshua. It all happened, just as the text says it did. Not because I’m ignorant of research that suggests otherwise; not because I’m a fundamentalist who needs it to be so, lest my faith’s house of cards tumble to the ground. No, it’s because I know what it’s like to be a Christian who supposed otherwise, whose faith was as untroubled then as it is now. I’ve weighed the evidence and found it, for the most part, wanting. Wanting, that is, in terms of compelling my and all others’ uncritical obedience to purported academic consensus. (Reports of consensus being always greatly exaggerated in any case.) I could be wrong. But I’m not worried about it.

Most of all, I couldn’t care less what some expert in the field thinks about my so-called naivete. If he wags his finger at me and cites the latest peer-reviewed journal, I’ll just roll my eyes. This time I won’t be able to stifle the yawn his pronouncements so dearly deserve.

My latest: a review of Mark Noll in The Christian Century

In the new issue of The Christian Century I have a review of Mark Noll’s latest book, America’s Book: The Rise and Decline of a Bible Civilization, 1794–1911. Superlatives fail, as they usually do with Noll’s work. The book is more than a “mere” history, though. It has an argument to make. Here’s how I begin to lay it out:

The United States was, from the start, founded and widely understood as a repudiation of and alternative to European Christendom. Whatever the proper relationship between church and state, the federal government would have no established religion—would not, that is, tax citizens in sponsorship of a formal ecclesiastical body. On this arrangement, most nascent Americans agreed. What then would, or should, the implications be for Christian faith and doctrine in the public square? How could Christian society endure without the legal and political trappings of Christendom?

Answer: through the Bible. Not the Bible and; not the Bible as mediated by. The Bible alone. America would be the first of its kind: a “Bible civilization.” That is to say, a constitutional republic of coequal citizens whose common, voluntary trust in the truth and authority of Christian scripture would simultaneously (1) put the lie to the “necessity” of coercive religious regimes, (2) provide the moral character required for a liberal democracy to flourish, and (3) fulfill the promise of the Protestant Reformation. Sola scriptura thus became the unwritten law of the land. Regardless of one’s confession or tradition, the sufficiency of the Bible for all aspects of life—the canon as the cornerstone for religion, ethics, and politics alike—was axiomatic. For more than a century, it functioned as a given in public argument. Only rarely did it call for an argument itself.

Keep reading for more, including a disagreement with Noll regarding how to interpret prior generations’ disputes over how to read the Bible, in this case about chattel slavery.

You can’t die for a question

I had some friends from quite different backgrounds do a bit of interrogation yesterday, following my post about biblicist versus catholic Christianity. Interrogation of me, that is. As is my wont, I sermonize and then qualify, or at least explain. Yesterday was the sermon. Today is the asterisk.

1. What I wrote has to do with a persistent conundrum I find myself utterly unable to solve. I cannot grasp either of two types of Christianity. The first lingers most in yesterday’s post. It is a form of the faith that never, ever grows; never, ever settles; never, ever stabilizes; never, ever knows. Its peculiar habit, rather, is always and perpetually to pull up stakes and go back to the beginning; to return to Go; to start from scratch; to question everything and, almost on purpose, to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Am I exaggerating? I’m not! Primitivist biblicism, rooted in nuda scriptura, affirms on principle that every tradition and all Christians, from the apostles to the present, not only may have gotten this or that wrong but did in fact get just about everything wrong. And this affirmation inexorably eats itself. For what the biblicist proposed yesterday is bound to be wrong tomorrow—that is, discovered by some other enterprising biblicist to belong to the catalogue of errors that is Christian history.

At the same time, this ouroborotic style of Christianity affirms a second principle: namely, the total sufficiency and perfect perspicuity of the canon. Come again? Didn’t we just say that everyone who’s ever read it got it wrong, until you/me? Indeed. Not only this, but the excavationist-reader of the clear-and-sufficient text somehow misses the fact that he is himself doing the very thing he chides the tradition for doing: namely, interpreting what requires no interpretation. The one thing we may be sure of is that his successor, following the example of his predecessor with perfect consistency, will fault him for his interpretation, while offering an alternative interpretation.

This whole dialectic makes me crazy. As evidenced by yesterday’s vim and vigor.

2. Let me put it this way. I understand that there are both people and traditions that embody this dialectic, that don’t see anything wrong with it. What I can’t understand is pastors and scholars wanting to produce such a viewpoint as a desirable consequence of ecclesial and academic formation. My goal as a teacher is to educate my students out of this way of thinking. Why would we want to educate them into it?

I will withhold comment on whether Protestantism as such is unavoidably ouroborotic. At the very least, we may say that the ouroborotic impulse is contained within it. Reformation breeds reformation; revolution begets revolution. Semper reformanda unmasks error after error, century after century, until you find yourself with the apostles, reforming them, too. And the prophets. And Jesus himself. And the texts that give you him. And the traditions underlying those texts. And the hypothetical traditions underlying those.

And all of a sudden, you find there’s nothing left.

Again, I’m not indicting Protestants per se. But there is an instinct here, a pressure, a logic that unfolds itself. And there are evangelical traditions that actively nurture it in their people. I’ve seen it my whole life. It’s not good, y’all! I, the ordinary believer, come to see myself, not as a recipient of Christian faith, but as its co-constructor, even its builder. It’s up to me:

Brad the Believer!
Can he build it?
Yes he can!
Can he fix it?
Yes he can!

And how do I do it? By reading the Bible, alone with myself, at best with a few others—albeit with final say reserved for me.

The faith here becomes a matter of arguing my way to a conclusion, rather than yielding, surrendering, and submitting to a teaching. Cartesian Christianity is DIY faith. It cannot sustain itself. It’s built for collapse. (The call is coming from inside the house.)

3. The second type of Christianity to which I alluded above, which was less visible in the post yesterday, is not so much a species of biblicism as its repudiation. In the past I’ve called it post-biblicism biblicism, though it doesn’t always entail further biblicism. A friend commented that what we need is an account of progressive biblicism, though that’s not what I have in mind either. What I have in mind is, I suppose, what I’ll call know-nothing Christianity. A Christianity of nothing but doubts. A faith reducible to questions.

I take it as given that I’m not talking about asking questions or having doubts, much less mysticism or apophatic spirituality. (Go read Denys Turner. All theology is apophatic, rightly understood.) No, I’m talking about a Christianity that has lost the confidence of the martyrs, the boldness of the apostles, the devotion of the saints.

Put it this way. When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die. But you can’t die for a question. Christianity is a religion of proclamation. It preaches a message. It announces tidings. It does not say, “Jesus might have been raised from the dead.” It says, “Jesus is risen.” You or I may well have intrusive mights in our struggles with faith. But the church is not a community of might and maybe. The church is a community of is, because she is a people of resurrection. What began in an empty tomb, she confesses, will be consummated before the whole world at the risen Lord’s return.

That’s something to die for. And therefore to live for. I can neither die nor live for a question mark. The church speaks with periods and exclamation points. She errs—her pastors miss the mark—when the faith is reduced to nothing but ellipses and questions.

4. It’s true that I exaggerated the catholic style of magisterial Protestantism. I also may have made it sound as though Christianity never changes; that whatever Christians have always said and done, they are bound always to say and do in the future, till kingdom come. (Though I think if you re-read what I wrote, I couched enough to give the Prots some wiggle room.)

In any case: granted. Preacher’s gonna preach. But here’s what I was getting at.

Christianity simply cannot be lived if, at any moment, any and every doctrine and belief, no matter how central or venerable, lies under constant threat of revision and removal. All the more so if the potential revision and removal are actions open to any baptized believer. Ouroborotic faith comes to seem a sort of vulgar Kantianism (or is it that Kant is vulgar Lutheranism?): heteronomy must give way to autonomy, lest the faith not be authentic, real, mine. The word from without becomes a word from within. The word of the gospel transmutes into a word I make, am responsible for making. I am a law unto myself; I am the gospel unto myself.

Who can live this way? Who can give themselves to a community for a lifetime based on a message (a book, a doctrine, an ethics) subject to continuous active reappraisal? and reappraisal precisely from below? The faith becomes a kind of democracy: a democracy of the living alone, to the exclusion of the dead. And just like any democracy, what’s voted on today will be up for debate tomorrow.

In a word: If Christianity is nothing but what we make of it—an ongoing, unfinished construction project in which nothing is fixed and everything, in principle, is subject to renovation and even demolition—then we are of all men most miserable.

To be sure, the skeptic and the atheist will see this statement as a précis of their unbelief. What beggars my belief is that, apparently, there are self-identified Christians who not only affirm it, but actively induce it in the young, in college students, in laypeople. I cannot fathom such a view.

5. A final thought. I am a student, in different ways, of two very different theologians: Robert Jenson and Kathryn Tanner. Much of what I’ve outlined here goes against what both of them teach regarding the church and tradition; or at least it seems to. Let me say something about that.

I am thinking of the opening two chapters of Jenson’s Systematics and of the whole normative case Tanner makes in Theories of Culture. In the latter, Tanner takes issue with both correlationists (to her “left”) and postliberals (to her “right”) regarding what “culture” is, how the church inhabits and engages it, and the honest picture that results for Christian tradition. There is a strong constructivist undercurrent in the book that would push back against what I’ve written here.

As for Jenson, he argues that the church is a community defined by a message. Tradition is the handing-on of the message, both in real time (from one person/community to another) and across time (from one generation to another). It is not a bug that causes the gospel to “change” in the process of being handed on. It’s a feature. We see this transmission-cum-translation project already in the New Testament. And it necessarily continues so long as the church is around, handing on the gospel anew.

Why? Because new questions arise, in the course of the church’s mission, questions that have not always been answered in advance. Sometimes it isn’t questions at all, but cultural translation itself. How should the gospel be incarnated here, in this place? Among gentiles, not Jews? Among rulers, not peasants? Among Ethiopians, not Greeks? Among polytheists, not monotheists? Among atheists, not polytheists? Among polygamists, not monogamists? Among liberals, not conservatives? Among capitalists, not socialists? Among democrats, not monarchists? In an age of CRISPR and cloning, not factories and the cotton gin? In a time when women are no longer homemakers only, but landowners, degree-holders, and professionals? When men are in offices and online and not only in fields and mines?

The gospel, Jenson says, doesn’t change in these settings. But how the church says the gospel, in and to such settings, does change. How could it not? We don’t speak the gospel in the same words as the apostles, or else we’d be speaking Aramaic and Greek; we’d be talking about idol meat and temple prostitutes and incense to Caesar and Artemis the Great. Now, we do talk about such things. But not as matters of living interest to our hearers. As, rather, samples of faithful gospel speech from the apostles, samples that call for our imitation, extension, and application. We say the selfsame gospel anew in diverse contexts, based on the apostolic example, in imitation of their model. As Barth says in the Church Dogmatics, theology is not a matter of repeating what the apostles and prophets said, but of saying what must be said here and now on the basis of what they said there and then.

In this way, “evangelical” tradition is simultaneously unchanging, fixed, stable and fluid, organic, growing. It’s why, as a friend once said after reading Theories of Culture, the church possesses a teaching office. Magisterial authority of some sort is necessary in a missionary community defined by a historical message expressed in written documents. Someone’s got to do the interpreting, not least when questions arise that the apostles neither answered nor even foresaw.

Hence my roping the magisterial Protestants into the “catholic” version of Christianity. Try as they might, they cannot deny that the doctrine of the Trinity formulated and codified by Nicaea and Constantinople is dogma for the church. It is irreversible, irrevocable, and therefore irreformable. Semper reformanda does not apply here. (And if not here, then not elsewhere, too.) Not because the Bible is crystal clear on the subject. Not because trinitarian doctrine is laid out in so many words on the sacred page. Not because no reasonable person could read the Bible differently.

No: It is because the church’s ancient teachers, faced with the question of Christ and the Spirit, read the Bible in this way, and staked the future of the faith on it; and because we, their children in the faith, receive their decision as the Spirit’s own. It seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us… It is thus neither your job nor mine to second guess it, to search the Bible to confirm that Saint Athanasius et al did, in fact, get the Trinity right. It’s our job to accept it; to confess it; to believe it. Any other suggestion misunderstands my, our, relationship to the church and to her tradition.

6. A final-final thought; a conclusion to my conclusion.

In my graduate studies I came to be deeply impressed by the underdetermined character of Scripture. The text can reasonably be read by equally reasonable people in equally reasonable ways. “Underdetermined” is Stephen Fowl’s word. It doesn’t mean indeterminate. But neither does it mean determinate. Christian Smith calls the result “PIP”: pervasive interpretive pluralism. Smith is right. His point is downstream from the hermeneutical, though, which is downstream in turn from the theological and ecclesiological point.

I’ve tried to unpack and to argue that point in my two books: The Doctrine of Scripture and The Church’s Book. Together they’re just short of 250,000 words. I wouldn’t force that much reading (of anyone, certainly not of me!) on anybody. Nor can I summarize here what I lay out there. I simply mean to draw attention to a fundamental premise that animates all of my thinking about the Bible and thus about the church, tradition, and dogma. That premise is a rejection of a strong account of biblical perspicuity. On its face, the Bible can be read many ways; rare is any of these ways obvious, even to the baptized. If I’m right, then either the Bible can never finally be understood with confidence (a position I reject, though I have learned much from scholars who believe this) or we ordinary Christians stand under that which has been authorized by Christ, through his Spirit, to teach the Bible’s word with confidence, indeed with divine assurance. Call the authority in question the church, tradition, ecumenical councils, bishops, magisterium—whatever—but it’s necessary for the Christian life. It’s necessary for Christianity to work. And not only necessary. But instituted by Christ himself, for our benefit. For our life among the nations. For our faith, seeking understanding as it always is. For our discipleship.

We are called to live and die for Christ. The church gives us Christ. She does not give us a question. She gives us a person. In her we find him. If we can’t trust her, we can’t have him—much less die for him. They’re a package deal. Accept both or neither. But you can’t have one without the other.

The great Christian divide

There are two kinds of Christian, by which I mean, there are two ways of being Christian nourished by two types of Christian tradition. Each is defined by its stance or posture toward the Bible and the resulting formation of ordinary believers.

You could think of many names for both. Most are biased, polemical, prejudicial. It’s hard to give a neutral name to something you believe is either absolutely right or dead wrong.

Call the first one biblicist. Sometimes this view comes wrapped in the label of sola scriptura, but nuda scriptura seems more apt. Biblicism forms its adherents to believe, at least tacitly but usually consciously, three major things.

First, nothing but the Bible’s clear, explicit teaching is authority for the church. What is not laid out verbatim, in so many words, cannot be decisive for Christian faith and morals. Second, the Bible’s clear, explicit teaching is best read without the mediation, guidance, or interposition of extra-biblical teaching. Whether you call this latter teaching “sacred tradition” or “church doctrine” or something else, it is bound to obstruct, distort, and/or mislead the reader of Scripture. Third and finally, the Bible’s clear, explicit teaching is meant to be read, understood, and put together by individual believers. The Bible, that is, should be read “alone” in more than one sense: unaccompanied by tradition or by other people. What is tradition, after all, except other people? (Sartre tells the biblicist what other people are.) More to the point, you are not supposed to be relying on or placing your trust in something or someone other than God, and God has said all that needs saying in the Bible. Biblicism isn’t per se anti-church—though it fails mightily in avoiding being anti-authority—but its ecclesiology is individualist at bottom. The Christian is a spiritual Descartes: alone in a room with a Bible, because alone in life with God. God’s relationship to each is immediate, except as mediated by faith, the presence of the Spirit, and the living word of the scriptures.

This is why, in biblicist settings, no doctrine—none whatsoever—is ever safe from challenge. If the biblicist is Descartes in practice, the ideal-type is Luther’s Here I stand, I can do no other. Every Christian and church in history may have taught and believed X, but if someone in the room believes the Bible teaches not-X, then that belief gets a hearing. Not only gets one, but is encouraged to have one. Is encouraged, spiritually and imaginatively, to suppose that Christianity is the sort of thing that an individual believer, thousands of years after the fact, might discover, or re-discover, for the first time. Christianity as such does not preexist me, the Christian. The Bible alone does.

“What the church believes” and “what tradition teaches” and “what Christians have always held” are therefore category errors on such a view. It’s not just that doctrine and tradition are secondary to Scripture. They don’t have a seat at the table. They lack any and all standing, no matter how ancient, venerable, unanimous, or important. This is simply taken for granted by the biblicist. Occasionally, when the premise must be defended, a laundry list of historic errors on the part of the church is trotted out as dispositive proof. It’s half-hearted at best, though. The biblicist premise isn’t primarily negative. It’s positive. It’s rooted in claims about what the Bible is, what it is for, and how it should be read. Those are the foundation of biblicism, not the consequent denials and prohibitions.

The second, contrary view I’ll call catholic. It encompasses far more than the Roman church. It includes also the Orthodox, global Anglicanism, and most magisterial Protestants. For the catholic position, church doctrine is of momentous significance. If X has been believed always, everywhere, and by everyone, then at a minimum X is presumed by the church to be true, and is taught as such. Sometimes X arises to the level of formal irreversibility (being, that is, beyond reform); more often it is functionally irrevocable. Either way, there is a set of teachings that are nonnegotiable for Christian faith. They aren’t up for debate. If you dispute them, you aren’t a Christian; if you accept them, you are a Christian. This is not because the faith is exclusive (though, rightly understood, it is). It is because Christianity preexists you. It isn’t plastic, ever-newly malleable to each generation that arises. If it were, Christianity wouldn’t be anything at all; wouldn’t stand for anything at all; wouldn’t be worth joining in the first place. It’s worth joining because it’s solid, stable, reliable: a something-or-other.

I don’t join the local basketball league hoping to convert it to pickleball. That’s what pickleball leagues are for. Although at least switching from one sport to another would be intelligible. More often, the objection to Christianity’s immutability assumes the only good sports league would be one that changed constantly, randomly, and according to no rhyme or reason. Such an objection does not actually like sports. Or rather, it likes one sport only: Calvinball. And every league should be Calvinball or be shut down. Mutatis mutandis for world religions and Christianity.

I don’t mean to suggest that Christianity, in its actual historical expressions, is unchanging. It’s not. Tradition, if it isn’t dead, is living. Tradition means not only preservation and conservation but adaptation, even mutation. All granted. I merely mean that, on the catholic view, Christianity does not await existence until you or I come along to build it from scratch from the blueprints of the Bible. It’s already there, before I’m born. I join it as it is or I don’t. I don’t get to make it in my image. If I do—that is, if I try—I’m doing it wrong. I’ve failed to understand the very thing I want to become a part of. And I’ve changed it beyond recognition in the process.

The catholic understanding of the Bible isn’t a denial or qualification of the Bible’s authority. On the contrary. There is no Christianity apart from the word of God. But the same Spirit that inspired the scriptures indwells God’s people. God has delegated authority to God’s people. I, the individual believer, do not presume to know—much less to decide—what Christianity is based on my private reading of the Bible. I defer to the church. The church tells me what Christianity is. The church tells me what to believe, because the church gives me the faith once for all delivered to the saints. In a catholic context, “this is what the church teaches” is a statement both (a) intelligible and (b) decisive, even as it is not (c) competitive with “this is what the Bible teaches.” For what the first means is: “this is what the church teaches the Bible teaches.” Who would imagine himself competent to discover what the Bible teaches on his own? What individual believer possesses the wherewithal, the holiness, the wisdom, the hermeneutical chops to sit down with the Bible and, all by her lonesome, figure it out? I’ve not yet met one myself.

This, it seems to me, is the great Christian divide. Not between Catholics and Protestants. Not between conservatives and liberals. Not between Western and global. But between biblicist and catholic. I can do business with catholic Christians, whatever our differences or disagreements. Whereas I increasingly find myself adrift with biblicists. I don’t mean I doubt their faith, their integrity, their commitment to Christ. I mean we find each other unintelligible. Each thinks the other is talking gibberish. It becomes clear that we lack shared first principles. The biblicist’s working premise and mine are opposed, and this make understanding difficult, not to mention collaboration or agreement. We are speaking different languages. And each of us supposes our language to be Christianese. Yet one of us is right and one of us is wrong. I doubt we can get very far without figuring that out. Until then, we’re doing little more than spinning our wheels.

More on post-biblicism biblicism

A few more points in addition to yesterday’s reflection.

1. The odd thing about the post-biblicism biblicism phenomenon is not that there are people in the pews, raised to be Christian, who now find themselves lacking trust either in tradition or in Scripture. That’s a common enough experience today, one we ought to be exquisitely pastorally sensitive toward. No, the oddity is that it’s a phenomenon in people who have devoted their lives to the truth of the gospel, whether in the pulpit or in the classroom. But why would one give one’s life to the study and exposition of the Bible and/or sacred tradition if one believes that neither entity gives one divine truth, the very truth that sets the captives free and imparts eternal life?

2. Lacking a reliable source for divine teaching in either the church’s kanon or the church’s doctrina, where do post-biblicism biblicists go instead? Where do they look for authoritative wisdom and instruction regarding what to believe and how to live? Let’s avoid the ascription of false consciousness. It seems to me the simple truth that they look inward, they look outward, and they look forward. That is, they consult their own intuitive sense of truth and morals; they read books and listen to podcasts from trusted authors and like-minded thinkers; and they project onto the future where the culture (or “history”) is headed, thereby discerning the work of God in their time. Set aside whether this conjunction of sources is a trustworthy repository of truth. Even bracketing that question, one can understand why post-biblicism biblicist church leaders and church planters suffer a predictable twofold sequence. On one hand, there is an initial wave of enthusiasm and interest. On the other, there is a rapid loss of attention, buy-in, and commitment. The reason is obvious. What such persons and their churches are selling is just whatever the wider culture is already offering, only without the trappings of “church” or “organized religion.” Why not get the real thing straight from the source, rather than mediated by these still-attached-to-Jesus oddballs?

3. Perhaps the strangest feature of all that marks PBB (why haven’t I been using initials this entire time?) is a sort of rhetorical reflex. It goes like this. If fellow Christians are talking about X, the PBB is liable to retort, “The Bible doesn’t talk about X.” Now here’s why that is strange. First, often the Bible does talk about X. The PBB in question usually means something like, “What the Bible says about X isn’t so cut and dry, or calls for interpretation.” True enough, but then you should have said that initially.

Second, sometimes the PBB is right that the Bible doesn’t talk about X, but then even more bizarre implications follow. For does the PBB mean that Christians shouldn’t talk about anything the Bible doesn’t talk about? That would be a rather extreme biblicism, even more extreme than the most biblicist biblicist I’ve ever encountered. The bizarreness is amplified, though, because the one thing that unites PBB adherents is that they love to wax dogmatically about issues the Bible doesn’t talk about.

Now, anyone who is not a biblicist agrees that we, that is to say, Christians, must talk about things the Bible does not mention: social media, cloning, CRISPR, extraterrestrial life, nuclear weapons, marijuana, secularism, Kant, comic books, CCM, movies, blogs, the academy, evolution, Wordle—you name it. In fact, one of the principal nudges of former biblicists into a full-hearted embrace of Christian tradition (saints, doctors, martyrs, dogmas, councils, creeds, synods, social encyclicals, and the rest) is that the living church must have a living voice about ten thousand matters the Bible is silent about. So finding occasions and causes to speak about that the Bible doesn’t speak about is the most ordinary, the most Christian, the most intellectually justified thing in the world.

What doesn’t make sense is castigating fellow Christians for doing so while doing so oneself. More, how could it possibly be just to do so as a biblicist while criticizing fellow biblicists? It’s as though post-biblicism biblicists find themselves in rarefied air, from whence they are able to see which subjects unmentioned by the Bible are worth caring and talking about today and which are not. Put more bluntly, PBB affords its members an arbitrary standpoint or tribal identity by which to say who’s Good and who’s Bad, who’s In and who’s Out. And if that’s all it is, then to hell with it.

Biblicism beyond biblicism

There is a strange phenomenon in graduate theological education that I’ve never quite been able to understand. Here’s my best attempt at describing it.

Many—it feels like most—young people who enter graduate education hoping to earn a degree in biblical or theological studies are a biblicist of some kind. By that term I mean a Christian, usually but not always evangelical or low-church, who believes that the only relevant source, norm, and authority in and for the Christian life is the Bible.

Upon learning about both the history of the canon and the history of the church, as well as the history and doctrines of theology, the young scholar in question has a choice to make. Assuming he (we’ll say it’s a he) remains a Christian, that choice concerns three options.

Option #1: To cease being a biblicist by embracing the authority of sacred tradition.

Option #2: To remain a biblicist, with an unmoved and likely redoubled commitment to biblicism as both (a) the proper theological understanding of scriptural authority and (b) the best—i.e., intellectually and academically warranted—historical construal of the role of the canon in the church.

Option #3: To remain a biblicist, with a deeply compromised view of the status of the Bible as (a) God’s word, (b) trustworthy, and (c) authoritative.

Any reader of my work knows where I stand on these questions. Moreover, I am friends with as well as read and profit from writers and teachers in camp #1 and camp #2 alike. Both options are long-standing, venerable positions that with good reason continue to converse, not to mention argue, with one another. I more or less make my living in those conversations and arguments. They are a pleasure to partake in because they concern what matters most and because their participants, on all sides, make good arguments full of interesting and compelling ideas.

What I don’t understand is camp #3.

I have never, not ever, not for the life of me, been able to make heads or tails of “non-biblicist biblicism”—that is to say, a radically nuda scriptura position that recognizes no one and nothing besides the Bible as bearing divine or doctrinal or moral authority in the church, whether from the past (sacred tradition from the apostles to today) or from the present (say, a living teaching office), while simultaneously denying to the canon of Scripture abiding, supreme, or final authority as God’s living word.

To compound the confusion, this “biblicism beyond biblicism” often manifests as a kind of mania or obsessive-compulsive focus on the text, on all its details, its every jot and tittle, yet absent the belief that such minute strokes of the pen are in fact the medium of God’s speech. So that, on one hand, we ought to devote ourselves to understand precisely what this redactor or that author of the canonical text meant to say at the time of its writing; and, on the other hand, once we have arrived at an assured deliverance of just what the text meant in its original context, we need not receive it as bearing divine authority in and for our lives—because the author of the Bible is not God but ancient human beings.

Well. Suppose I don’t want to pick at that particular scab (i.e., “not God but human,” as if we didn’t know humans wrote the Bible until recently, or as if the metaphysics of that presumptuous either/or were self-evident rather than question-begging). Suppose I grant the point as stipulated. Will someone then explain to me why it is we spent all that time drilling down into the fine details of the text only to emerge from our excavation with what we are antecedently confident is not God’s word? What is it we are doing here? And why?

The logical problems are bad enough. But if and when this shows up in church life, it’s game over. For once you’ve cut yourself off from sacred tradition and biblical authority, while ostensibly remaining biblicist (if in name only, or at least merely by reflex or temperament, and thus inconsistently applied), you have untethered yourself from any and all sources from beyond yourself. There is no longer authority extant in the parish or congregation. The pastoral leadership certainly make no claim to authority; tradition by definition holds no authoritative status; and now the Bible itself has had its knees cut out from under it. The old trifecta of canon, creed, and episcopate—Scripture, Tradition, and Holy Orders—is bid adieu, with nothing to stand in its place. The only thing to be done is to drift along aimlessly on the seas of personal, political, and cultural change, to be blown by the Zeitgeist this way and that. Eventually, though, the bottom of the boat is going to fall out. For there’s nothing keeping the ship afloat except the remaining vestiges of the old-time religion, that ballast of our faithful forebears. Once it runs out, we’re sunk.

Evangelical addenda

As soon as I hit “Publish” on the last post, I felt some unease about how it might come across. I re-read it, and let me offer a few further comments, especially before I go read what anybody else makes of it.

1. My remarks there are meant primarily in a descriptive register. I’m trying to get at a dynamic I feel like I constantly observe, whether in person, in conversation, or in written form.

2. In that sense my post is one more mini-entry in a sort of sociology of American evangelicalism. What is going on with this community? is the founding question. Given that I live in Evangelical Land, I have a few thoughts.

3. I’m continually thinking about this question, since my students are mostly evangelicals, and I want to teach them well. Evangelicalism also (obviously) interacts with our politics and culture in significant ways. I’m thinking of this recent essay, as well as this one from a few years back; the latter essay I take to be one of the best and most succinct analyses of evangelicalism in the past few decades.

4. I imagine my rhetoric sounds more critical in tone than I meant it to be. I’m all aboard for educating anyone, not to mention evangelicals, in the faith and doctrines and ethics of historic Christianity. What I was wanting to recommend, though, is twofold. On the one hand, an awareness, on the part of those who belong or half-belong or once belonged to evangelicalism, that letting go of the evangelical hermeneutic just is to let go of a crucial, perhaps a fundamental, piece of what it means to live and move and have one’s being as an evangelical Christian. If that hermeneutic is a sine qua non of evangelical being, then it is worth admitting and accepting that the loss of one is the loss of the other.

5. On the other hand, that doesn’t mean a chasm separates former from current evangelicals. It doesn’t mean conversation is impossible. What it means it that, even more than awareness, what is required is explicit acknowledgement that one’s aims in teaching, writing, and argument are ordered to, or dependent upon, the student, reader, or listener rejecting the evangelical hermeneutic. It entails as well that one’s arguments that do not operate in accordance with that hermeneutic will just to that extent fail, falling on dear ears, at least for dyed-in-the-wool evangelicals; and thus that if one’s arguments are to succeed, even with the goal of persuading one’s audience to reject said hermeneutic, they must operate on its terms.

6. I am not myself an evangelical, though once or twice I’ve been mistaken for one. But because my own ecclesial tradition is currently in process of being absorbed by evangelicalism; because most of my students and neighbors are evangelicals of one sort or another; because I’ve gotten to know some thoughtful evangelicals over the years; because my research focuses on the doctrine and interpretation of Scripture (a hobbyhorse of evangelical scholarship); and because evangelicalism is such a potent force in American culture and politics, I find myself reflecting, even perseverating, on evangelicalism just about every day. Hence these observations.

7. Evangelicalism is undergoing what appears to me an epochal fracturing in our time, before our very eyes. One sees it everywhere. I see it especially in the relationship between church leaders (pastors, professors, writers) and church members, i.e., the rank and file. That relationship is frayed and fraying. It is often a function of class and/or education. Running parallel with those divisions is theology. Over and over I see the theology and ethics of leaders and of members drifting apart. Neither reflects or represents the other. In effect you have two different churches within a single church: the faith and morals of leadership versus the faith and morals of the pews. That is a real problem. In the case of the original post, I was trying to put my finger on the, or at least one, source of that divide. The presence or absence of the evangelical hermeneutic in leadership/membership is one such source, or so it seems to me.* My goal was to draw attention to that. If I didn’t, allow this post to rectify that error.

*A related but distinct problem that I see is not that either party rejects the evangelical hermeneutic, but that each holds to it on paper but in fact adverts to some other hermeneutic (typically, though not always, experiential, political, or cultural in nature) as determinative of theological judgments. If the second essay I linked to above is right, this dynamic follows the trajectory of Protestant liberalism overtaking, eventually, all churches and Christian institutions, however traditional or evangelical they may have begun as or may continue to claim to be. That phenomenon is worth reflecting on further in greater detail some other time.

The problem with evangelicalism

There’s not only one, granted. But this isn’t one of those posts. It’s not a beat-up-on-the-evangelicals manifesto in nine parts. It’s not about evangelicals and politics, or about that popular Christianity Today podcast, or about which marks truly define an evangelical, and whether they ought to be doctrinal or sociological or other.

This is a minor little comment about theology and hermeneutics. Here it is.

Evangelicalism isn’t merely a style (a way of being Christian) or a worldview (a set of beliefs). It’s a hermeneutic. It’s a path from here to there, a map for movement, a manual for drawing conclusions and making judgments about what Christian faith is, what Christian behavior entails, and how to inhabit the world. That manual occasionally takes written form but it usually operates in unwritten circulation, imbibed like mother’s milk from (successful) catechesis in active involvement in evangelical churches.

The substance of that manual may be summarized in a slogan: nuda scriptura. That is:

1. the Bible alone is for Christians the one encompassing and all-purpose practical guide to faith, ethics, politics, and culture;

2. the individual Christian is equipped and encouraged (perhaps required) to use the Bible in order to discover its normative teaching and guidance for him or herself regarding matters of doctrine and morals;

3. in principle no one and nothing—no person (a fellow Christian) or office (a pastor) or institution (a church) or text (past tradition)—is either better equipped or more authoritative with respect to reading the Bible for its normative teaching on doctrine and morals than the living baptized individual adult believer;

4. whatever the Bible does not speak about in clear, direct, and explicit terms is for Christians adiaphora.

Let me remind you again that few evangelical scholars would endorse this hermeneutic as a positive proposal. But it is unquestionably the default setting for numberless evangelical believers, churches, and institutions. And the main point I want to make here is that that is a feature, not a bug. Moreover—and this is the kicker—to cease to believe in and act according to this hermeneutic is in a real sense to cease being evangelical, at least as that term is embodied and enacted in concrete communities and the society at large.

This is why, for example, so many evangelicals who ostensibly remain evangelicals while earning graduate degrees and teaching in institutions of higher education no longer attend the kinds of churches in which they were raised but worship instead in Anglican or similarly liturgical traditions. Their on-the-page beliefs (inerrancy, sola scriptura, virginal conception, bodily resurrection, traditional marriage) remain the same, but the outward devotional and liturgical expression of those beliefs is different, indeed necessarily different, rooted as those external practices are in a crucial hermeneutical transformation.

So far I’m merely offering a description. This isn’t a critique. The title of this post, however, refers to a “problem.” Here’s the problem as I see it.

There are people who were raised evangelical and still claim, or at least do not repudiate, the title. But such people have migrated away from the evangelical hermeneutic in their studies, their experiences, their teaching and writing, and/or their ecclesial home. Nevertheless they still aim to speak to and for, if not on behalf of, evangelicals. They seek to persuade evangelicals to believe this or that, or reject this or that. Having unlearned or let go of the evangelical hermeneutic, though, they no longer speak from and to that hermeneutic; they don’t argue according to its premises; they write by different premises, rooted in a different hermeneutic.

Always—and I do mean always—the result is a failure to communicate (not to mention to persuade). The message is lost in translation. The speaker and listener, the author and reader, simply talk past each other. For they are not speaking the same language. They no longer share enough in common for their disagreements to be intelligible. Instead, their disagreements are an inevitable function of differing first principles, in this case, opposed hermeneutics of Christian faith and theology with respect to Holy Scripture.

Yet rather than this situation being seen as both obvious and unavoidable, the tenor of the constant miscommunication is, on both sides, rancor, distrust, and endless anathemas. I’m not so much concerned right now with the folks on the receiving end, those who still hold to the evangelical hermeneutic. I’m concerned with those who’ve lost or rejected that hermeneutic but who continue to speak to those who hold it.

It should be neither surprising nor frustrating if, should I say, “We as Christians ought to believe X doctrine because Y saint or Z tradition teaches it,” the response from a true-blue evangelical is, “Why should I care what Y or Z say? I don’t see X taught clearly, directly, and explicitly in the Bible.” For you are not seeking to persuade on the terms held by your listener or reader. The latter senses intuitively that what you are really asking him or her is to stop being the sort of evangelical they are, i.e., you are asking them to give up the evangelical hermeneutic. That may be a worthy endeavor—almost everything I’ve written as a scholar is in service to that endeavor—but that is a different task than making an argument by and for and among a certain community, on the terms set and shared by that community, that presupposes that those very terms, which in turn define that community, are wrong on principle. It’s a bait and switch, intended or not.

Furthermore, it’s important to see that you can’t have your cake (evangelical hermeneutic) and eat it too (sacred tradition). There are plenty of traditional doctrines that are plausibly compatible with the evangelical hermeneutic; there are fewer of them that follow, logically and necessarily, therefrom. Take divine simplicity, or the eternal generation of the Son, or the perpetual virginity of Mary, or even the creeds of Nicaea and Constantinople. None of these is incompatible with the plain teaching of Scripture. Can each and every one, in each and all of its details, be generated (1) directly from scriptural exegesis (2) to the exclusion of all other interpretive options (3) in accordance with the evangelical hermeneutic? I’m not so sure.

Which is why evangelicalism is such a rambunctious, fractious collective. It’s built for incessant, indefinite dissent. Someone or someones will always raise an objection, and precisely in accordance with the rules for assent and consent stipulated by the evangelical hermeneutic.

Biblicism is a woolly, ungovernable thing. It has a life of its own, because (among other reasons) it empowers individuals to interpret the text for themselves, with unpredictable results undecided in advance of reading, discussion, and debate.

In my view, for those who would remain in the evangelical family, you have to choose. You can be a biblicist, and stay; or you can stop being a biblicist, and leave. The sharpness of that choice need not be a matter of literal church membership. But theologically speaking, in terms of ideas and writing and how we make arguments and to whom and according to what premises, it seems to me that the choice is indeed just that sharp. It’s one or the other. There is no third way.

Blakely, Singal, and “stories”

I have a new piece in the latest issue of The New Atlantis called “Statistics as Storytelling.” The print journal is in subscribers’ hands; the issue will be online sometime this week, I imagine. (It’s jam-packed full of goodness, by the way: Nicholas Carr, Matthew Crawford, Phil Christman, Ari Schulman, Caitrin Keiper, Addison Del Mastro, and many others.) My piece is a long essay review of Jason Blakely’s book We Built Reality: How Social Science Infiltrated Culture, Politics, and Power. I’ll link to it in a separate post once it’s up.

You might think of the book as forming a kind of pincer movement with Jesse Singal’s book The Quick Fix: Why Fad Psychology Can’t Cure Our Social Ills. Whereas Blakeley’s book is an academic work building on a particular philosophical tradition (Gadamer, Taylor, MacIntyre, et al), Singal’s is a trade book meant for a wide readership. Each chapter is a systematic take-down of the latest fad in “Primeworld,” or the TED Talk–ification of the social sciences, especially psychology.

I mention Singal’s book in the review, but I don’t engage it much more than a sentence or two. I have to say, I wasn’t prepared for just how good The Quick Fix is. Which is a way of saying that I thought the book would partake, at least a wee bit, of the very phenomenon it is criticizing. But it doesn’t. Its depth and breadth of research is impressive. The detail is painstaking. The dismantling is patient, fair, and deserved in every case. Moreover, Singal’s leftist credentials strengthen the book’s persuasive power, simultaneously preventing dismissals of his arguments (“oh, this is just a reactionary/anti-academic screed that doesn’t support progressive values”) and bolstering his counter-proposals (as in, e.g., when he suggests that attending to systems, policies, and institutions will improve the actual lives of people of color, as opposed to pained introspection by well-meaning white liberals).

But there’s one point of discrepancy between Singal and Blakely, and I’m not sure whether it is merely rhetorical or rises to the level of a substantive disagreement. As the title of my review suggests, Blakely interprets social science as a way of making sense of the world through narrative interpretation. But he doesn’t think this is the problem; the problem is that public and popularizing practitioners of social science do not believe this is what they are doing; indeed their cache comes in the dubious supposition that it is precisely not what they are doing, since their art (excuse me, science) is empirical, not humanistic. His argument, then, is not that we need to do away with the social sciences. It’s that they need to be integrated into a larger humanistic approach to the great and never-ending cultural task of interpreting reality through stories. Stories are how human beings make meaning out of the flux of life; they are unavoidable and in fact crucial to even the hardest of hard scientific ways of understanding the world. “Facts” mean nothing apart from context, and for human being that context is ineluctably narrative in shape. What that means is that we need to be aware of what we are doing and, furthermore, we need to develop nuanced and sophisticated ways of depicting reality in complex stories that, for all their subjective character, are nonetheless true.

Compare that account with the following, which comes from pages 277–279 in the Conclusion (titled “Escape from Primeworld”) to The Quick Fix:

As we've seen, there are myriad reasons half-baked behavioral science catches on, and those reasons often have to do with the cultural or institutional context of a given idea—the problem it is attempting to solve, the societal currents it is riding, and so on. As we conclude this book, it's worth taking stock of the more general, less context-specific reasons why bad social science spreads and what the consequences might be, particularly when it comes to Primeworld accounts.

The simplest reasons half-baked ideas tend to prevail is that all else being equal, the human brain has an easier time latching onto simple and monocausal accounts than to complicated and multicausal ones. Such accounts are more likely to be accepted as true and to spread. Our brains are built to be drawn to quick, elegant-seeming answers.

The legendary sociologist Charles Tilly nicely explains this in his account of human storytelling, Why? What Happens When People Give Reasons . . . and Why. He writes, “Stories provide simplified cause-effect accounts of puzzling, unexpected, dramatic, problematic, or exemplary events. Relying on widely available knowledge rather than technical expertise, they help make the world intelligible.” Tilly calls storytelling “one of [the] great social interventions” of the human species, precisely because of its ability to simplify and boil down. But this is the same reason stories can lead us astray. “In our complex world, causes and effects always join in complicated ways,” he writes. “Simultaneous causation, incremental effects, environmental effects, mistakes, unintended consequences, and feedback make physical, biological, and social processes the devil's own work-or the Lord’s—to explain in detail. Stories exclude these inconvenient complications.”

Think of all the stories that have fueled half-baked psychology: “Soldiers can resist PTSD if their resilience is boosted”; “Women can close the workplace gender gap if they feel an enhanced sense of power”; “Poor kids can catch up to their richer peers if they develop more grit.” In emphasizing one particular causal claim about deeply complicated systems and outcomes, these and the other blockbuster hits of contemporary psychology elide tremendous amounts of important detail.

It's likely that just as our brains prefer simple stories, within psychology, too, the professional incentives point toward the development of simpler rather than more complex theories. People who study human nature aren't immune to the siren call of simplicity. In a reply to one of her papers, the psychologist Nina Strohminger criticizes this tendency rather eloquently: “The fetishization of parsimony means that unwieldy theories are often dismissed on these grounds alone. . . No doubt there is something less satisfying about settling for inelegance, but the best theories won't always feel right. Elegance is not a suitable heuristic for veracity.” Scientists often have good reason to prefer parsimony—Occam's razor has its uses—but still: simple-seeming explanations of complex phenomena warrant skepticism.

Of course, simple and elegant and appealing theories are more likely to pay. If you're a psychologist in the twenty-first century, particularly a young one, you face a daunting landscape when it comes to making a name and therefore a career for yourself. Funding is being cut left and right, and the ongoing adjunctification of academia certainly hasn't spared psychology. There's one silver lining, though: the public is more interested in behavioral science than ever before. That's especially true if you can tell a simple, exciting, and above all new story about a subject of great societal concern.

I regret that Singal—and Tilly—use the trope of stories and storytelling for the in itself accurate point they want to make. What they have in view is simplistic or reductive theories of complex phenomena that, because the human mind craves parsimony and the masses love a straightforward tale, gain popularity both in the academy and in intellectual journalism by comparison to the unsexy, the muddled, the multi-factored, the epistemically incomplete explanation. But that has nothing to do with the human propensity for narrative. Tilly’s account is itself a story, perhaps overly reductive: Humans tell stories to cut through the clutter, and this disposition to storytelling explains why fad psychology has such a grip on our collective imagination as a society. But my observing this isn’t a criticism. Every legible sentence and assertion in an argument is unavoidably a kind of compressed story and necessarily, always and everywhere, simplified relative to an exhaustive explanation of the subject in question. Which is just another way of saying it’s human beings doing the thinking and talking. That isn’t an obstacle in the way of our knowledge. It’s how we know anything at all.

In my view, then, Singal’s closing nod to the dangers of “storytelling” is not in material disagreement with Blakeley’s proposal. If the two books form a pincer movement, I would describe their relationship in this way: Blakely’s provides the necessary philosophical framework for a workable theory and practice of science—which is what Singal wants, a reliable habitus of public-facing social sciences like psychology—while Singal’s book shows, in glorious gory detail (through well-told vignettes, by the way!), what Blakely lacks the space to unfold in full: the manifold dysfunctions of scientism in its current dominant ideological form.

Take up and read them both. They make for quite the one-two punch.

Why there's no such thing as non-anachronistic interpretation, and it's a good thing too: reflections occasioned by Wesley Hill's Paul and the Trinity

For some time now I have been convinced that the issue at the root of all conversation and controversy regarding historical criticism and theological interpretation of the Bible is anachronism. I'm hopeful that I'll be able to write an article on the topic in the next year or two; I've touched on the theme in a paragraph or two in a couple of articles already, but it deserves a treatment unto itself. Until then, let me use Wesley Hill's wonderful book Paul and the Trinity: Persons, Relations, and the Pauline Letters as an occasion to discuss what's at play here.

Programmatically: The fundamental hermeneutical first principle of self-consciously historical-critical study of the Bible is that such study must avoid anachronism. Two hermeneutical values underlie or spin off this principle: on the one hand, what makes any reading good is whether it is properly historical; therefore, on the other hand, all reading of the Bible ought to avoid anachronism—or to say the same thing negatively, anachronistic readings of biblical texts are by definition bad.

Enter scholars like Hill: supple interpreters, subtle thinkers, careful writers, sophisticated theologians. What Hill aims to show in his book is that the conceptual resources of trinitarian theology may be used in the reading of biblical texts like Paul's letters as a hermeneutical lens that enables, rather than obstructs, understanding. More to the point, such understanding does not stray from the canons of historical criticism, which is to say, it does not fall prey to anachronism. Thus, his project "plays by the rules" while bringing to bear doctrinal resources otherwise considered anathema by historical critics (both Christian and otherwise).

Consider his language:

"I need to clarify in what ways the grammar of trinitarian theology will and will not be invoked, and to specify the methodological safeguards that will protect my exegesis from devolving into an exercise in imaginative theologizing." (31)

"The methodological danger that lurks here is one that may be described as a certain kind of 'projection'... To avoid this pitfall, I will adopt a twofold approach: First, the readings of Paul I will offer ... will be self-consciously historical readings, guided by the canons of 'critical' modes of exegesis. At no point will a trinitarian conclusion be allowed to 'trump' what Paul's texts may be plausibly shown to have communicated within his own context. Second, trinitarian theologies will be employed as hermeneutical resources and, thus, mined for conceptualities which may better enable a genuinely historical exegesis to articulate what other equally 'historical' approaches may have (unwittingly or not) obscured." (45)

"[Paul's theology's] patterns and dynamics may be newly illumined and realized within new contexts and by means of later conceptualities, which are to some degree 'foreign' to the texts themselves." (46)

"...the use of trinitarian theology in the task of reading Paul in an authentically historical mode..." (46)

"my goal is not to 'find' trinitarian theology 'in' Paul so much as to use the conceptual resources of trinitarian doctrine as hermeneutical aids for reading Paul afresh. [This book addresses the] question of whether those trinitarian resources may actualize certain trajectories from Paul's letters that he would have expressed in a different idiom." (104-105)

"[Recent] studies are rightly concerned to respect the linear unfolding of historical development, rather than anachronistically imposing later theologies back onto Paul's letters. But my thesis ... has been mostly taken up with demonstrating the converse: that trinitarian doctrine may be used retrospectively to shed light on and enable a deeper penetration of the Pauline texts in their own historical milieu, and that it is not necessarily anachronistic to allow later Christian categories to be the lens through which one reads Paul. ... I have tried ... to show that the conceptual categories of 'persons in relation' developed so richly in the fourth century and in the following theological era, may enable those who live with them to live more deeply and fruitfully with the first century apostle himself." (171)

"Is it possible ... that a kind of broad, pluriform trinitarian perspective, far from being an anachronistic imposition on the texts of Paul, may instead prove genuinely insightful in a fresh look at Paul?" (169)

Let me be clear: Hill masterfully demonstrates his thesis. Anyone who knows my theological interests knows that Hill is preaching to the choir. The concepts, categories, and modes of reading developed in the 4th and 5th centuries by the church fathers constitute a hermeneutic nonpareil for faithful interpretation of the Christian Bible, the epistles of Paul included. And Hill shows us why: positively, because that hermeneutic was constructed precisely in response to the kinds of challenge for talk about God, Christ, and Spirit found in Paul's letters and elsewhere; negatively, because contemporary historical critics have not learned the exegetical-theological lessons of trinitarian doctrine, and thus largely replay the terminological debates from the side of opposition to Nicaea (e.g., distinction obviates unity, derivation implies subordination, etc.).

But when I say that Hill demonstrates his thesis, I do not mean that he succeeds in offering a reading that avoids anachronism. He does not. But the fault is not with him. The fault is with the criterion itself. His only fault—and it is a minor one, but an instructive one nonetheless—is to play by the rules set for him by biblical criticism. Because the truth is that avoiding anachronism is impossible. The act of reading is itself irreducibly, unavoidably, essentially anachronistic. In particular, reading any text from the past, indeed a religious text from the ancient past, just is to engage in anachronism.

So the issue is not that Hill's trinitarian hermeneutic for Paul is anachronistic. It's that the non-trinitarian hermeneutics of every one of his peers—Dunn, Hurtado, McGrath, Bauckham, whomever—are equally anachronistic.

Hill gestures toward this fact in his critique of the use of "monotheism" as a category applied to Paul, as well as the language of a vertical axis on which to plot the relative divinity of God and Jesus. But the critique goes all the way down. And this cannot be said forcefully enough, given the depths of historical criticism's rejection of anachronism, both for its own exegesis and that of anyone else, and given the extent of its influence not only over the academy but over the church. In a word:

Historical-critical exegesis is fundamentally, inescapably anachronistic.

What do I mean by this, and on what grounds do I say it?

First, and most basically, because historical criticism is itself a contingent, lately constructed mode of reading not universally found among all communities of reading. Put differently: the attempt to read without anachronism is a parochial idea—created at a certain time and place, and therefore present in some cultures and not others. So that the suggestion that non-anachronistic reading is what it means to read well is self-refuting, if reading was ever a successful practice outside of Western culture in the last few centuries.

Second, because all reading is anachronistic, as I said above. Let's limit that claim to the readings of texts not written in one's own immediate time and place and/or addressed to oneself (i.e., not emails received moments after sending). To read a text outside of its original context and audience means to read that text in a new, different context, by or with a new, different audience—in this case, you, the reader. That means that the language, customs, assumptions, beliefs, practices, background knowledge, relationships, intentions, and so on, that pertained to the original setting of the text are no longer present, or present in the same way, and that you bring to the text entirely different customs, knowledge, experience, etc. To read a text in such a setting invariably changes how the text is read. And however much one tries to mitigate such contextual factors, resistance is futile; indeed, resistance is itself a sign of doing something different—engaging in a different practice, through different means, with a different end—than the original audience in its original context.

Now, third, the objection might arise: Does that mean we simply cannot arrive at historical understanding? Not at all. My point is the opposite: True historical understanding is always anachronistic. Because historical self-understanding, historical consciousness, is itself a historical achievement, a contingent event. The way that we late moderns "think" history is not native to history's actors; "putting ourselves in their shoes," trying to think their thoughts after them, in just the way they thought them, ruthlessly identifying and trying to eliminate any stray intrusions of modern thoughts and even modern applications—that is, strictly speaking, something our forebears did not do. We can do it, we can play the game, but it's a game we're playing (just like chess or basketball, which are real games with real rules we can really play in the present, but which have not always existed, even if analogous games existed in other cultures, past or present); it's not a sort of time machine of the mind. Even that metaphor fails, since the trouble with time machines, as with observation of nature, is that they don't leave the past untouched. The same goes for historical investigation. You bring the future with you.

Fourth, the insight of Gadamer is key here: Historical understanding is a possibility, but lack of anachronism is neither possible nor desirable. That would entail leaping over the history in between the text in question and the present. But that history has, quite literally, made the reading of that text now, in this setting, possible; furthermore, texts bring with them the histories of their reception that have attended them ever since their inception. Those histories not only inform our interpretations in the present, however historically rigorous: they set the conditions for them. To make the claim, "Paul's conception of God and Christ is binitarian," is to locate oneself on a timeline; it is not a claim that was made, because it could not have been made, prior to a certain moment in our history. And, as a claim, it would be no more intelligible to Paul than to Anselm. That is what makes it anachronistic.

Fifth, the most important reason why historical-critical reading is essentially anachronistic is the way that it uses—quite explicitly and without apology—resources outside the text, resources foreign to the text's original audience, as a means of interpreting the text. Examples are obvious: monographs and articles, concepts created long after the text's composition, archeological findings, data regarding life and neighboring cultures prior to and contemporaneous with the text's original setting. Historical-critical exegesis often proposes readings of ancient religious texts (say, Genesis 1) that would have been impossible in the original context, because no one at the time had, or could have had, the kind of comprehensive knowledge about their own time and place that we have since amassed. (It is worth noting that this exegetical procedure is not different in kind than reading Genesis 1 in light of the doctrine of creation ex nihilo, or scientific theories about the origins of the universe.) In a manner of speaking, the best historical-critical interpretations are self-consciously maximalist in just this way: they are so exhaustive in searching out every possible detail, contour, allusion, and influence that such an interpretation in the text's original setting would have been unthinkable—indeed, no such interpretation would have been possible until now, this very moment in time. Undertaken in that sort of self-conscious way, anachronism would be welcomed and readily admitted as the very occasion and goal of historical reading.

Much more could be said; Lord willing, I'll say it in print here in a few years. For now, recall Hill's rhetorical question in the book's conclusion: "Is it possible ... that a kind of broad, pluriform trinitarian perspective, far from being an anachronistic imposition on the texts of Paul, may instead prove genuinely insightful in a fresh look at Paul?" (169). Let me take a lesson from Hill and apply it to his own work: these are not competing claims; it is not an either/or situation. Bringing trinitarian doctrine to bear on the letters of Paul is both anachronistic and richly insightful. Whether or not it is more insightful than non-trinitarian readings, whether or not it does greater justice to the texts considered as a whole and in all their literary-theological diversity, is a separate question, one not governed exclusively by historical concerns. I happen to side with Hill's answer. But even if we were wrong in our judgment, it would not be because our reading was anachronistic. An ostensibly superior reading would be, too.

16 tips for how to read a passage from the Gospels

This semester I am teaching two sections of an entry-level course for freshmen of all majors on the Gospels, focused on the Gospel of Mark. This week I gave them 16 tips on how to read a passage from the Gospels, which I thought I'd share here.

1. Characters

Whom do I meet in this passage? Are they named? Are they central or peripheral? Why are they here? What are they doing? Have I met them before? Will I meet them again?

2. Places

Where does this passage take place? Does it take place in one place or multiple places? Does it tell me where, or leave that unknown? Is the location important to the action? Does the action take place between places? What has happened in this place before, historically or biblically?

3. Concepts

What concepts or ideas are mentioned? Do I know what they mean? Do they have a specific meaning here? Does the author define them for me, assume I know what they mean, or want me to wonder what they mean? Is the concept a new one or one that predates this passage? How can I learn what it means?

4. Action

What happens in this passage? Who does the acting, and to whom does something happen? Is the action good, bad, or something in between? Does nothing seem to happen? Why might there be a passage in which nothing at all seems to happen? How does this small action relate to the larger action of the book as a whole? How does the action affect or change the characters involved?

5. Speech

Who talks? About what? Is there a single person who speaks with authority, or is there some kind of exchange between two or more people? Does one of them, or do both, learn something from the exchange? Is the topic spoken about new, challenging, bold, unique in some way? How do those who hear it respond? Is the speech for them alone or for others, including the reader of this text? How do you know?

6. Problem/solution

Is this passage addressing a problem? Is it identified, or left implicit? Is the problem resolved in some way, or left unresolved? Who resolves it? Do all the characters accept the resolution? How does the proposed resolution affect them? Is the problem limited to the characters in the story, or to potential later headers of the story?

7. Echoes of Scripture

Does the passage interact with the Old Testament in any way? Does it quote it? If so, does it name the book cited? Does it cite a single text or combine multiple texts together? How does the text quoted inform or illuminate what happens in this passage? Is the OT text cited by the characters INSIDE the story, or by the narrator OF the story? To what end or purpose? If the OT is not cited, but alluded to in some way, why? And if it is not alluded to explicitly at all, but the action in the passage is similar to the action of a story in the OT, why might that be? Would the characters in the story have realized the similarities, or are the similarities the result of the way that the author of the passage has crafted it? If the latter, why might the author have done that?

8. Genre

What kind of text is this? Is it a story about something that happened in the past? Is it a parable? a letter? a poem or a song? moral teaching? How should my reading of the passage correspond to the kind of text it is?

9. Tone

How does the passage sound? Is it leisurely? Eloquent? Happy? Angry? Urgent? What about the passage makes it feel or sound that way? What happens in the passage that might help explain its tone?

10. Perspective

Whose perspective is represented in the passage? One of the characters’? Multiple characters’? Does the author presume to know what some or all of the characters are thinking? How could he know? What “angle” or “slant” on the action is the narrator taking, regardless of characters? What does he want you to notice, to see, to hear? What does he therefore ignore as a result? What details has he included intentionally—and what details has he perhaps included unintentionally?

11. Audience

To whom or for whom does this text seem to be written? Can you tell from the passage in question, or from other passages? Based on the presumed audience, how can that help you understand what’s going on in the passage? Are you, at least by extension, part of that audience, or are you an outsider? How does that affect your reading?

12. Purpose

What appears to be the intended purpose or purposes of this passage? Why did the author write it? What would or should result if the right people were to read the passage the right way? What does the author want to happen as a result of this passage having been written and communicated to others?

13. Implications

Whatever the author’s goals or intentions, what are the implications of this passage? What follows from it? In particular, what follows for some central biblical realities: God, Jesus, Holy Spirit, gospel, church, discipleship, faith? If the passage you are reading is true, then what must therefore be true about God, or Jesus, or the gospel, or faith?

14. Then/now

Since this text was written at a different time and place and in a different culture than ours, what meanings might it have had then, separate from its potential meanings now? In turn, what meanings might it have now, regardless of what meanings it might have had then? And how might the meanings then and the meanings now be related?

15. Context, context, context

ALWAYS ask yourself: What are the relevant contexts of this passage? Within the book of which it is a part, what has happened just BEFORE and just AFTER this passage? What happens at the beginning and ending of the book? How does this passage relate to them? Does something very important happen in this passage, or immediately before/after it? What about the context of the Bible—how does this passage relate to other passages in other biblical books? What about historical context—what was happening at the time in which the passage’s story happened, or at the time in which the passage was written? What about cultural context—what aspects of the culture in the time make an appearance in the passage? What about theological context—what theological questions and conversations does this passage interact with? What about church context—how does this passage relate to the life, mission, worship, and ethics of the Christian community? What about moral context—what does this passage suggest about the good, about how human beings are to live in the world? So on and so forth.

16. The study notes are your friend!

Finally, use the notes in your study Bible! Read the introduction to the biblical book you are reading, and read the footnotes at the bottom. And preferably also consult a commentary on the book, at least when you have big questions about any of the above—especially context.

David Bentley Hart on contemporary versus premodern allegorization

"Historians or hermeneuticians frequently assert that what most alienates modern readers from the methods of premodern exegetes is the latter’s passion for allegory. But this is false. If anything, we today are much more culturally predisposed than our forebears to an unremitting allegorization of the tales we tell or books we read, no matter how elaborate or tedious the results. True, we may prefer to discover psychological or social or ­political or sexual narratives 'encoded' in the texts before us, rather than spiritual or metaphysical mysteries; we might find it impossible to believe that a particular reading could be 'inspired' in a more than metaphorical sense; but the principle of the metabolism of the fictions we read into the 'meanings' we can produce is perfectly familiar to us. The same critic who might prissily recoil at the extravagances of a patristic figural reading of the Book of Numbers might feel not the slightest dismay at the transformation of Prospero into an ironic indictment of ­colonialism, or of Horatio Hornblower into an inflexibly erect emblem of the 'phallic signifier.' What makes the spiritual allegories of ancient pagan, Jewish, and Christian exegetes so alarming to modern sensibilities is not that they were allegories but that they were so disconcertingly spiritual."

—David Bentley Hart, "Ad Litteram" (now collected in A Splendid Wickedness and Other Essays, 274-277). This is absolutely correct, and the entire (brief) essay should be required reading for biblical scholars, whether disposed to historical criticism or any other scholarly hermeneutic.