I'm fascinated by emerging research into ethnicity in the ancient world, an area about which many of us have been largely ignorant for some time. Ethnic concerns figured prominently among Greek and Roman writers. You might note an ethnic slur in Titus 1:12: "Cretans are always liars, vicious brutes, lazy gluttons" (NRSV). (Thanks to Wil Gafney for reminding me of this.) Grounded in Greek and Roman studies, ethnicity research is beginning to influence biblical studies as well.
See
• Hall, Jonathan M. Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity (Cambridge 1997).
• Hall, JonathanM. Hellenicity: Between Ethnicity and Culture (Chicago 2002).
• Malkin, Irad (ed.). Ancient Perceptions of Greek Ethnicity (Harvard 2001).
Acts 2 depicts the ethnic diversity represented within Judaism. Not only do Jews gather in Jerusalem from all over the ancient world, they speak a variety of local languages. This leads me to wonder if an ethnic joke of some kind might reside beneath Acts 14:6-19, as some interpreters suppose. Luke occasionally employs stereotypes in the interest of entertainment, as we have seen in the case of Rhoda, or for the sake of moving the story and developing the characters (as with the Athenians in Acts 17). Might something similar be going on with the Lycaonians?
The story has it that Barnabas and Paul so impress the folks in Lystra that they are confused for Zeus and Hermes, respectively. "The gods have come down to us in human form!" Luke presses the point harder. Bringin oxen and garlands, the priest of Zeus prepares to offer sacrifice to the newly appeared deities. Zeus and Hermes -- I mean, Barnabas and Paul -- use the acclaim as an opportunity to proclaim the gospel. Yet only with difficulty do they restrain the crowds from worshiping them. I call it the "Spies Like Us" episode because -- well, if you've seen the old 80s comedy, you know why.
Perhaps Luke is relying on a stereotype, now lost to us, of the Lycaonians as gullible and perhaps superstitious. I've asked some Lukan scholars their opinion on the question, and most of them have suspected such. The problem is, we have no external evidence for such a stereotype. It's simply a matter of intuition.
Right away, however, Jews from Antioch and Iconium (how'd they communicate?) come into Lystra and persuade the crowds to stone Paul, dragging him out of the city in the belief that they have killed him (14:19). (The NIV and NRSV break up the Greek sentence, which links winning over the crowds with stoning; thus my interpretation.) If the Lycaonians so readily perceived deity in Barnabas and Paul, why shouldn't they believe new teachers just as readily?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
Neglected Passage #9: Luke 17:7-10
In the NRSV, Luke 17:7-10 reads,
"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, 'Come here at once and take your place at the table'? Would you not rather say to him, 'Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink'? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, 'We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!'"
This parable is unique to Luke, and one immediately gets the impression it involves the appropriate disposition of disciples regarding obedience. The setting involves a conversation between Jesus and his disciples. The parable maintains that doing what God commands amounts simply to duty; as Arland J. Hultgren puts it, "No one, no matter how virtuous or hardworking, can ever put God in his or her debt." Moreover, a disciple's "duty is never done" (The Parables of Jesus, 251).
That interpretation makes sense to me, but this passage fascinates me for other reasons. It suggests important things about the social setting for the Gospel of Luke, a contested issue among interpreters. And it also participates in the broader early Christian conversation concerning slaves and slavery.
As for Luke's social setting, the question has two dimensions. First, what kinds of people did the author have in mind in composing this Gospel? The second question is closely related: what is Luke's message concerning social status?
Some suggest Luke is the Gospel of the poor, speaking primarily to and on behalf of the downtrodden. The theme of social reversal ("God has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty" [1:51]; "good news to the poor" [4:18]) figures prominently in Luke. Some interpreters suppose Luke is speaking to a prosperous audience, perhaps even a literal person named Theophilus who paid for the Gospel's composition (1:3; Acts 1:1). But many interpreters, including me, believe that Luke intends an audience of mixed composition, but it addresses the more prosperous with a particularly sharp edge.
This parable suggest just such an audience. It presupposes an audience that easily identifies with a slaveowner. This slaveowner may not be quite "rich." If he were, he'd have different slaves working in the field and serving in the home. (This may press the imagery too far.) But this is a person who can relate to the story.
But the parable also has an edge. It calls the audience to imagine themselves as slaves. In the ancient world slave imagery was hardly attractive to elites, who often described slaves in the most demeaning ways imaginable (J. Albert Harrill, Slaves in the New Testament, 17-83). In my view, Luke uses this imagery precisely to promote a revaluation of their identity. In Luke's parables, persons of relatively high status sometimes encounter social crises that undermine their relative privilege (the man rescued by the Samaritan in 10:25-37, the elder brother in 15:11-32, the dishonest manager in 16:1-8, and the rich man in 16:19-31). In Luke faithful elites merit no more standing than anyone else.
A second aspect of the passage compels my attention, its participation in early Christian slave discourse. Jesus' parables are full of slave characters. Paul identifies himself as a "slave of Jesus Christ," and Revelation calls believers to identify as Christ's slaves. Several passages, inside the New Testament and beyond, call slaves to obey their masters. So slave discourse plays a significant role in early Christianity.
In this context we must remember how widespread slavery was in the ancient world. Slaves may have composed up to one-third of the Roman Empire's population, as much as half of the inhabitants of Rome itself. Ancient people knew what slaves were. Free persons largely mocked and despised slaves. And slaves themselves? Unless they were lucky enough to draw a plum assignment, their lives were grim at best, likely to be much shorter and more painful than those of the general population.
Yet the New Testament and other early Christian literature also reveal a liberatory trend regarding slavery. Paul did not write Ephesians, Colossians, 1 Timothy, or Titus -- the books that enjoin slaves to submit. Rather, Paul instructs slaves to make the best of their condition and to "grab" their freedom if they can (1 Cor 7:20-24). Interpreters dispute what's going on with Philemon and Onesimus, but it seems to me that Paul is calling for Onesimus' manumission. (For a totally different reading, see Harrill, 1-16.) In Christ, Paul proclaims the distinction between slaves and free abolished (Gal 3:27-29).
It's not just Paul. In condemning Rome's exploitative commercial practices, Revelation implicitly condemns the slave trade (18:13). Even 1 Timothy 1:9-10 includes slave traders among the "lawless and disobedient." There's even evidence -- very early evidence -- that some Christians worked actively for the freedom of their enslaved colleagues (Ignatius, to Polycarp 4.8-10; possibly Shepherd of Hermas 38.10; 51.8), even to the point of selling themselves into slavery to purchase the freedom of others (1 Clement 55.4-5).
Everything in this post is subject to dispute. Nevertheless, you rarely hear about Luke 17:7-10, even though it opens the path to important and fascinating questions about the Gospel of Luke and the social shape of early Christianity.
Note: In an earlier post I reflected on 1 Thessalonians 1:5 and the role of religious or mystical experience in the spread of early Christians. That passage would otherwise be on the list.
"Who among you would say to your slave who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, 'Come here at once and take your place at the table'? Would you not rather say to him, 'Prepare supper for me, put on your apron and serve me while I eat and drink; later you may eat and drink'? Do you thank the slave for doing what was commanded? So you also, when you have done all that you were ordered to do, say, 'We are worthless slaves; we have done only what we ought to have done!'"
This parable is unique to Luke, and one immediately gets the impression it involves the appropriate disposition of disciples regarding obedience. The setting involves a conversation between Jesus and his disciples. The parable maintains that doing what God commands amounts simply to duty; as Arland J. Hultgren puts it, "No one, no matter how virtuous or hardworking, can ever put God in his or her debt." Moreover, a disciple's "duty is never done" (The Parables of Jesus, 251).
That interpretation makes sense to me, but this passage fascinates me for other reasons. It suggests important things about the social setting for the Gospel of Luke, a contested issue among interpreters. And it also participates in the broader early Christian conversation concerning slaves and slavery.
As for Luke's social setting, the question has two dimensions. First, what kinds of people did the author have in mind in composing this Gospel? The second question is closely related: what is Luke's message concerning social status?
Some suggest Luke is the Gospel of the poor, speaking primarily to and on behalf of the downtrodden. The theme of social reversal ("God has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty" [1:51]; "good news to the poor" [4:18]) figures prominently in Luke. Some interpreters suppose Luke is speaking to a prosperous audience, perhaps even a literal person named Theophilus who paid for the Gospel's composition (1:3; Acts 1:1). But many interpreters, including me, believe that Luke intends an audience of mixed composition, but it addresses the more prosperous with a particularly sharp edge.
This parable suggest just such an audience. It presupposes an audience that easily identifies with a slaveowner. This slaveowner may not be quite "rich." If he were, he'd have different slaves working in the field and serving in the home. (This may press the imagery too far.) But this is a person who can relate to the story.
But the parable also has an edge. It calls the audience to imagine themselves as slaves. In the ancient world slave imagery was hardly attractive to elites, who often described slaves in the most demeaning ways imaginable (J. Albert Harrill, Slaves in the New Testament, 17-83). In my view, Luke uses this imagery precisely to promote a revaluation of their identity. In Luke's parables, persons of relatively high status sometimes encounter social crises that undermine their relative privilege (the man rescued by the Samaritan in 10:25-37, the elder brother in 15:11-32, the dishonest manager in 16:1-8, and the rich man in 16:19-31). In Luke faithful elites merit no more standing than anyone else.
A second aspect of the passage compels my attention, its participation in early Christian slave discourse. Jesus' parables are full of slave characters. Paul identifies himself as a "slave of Jesus Christ," and Revelation calls believers to identify as Christ's slaves. Several passages, inside the New Testament and beyond, call slaves to obey their masters. So slave discourse plays a significant role in early Christianity.
In this context we must remember how widespread slavery was in the ancient world. Slaves may have composed up to one-third of the Roman Empire's population, as much as half of the inhabitants of Rome itself. Ancient people knew what slaves were. Free persons largely mocked and despised slaves. And slaves themselves? Unless they were lucky enough to draw a plum assignment, their lives were grim at best, likely to be much shorter and more painful than those of the general population.
Yet the New Testament and other early Christian literature also reveal a liberatory trend regarding slavery. Paul did not write Ephesians, Colossians, 1 Timothy, or Titus -- the books that enjoin slaves to submit. Rather, Paul instructs slaves to make the best of their condition and to "grab" their freedom if they can (1 Cor 7:20-24). Interpreters dispute what's going on with Philemon and Onesimus, but it seems to me that Paul is calling for Onesimus' manumission. (For a totally different reading, see Harrill, 1-16.) In Christ, Paul proclaims the distinction between slaves and free abolished (Gal 3:27-29).
It's not just Paul. In condemning Rome's exploitative commercial practices, Revelation implicitly condemns the slave trade (18:13). Even 1 Timothy 1:9-10 includes slave traders among the "lawless and disobedient." There's even evidence -- very early evidence -- that some Christians worked actively for the freedom of their enslaved colleagues (Ignatius, to Polycarp 4.8-10; possibly Shepherd of Hermas 38.10; 51.8), even to the point of selling themselves into slavery to purchase the freedom of others (1 Clement 55.4-5).
Everything in this post is subject to dispute. Nevertheless, you rarely hear about Luke 17:7-10, even though it opens the path to important and fascinating questions about the Gospel of Luke and the social shape of early Christianity.
Note: In an earlier post I reflected on 1 Thessalonians 1:5 and the role of religious or mystical experience in the spread of early Christians. That passage would otherwise be on the list.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
New Series: Ten Relatively Obscure Passages #10
Over the coming weeks I'll be developing a series on ten relatively obscure passages in the New Testament. For example, recently I composed an entry on passage #10, the story of Rhoda.
Some of these passages may be well known among scholars, but you don't hear much about them in church. For example, Revelation 5:1-13 is critical for how we might interpret Revelation, but (a) it's in Revelation, for crying out loud, and (b) the only sermon I've ever heard on that passage was preached by, well, me.
Others are "throwaway" passages that don't carry much obvious theological freight but reveal a great deal about early Christianity. Jude 8-9, 14-15 will enter few Sunday School curricula, but these verses have big implications for our conversation about how to interpret scripture.
Still others are passages one easily reads right by but, once they arrest our attention, possess the capacity to inspire us or lead us to deeper reflection. Romans 15:30-32, Paul's prayer for deliverance in Jerusalem and a safe journey to Rome, stands among these.
I've got a list of ten, but I welcome you to suggest your own. That includes the opportunity for guest posts.
Some of these passages may be well known among scholars, but you don't hear much about them in church. For example, Revelation 5:1-13 is critical for how we might interpret Revelation, but (a) it's in Revelation, for crying out loud, and (b) the only sermon I've ever heard on that passage was preached by, well, me.
Others are "throwaway" passages that don't carry much obvious theological freight but reveal a great deal about early Christianity. Jude 8-9, 14-15 will enter few Sunday School curricula, but these verses have big implications for our conversation about how to interpret scripture.
Still others are passages one easily reads right by but, once they arrest our attention, possess the capacity to inspire us or lead us to deeper reflection. Romans 15:30-32, Paul's prayer for deliverance in Jerusalem and a safe journey to Rome, stands among these.
I've got a list of ten, but I welcome you to suggest your own. That includes the opportunity for guest posts.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Continuing the Conversation: Why Read the Bible at All?
Continuing the conversation about theological interpretation, Christopher Spinks commented on my most recent entry, "toward what end(s) are these people of faith engaging scripture?" and "why do they feel the need to engage this particular set of texts and not another?" Two different questions, but good ones.
Oddly enough, I'm speaking on this very topic Monday night in Lancaster's Theology on Tap series at Annie Bailey's pub. Some quick thoughts, beginning with the second question, why this Bible?
My basic reply is pragmatic. We turn to the Bible because it is our book. When I read David Tracy's The Analogical Imagination, gosh, 15 years ago, I didn't like his concept of the Bible as a "classic." I wanted to be able to say that something inheres in the Bible that makes it special. However, I can't find a meaningful way to articulate that. (More on that below.) So I return to a more pragmatic understanding.
The Bible is our book because we continue to practice the reading and interpretation of it. We continue to invite scripture to shape our imaginations and conversations. But we do not -- and have never -- given the Bible the final or only word. One might add something else, but this claim has some problems: The Bible provides our primary witness to the story of God and our people. That's sort of true, but spelling out the qualifications would take more time than I can give. Anyway, this understanding of the Bible as our book implies some responses to the first question, "to what end" we read it.
I would argue that this pragmatic understanding is grounded in history. We got the Bible because people went to great pains to copy it. As Jewish and Christian literature multiplied, we find Christian leaders saying, "Here's what we'll read in church (and not the other stuff)." That's essentially what Luther is doing in translating the Bible. He includes James and Hebrews, but he notes his major problems with both. On James, he describes the problem in precisely a pragmatic vein: It's okay to read it, even if Luther could do without it. In other words, we do in fact read the Bible because our ancestors have read it.
I also made a negative claim, that I can't make sense of saying meaning, inspiration, or authority inheres to the Bible. What about that?
I don't doubt the storyline, but let's think about that critically. What drives someone to open the Bible? There's already a context of a faith community that has somehow implanted the thought that the Bible might contain answers. If they open the drawer to find a Dear Abby anthology, or even the Gita or the Qu'ran, the story would work differently, yes? And what about that Bible? Are we to think they just randomly open to, say, Hosea and the love of God broke through to them? Mark? But wait a minute. Gideon Bibles always come with packaging. There's a guide to how to read the Bible there, complete with recommended verses (and page numbers? I'm not sure). In other words, we don't have the Bible speaking on its own to a lone individual; we have communities of faith and conventions of interpretation surrounding this event. That's how the Bible comes to life.
One final thought. The things I'm saying are not the result of modernist historical criticism, nor of postmodern linguistics. I'm a product of both, of course. However, these concerns go at least as far back as Augustine and Origen. Early Christians knew the Bible was messy; for that matter, neither Augustine nor Origen had a fixed canon that matches ours. That is why they developed principles of interpretation to guide communities in their reading of scripture, including allegorical exegesis and the law of love. Scripture comes to life when we read it in the context of walking the path of faith along with our brothers and sisters.
Oddly enough, I'm speaking on this very topic Monday night in Lancaster's Theology on Tap series at Annie Bailey's pub. Some quick thoughts, beginning with the second question, why this Bible?
My basic reply is pragmatic. We turn to the Bible because it is our book. When I read David Tracy's The Analogical Imagination, gosh, 15 years ago, I didn't like his concept of the Bible as a "classic." I wanted to be able to say that something inheres in the Bible that makes it special. However, I can't find a meaningful way to articulate that. (More on that below.) So I return to a more pragmatic understanding.
The Bible is our book because we continue to practice the reading and interpretation of it. We continue to invite scripture to shape our imaginations and conversations. But we do not -- and have never -- given the Bible the final or only word. One might add something else, but this claim has some problems: The Bible provides our primary witness to the story of God and our people. That's sort of true, but spelling out the qualifications would take more time than I can give. Anyway, this understanding of the Bible as our book implies some responses to the first question, "to what end" we read it.
- We read it because it connects us with the church through the ages and around the world.
- We read it in search of the transforming power of God, because the church frequently testifies to the power of God at work on our reading of scripture.
- We read it to find inspiration, transformation, challenge, and comfort.
- We read it to shape our imaginations and our questions -- that is, to shape us.
I would argue that this pragmatic understanding is grounded in history. We got the Bible because people went to great pains to copy it. As Jewish and Christian literature multiplied, we find Christian leaders saying, "Here's what we'll read in church (and not the other stuff)." That's essentially what Luther is doing in translating the Bible. He includes James and Hebrews, but he notes his major problems with both. On James, he describes the problem in precisely a pragmatic vein: It's okay to read it, even if Luther could do without it. In other words, we do in fact read the Bible because our ancestors have read it.
I also made a negative claim, that I can't make sense of saying meaning, inspiration, or authority inheres to the Bible. What about that?
- The church, ecumenically considered, does not have a single Bible. For most NT authors, the Bible was Greek versions of Jewish scriptures, not the Old Testament we have today. For the author of Jude, the Bible included the Book of Enoch. For the Ethiopic church, Enoch remains in the canon. What Bible are we talking about, and how do we defend the definition? (Quick footnote: Of course we Protestants read scripture in the context of the whole. I'm simply saying that whole isn't "natural" or inherent.)
- To ascribe inherent value to the Bible implies something about the status of biblical books in relation to other books. I have no desire to change the canon of my church. However, I defy anyone to explain how the epistle of Jude offers more wisdom than, say, 4 Ezra.
- Many, many persons have lived exemplary Christian lives without ever reading the Bible -- or hearing it in any level of detail. Obviously, the Bible is a huge part of the context, but the authority for their Christian lives did not reside in the Bible.
- I avoid attributing properties to the Bible because believing the "right things" about the Bible has never guaranteed healthy interpretation. In fact, I'm not sure there's any evidence that such belief would foster healthy interpretation.
- The main reason I don't believe authority inheres in the Bible is spelled out in my recent entries. The Bible doesn't speak with a unified voice, nor can we assume that taking the Bible as a whole will result in a coherent voice. If we're honest about the Bible, we know that there are dimensions of it (notice, I didn't say "parts") that we privilege and others that we don't. (This is not to say that we have any business skipping by dimensions of scripture -- or parts of it, for that matter. I'm committed to engaging the whole of scripture.) Such decisions are not -- and cannot -- be traced to some inherent pattern we find in the Bible. They are instead the product of communal discernment, usually informal discernment, over a long period of time.
I don't doubt the storyline, but let's think about that critically. What drives someone to open the Bible? There's already a context of a faith community that has somehow implanted the thought that the Bible might contain answers. If they open the drawer to find a Dear Abby anthology, or even the Gita or the Qu'ran, the story would work differently, yes? And what about that Bible? Are we to think they just randomly open to, say, Hosea and the love of God broke through to them? Mark? But wait a minute. Gideon Bibles always come with packaging. There's a guide to how to read the Bible there, complete with recommended verses (and page numbers? I'm not sure). In other words, we don't have the Bible speaking on its own to a lone individual; we have communities of faith and conventions of interpretation surrounding this event. That's how the Bible comes to life.
One final thought. The things I'm saying are not the result of modernist historical criticism, nor of postmodern linguistics. I'm a product of both, of course. However, these concerns go at least as far back as Augustine and Origen. Early Christians knew the Bible was messy; for that matter, neither Augustine nor Origen had a fixed canon that matches ours. That is why they developed principles of interpretation to guide communities in their reading of scripture, including allegorical exegesis and the law of love. Scripture comes to life when we read it in the context of walking the path of faith along with our brothers and sisters.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
More on Theological Interpretation
Christopher Spinks has been kind enough to respond to the blog post on "Theological Interpretation of Scripture." Replying to another blogger, Seth Heringer, Christopher rightly denies that theological interpretation is an academic discipline and that professional biblical scholars should rule the day in biblical interpretation.
Christopher then turns to my blog, where I wrote, "I’m not convinced the [theological interpretation] movement has fully faced the complications implied in the questions it is asking," and he asks what questions do I have in mind. Well, a few -- if he'll indulge me in a few generalizations. I'm not active in the movement, and I don't know the range of works he does. I'll really stick with one question, answered in multiple ways in the theological interpretation movement. These answers stand in complementary, not competitive, relationship to one another.
The question: "What kind of book is the Bible?"
Several folks in the movement recommend we should read scripture primarily as story. While I'm sympathetic to that point of view, strongly so, this model opens the path for all sorts of questions. Scot McKnight, for example, tells us what the story is in The Blue Parkeet. But surely the Bible resists such reduction and essentializing. The Bible tells many stories, woven into and against one another. While I'm willing to talk about how all the stories relate to a big story, I would insist that we'll never arrive at consensus on what that one story is. Well, creation and redemption, perhaps. But that's not the whole of scripture by any means. So the question, "What kind of book is the Bible?" opens the way to lots of questions, not a single answer.
Another item. Christopher refers to the Bible as "divine discourse." I have to admit, I have no earthly idea what that means. Does it mean God is the ultimate source of the Bible? God is the ultimate source of everything. Does it mean God spoke directly through the authors? Well, I don't buy that. What does it mean? May I suggest that this answer to the "What kind of book" question tends to locate the Bible's significance in the past?
I'm fully aware that's not what Christopher means. He clearly believes God continues to speak through scripture. But would it not be better not to link the "divine" bit to the text but to the process to which the church testifies down the ages? Isn't "Bible" here shorthand for something wonderful that happens when people read the Bible? And if that's what it means, what about the awful things that also happen when people read the Bible? More questions from the one question.
Finally, several theological interpretation authors claim that God is the Bible's subject matter. Another essentialist reduction of the question, "What kind of book is the Bible?" Again, are we talking about the text of the Bible, its authors, or our tradition and practice of reading it? If we mean either of the first two, the claim that the Bible is "about" God falls flat in front of the evidence. Often it is about God; often it's about politics, ethnicity, sex, and so forth. We might step back and say the Bible situates all those things in the context of God, but one might as easily reply that the Bible also appeals to God as a pretext for some of those conversations. And if we mean that God is the subject of our reading of the Bible -- that is, that we read the Bible in search for God -- then, no, I don't accept that. I dearly expect to encounter God in the practice of reading scripture. But that's not the only question I have. It's not helpful to prescribe reading in that way.
The gist of my overall reply is to say this. Our generalizations about the Bible emerge from our desire to find some essential essence for the Bible. I often share that desire; sometimes I don't. Therefore, I resist any attempt to define the Bible's essence in the process of defining theological interpretation. I prefer a more open, more pragmatic, approach, as spelled out earlier: theological interpretation of the Bible happens when people of faith engage scripture in the praxis of living the life of faith and in the context of the broader historical and global church.
And I fully apologize for referring to Christopher by the surname Sparks.
Christopher then turns to my blog, where I wrote, "I’m not convinced the [theological interpretation] movement has fully faced the complications implied in the questions it is asking," and he asks what questions do I have in mind. Well, a few -- if he'll indulge me in a few generalizations. I'm not active in the movement, and I don't know the range of works he does. I'll really stick with one question, answered in multiple ways in the theological interpretation movement. These answers stand in complementary, not competitive, relationship to one another.
The question: "What kind of book is the Bible?"
Several folks in the movement recommend we should read scripture primarily as story. While I'm sympathetic to that point of view, strongly so, this model opens the path for all sorts of questions. Scot McKnight, for example, tells us what the story is in The Blue Parkeet. But surely the Bible resists such reduction and essentializing. The Bible tells many stories, woven into and against one another. While I'm willing to talk about how all the stories relate to a big story, I would insist that we'll never arrive at consensus on what that one story is. Well, creation and redemption, perhaps. But that's not the whole of scripture by any means. So the question, "What kind of book is the Bible?" opens the way to lots of questions, not a single answer.
Another item. Christopher refers to the Bible as "divine discourse." I have to admit, I have no earthly idea what that means. Does it mean God is the ultimate source of the Bible? God is the ultimate source of everything. Does it mean God spoke directly through the authors? Well, I don't buy that. What does it mean? May I suggest that this answer to the "What kind of book" question tends to locate the Bible's significance in the past?
I'm fully aware that's not what Christopher means. He clearly believes God continues to speak through scripture. But would it not be better not to link the "divine" bit to the text but to the process to which the church testifies down the ages? Isn't "Bible" here shorthand for something wonderful that happens when people read the Bible? And if that's what it means, what about the awful things that also happen when people read the Bible? More questions from the one question.
Finally, several theological interpretation authors claim that God is the Bible's subject matter. Another essentialist reduction of the question, "What kind of book is the Bible?" Again, are we talking about the text of the Bible, its authors, or our tradition and practice of reading it? If we mean either of the first two, the claim that the Bible is "about" God falls flat in front of the evidence. Often it is about God; often it's about politics, ethnicity, sex, and so forth. We might step back and say the Bible situates all those things in the context of God, but one might as easily reply that the Bible also appeals to God as a pretext for some of those conversations. And if we mean that God is the subject of our reading of the Bible -- that is, that we read the Bible in search for God -- then, no, I don't accept that. I dearly expect to encounter God in the practice of reading scripture. But that's not the only question I have. It's not helpful to prescribe reading in that way.
The gist of my overall reply is to say this. Our generalizations about the Bible emerge from our desire to find some essential essence for the Bible. I often share that desire; sometimes I don't. Therefore, I resist any attempt to define the Bible's essence in the process of defining theological interpretation. I prefer a more open, more pragmatic, approach, as spelled out earlier: theological interpretation of the Bible happens when people of faith engage scripture in the praxis of living the life of faith and in the context of the broader historical and global church.
And I fully apologize for referring to Christopher by the surname Sparks.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
"Theological Interpretation of Scripture"
Last week I posted concerning the emerging evangelical conversation about the Bible. In a conversation on another venue, an esteemed friend mentioned an influential movement with which I have only entry-level familiarity. It goes under the label, "Theological Interpretation of Scripture." This conversation has succeeded in doing some of the things I'm hoping to do in reaching out to evangelicals on this blog. ("Come on in. The water's fine.") That is, it's brought mainline and evangelical interpreters into constructive conversation with one another.
The "Theological Interpretation" movement isn't monolithic; on the other hand, as an outsider I do identify key figures, standard works, and perhaps some common commitments. (See Christopher Spinks' essay, which offers beginning bibliography.) At the same time, I'm not convinced the movement has fully faced the complications implied in the questions it is asking. Consider two standard formulations for "theological interpretation."
The second quotes, those two theses, I cannot embrace. They concern the kinds of conclusions theological interpretation may advocate. I'm sure there's a philosophical sense in which one could make those two theses seem meaningful, but let's be real. On an ordinary reading, those theses rule out the possibility that the Bible itself might present problems to us. Sometimes the God of the Bible saves through genocide, and Luke himself tells us he was trying to improve on earlier Jesus stories -- like, say, Mark (Luke 1:1-4). I cannot discern how these theses help us sort through God's command to slaughter the Amalekites and their cattle or how to respond to the diverse testimony of the four Gospels.
I mentioned engaging this conversation in another venue. In response to Sparks' essay, referenced above, I wrote, "Whatever generalizations we make regarding the Bible as scripture must stand up to reading the Bible as a whole and in its particulars, I think." Those particulars included things like genocide as a model of divine deliverance and the legitimation of slavery.
One colleague, to whose work I refer frequently, suggested that perhaps I was stuck in the archaic pattern that moves too quickly from "interpretation" to "application." According to him, "theological interpretation" has moved beyond that pattern. Another participant mentioned the essay on slavery in the Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. There William J. Webb finds a "redemptive movement" in biblical discussions of slavery. Apparently, the biblical texts are relatively progressive in their own contexts. The biblical witnesses were not "redemptive in any absolute sense" but rather set a "clear direction" that would have served the church well in its later slavery debates.
This is inadequate. On a spectrum of ancient opinion, yes, the Bible comes off well to the progressive end on slavery. Others, including some pagans and some second century Christians, held even more egalitarian views. But that's beside the point. A good healthy dose of historical analysis shows that the Bible itself speaks with diverse voices on the question. Paul may well have opposed slavery with all the power available to him (I don't have space here to spell out that argument), but people writing in Paul's name aggressively tamed Paul's liberatory push. Thus, Ephesians, Colossians, and 1 Timothy put slaves back in their (relatively less abusive) places. How, I ask, does Webb's discussion, which ignores the standard issue of authorship and diversity within Scripture, help us negotiate such diversity?
I believe I have offered a different model for theological engagement of the slavery question, one that does not "jump" from interpretation to application, in Sinners. There I engage 1 Peter, which exhorts slaves to endure abuse. Historical and rhetorical analysis come into play here, as I argue that the structure of 1 Peter surrounds socially conservative social teachings with concern regarding persecution. I do not draw a conclusion on the matter, but I suggest that 1 Peter raises significant questions for contemporary disciples. In a context marked by alienation and persecution, I suggest, 1 Peter offers its audience two ways of relating to the world. On the one hand, they are a holy nation, a royal priesthood, called to distinctive discipleship in a hostile world. On the other hand, they are to avoid persecution by living within standard social norms. All Christian communities face this challenge of balancing distinctiveness with cultural "respectability." This is merely a suggestion, but it models what I believe theological interpretation should be about, bringing the life of faith into conversation with scripture (141-44). That can be a messy process.
Joel B. Green's recent book Seized by Truth: Reading the Bible as Scripture, suggests that terms like "infallibility" and "inerrancy" have not served the church [originally, "evangelicals"] well. They reduce scripture to propositions, but they do not guarantee the kinds of interpretations that represent faithful engagement (146-48). Proper reading of scripture, Green argues, takes form in lives shaped by the Bible rather than in rigidly "correct" conclusions regarding it (see also his argument from Luke and Acts, pp. 42-50). But like McKnight and Dunn, Green entirely avoids the Bible's "problem" dimensions. Thus, I'm not convinced that what he says about the Bible in general will bear the weight of the Bible's particulars.
This is why I'm reaching out to my evangelical sisters and brothers. Let's not generalize about the Bible and its subject matter, thus boxing us in to those dimensions of scripture that fit the model. Instead, let's commit to read the Bible with curiosity, passion, and faith -- the whole Bible -- trusting the Spirit and the community of faith to guide us through.
The "Theological Interpretation" movement isn't monolithic; on the other hand, as an outsider I do identify key figures, standard works, and perhaps some common commitments. (See Christopher Spinks' essay, which offers beginning bibliography.) At the same time, I'm not convinced the movement has fully faced the complications implied in the questions it is asking. Consider two standard formulations for "theological interpretation."
- Kevin J. Vanhoozer: "The theological interpretation of the Bible is characterized by a governing interest in God, the word and works of God, and by a governing intention to engage in what we might call 'theological criticism.'" ("Introduction," Dictionary for Theological Interpretation of the Bible [ed. Vanhoozer, et al., 22)
- The Scripture Project enumerates nine theses on interpretation, which include, "Scripture truthfully tells the story of God's action of creating, judging, and saving the world," and "The four canonical Gospels narrate the truth about Jesus." (Ellen F. Davis, and Richard B. Hays, eds., The Art of Reading Scripture, 1, 3)
The second quotes, those two theses, I cannot embrace. They concern the kinds of conclusions theological interpretation may advocate. I'm sure there's a philosophical sense in which one could make those two theses seem meaningful, but let's be real. On an ordinary reading, those theses rule out the possibility that the Bible itself might present problems to us. Sometimes the God of the Bible saves through genocide, and Luke himself tells us he was trying to improve on earlier Jesus stories -- like, say, Mark (Luke 1:1-4). I cannot discern how these theses help us sort through God's command to slaughter the Amalekites and their cattle or how to respond to the diverse testimony of the four Gospels.
I mentioned engaging this conversation in another venue. In response to Sparks' essay, referenced above, I wrote, "Whatever generalizations we make regarding the Bible as scripture must stand up to reading the Bible as a whole and in its particulars, I think." Those particulars included things like genocide as a model of divine deliverance and the legitimation of slavery.
One colleague, to whose work I refer frequently, suggested that perhaps I was stuck in the archaic pattern that moves too quickly from "interpretation" to "application." According to him, "theological interpretation" has moved beyond that pattern. Another participant mentioned the essay on slavery in the Dictionary of Theological Interpretation of the Bible. There William J. Webb finds a "redemptive movement" in biblical discussions of slavery. Apparently, the biblical texts are relatively progressive in their own contexts. The biblical witnesses were not "redemptive in any absolute sense" but rather set a "clear direction" that would have served the church well in its later slavery debates.
This is inadequate. On a spectrum of ancient opinion, yes, the Bible comes off well to the progressive end on slavery. Others, including some pagans and some second century Christians, held even more egalitarian views. But that's beside the point. A good healthy dose of historical analysis shows that the Bible itself speaks with diverse voices on the question. Paul may well have opposed slavery with all the power available to him (I don't have space here to spell out that argument), but people writing in Paul's name aggressively tamed Paul's liberatory push. Thus, Ephesians, Colossians, and 1 Timothy put slaves back in their (relatively less abusive) places. How, I ask, does Webb's discussion, which ignores the standard issue of authorship and diversity within Scripture, help us negotiate such diversity?
I believe I have offered a different model for theological engagement of the slavery question, one that does not "jump" from interpretation to application, in Sinners. There I engage 1 Peter, which exhorts slaves to endure abuse. Historical and rhetorical analysis come into play here, as I argue that the structure of 1 Peter surrounds socially conservative social teachings with concern regarding persecution. I do not draw a conclusion on the matter, but I suggest that 1 Peter raises significant questions for contemporary disciples. In a context marked by alienation and persecution, I suggest, 1 Peter offers its audience two ways of relating to the world. On the one hand, they are a holy nation, a royal priesthood, called to distinctive discipleship in a hostile world. On the other hand, they are to avoid persecution by living within standard social norms. All Christian communities face this challenge of balancing distinctiveness with cultural "respectability." This is merely a suggestion, but it models what I believe theological interpretation should be about, bringing the life of faith into conversation with scripture (141-44). That can be a messy process.
Joel B. Green's recent book Seized by Truth: Reading the Bible as Scripture, suggests that terms like "infallibility" and "inerrancy" have not served the church [originally, "evangelicals"] well. They reduce scripture to propositions, but they do not guarantee the kinds of interpretations that represent faithful engagement (146-48). Proper reading of scripture, Green argues, takes form in lives shaped by the Bible rather than in rigidly "correct" conclusions regarding it (see also his argument from Luke and Acts, pp. 42-50). But like McKnight and Dunn, Green entirely avoids the Bible's "problem" dimensions. Thus, I'm not convinced that what he says about the Bible in general will bear the weight of the Bible's particulars.
This is why I'm reaching out to my evangelical sisters and brothers. Let's not generalize about the Bible and its subject matter, thus boxing us in to those dimensions of scripture that fit the model. Instead, let's commit to read the Bible with curiosity, passion, and faith -- the whole Bible -- trusting the Spirit and the community of faith to guide us through.
Monday, May 25, 2009
SBL Forum: generalist or specialist?
A recent article by Michael Bird and Craig Keener in the SBL Forum is garnering lots of positive attention in the blog world. Bird and Keener, both accomplished scholars, are making the case for generalists who range widely in the field. Generalists, they say, (1) are necessary for translating scholarship to popular audiences, (2) tend to promote interdisciplinary research, (3) help us overcome disciplinary myopia, (4) make for better classroom teachers, and (5) tend to be the scholars who most influence the field in the long run.
(I note that all their examples of great and influential scholars are European or European American men.)
Obviously, I'm a generalist. I'm the only NT professor in a theological seminary, so I have to be informed about the entire canon. I need to stay in healthy conversation with my colleagues, especially in Hebrew Bible, theology, and history -- not to mention with the ongoing life of religious communities. My research tends to come out in essays and in books like Sinners, which is clearly the work of a generalist. I agree with all the points Bird and Keener offer.
However, there's a part of me that greatly admires the specialists. They dig deeply into specific fields of inquiry, demonstrate patience and discipline, and drive the field forward. They're the only people who keep up with the whole range of literature in a specific subfield. My personality isn't well suited to specialist work, and my employment context isn't either, but we shouldn't downplay the value and quality of that calling.
(I note that all their examples of great and influential scholars are European or European American men.)
Obviously, I'm a generalist. I'm the only NT professor in a theological seminary, so I have to be informed about the entire canon. I need to stay in healthy conversation with my colleagues, especially in Hebrew Bible, theology, and history -- not to mention with the ongoing life of religious communities. My research tends to come out in essays and in books like Sinners, which is clearly the work of a generalist. I agree with all the points Bird and Keener offer.
However, there's a part of me that greatly admires the specialists. They dig deeply into specific fields of inquiry, demonstrate patience and discipline, and drive the field forward. They're the only people who keep up with the whole range of literature in a specific subfield. My personality isn't well suited to specialist work, and my employment context isn't either, but we shouldn't downplay the value and quality of that calling.
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