Almost twenty years ago, I found myself in a quiet discussion (perhaps I should say “debate”) over aspect theory. I was arguing that, whatever its weaknesses, aspect theory enjoys stronger explanatory power than the regnant model, which in effect understands Greek verbs in the indicative to grammaticalize time, and Greek verbs in the other moods to grammaticalize Aktionsart. My interlocutor, well trained as a classical scholar as well as being an expert in the Greek New Testament, took the contrary position. We tossed examples back and forth, until he brought the discussion to a close by asserting, rather dismissively, that I was welcome to defend theories that had enjoyed only a few decades of life; he would prefer to stick with the understanding of the Greek verb that had enjoyed three millennia of life.
Two things were immediately obvious: he had read little in linguistics, and, fine scholar though he was, he knew little of the history of the study of the Greek verb. The grammarian Dionysius Thrax (second century BC) did not understand the Greek verb the same way that, say, Erasmus did. Erasmus, not to mention the Reformers, did not anticipate the rise of Aktionsart theory in the nineteenth century — so sweeping a development that for almost a century and a half one would be hard-pressed to find a bona fide Greek scholar who had not bought into such theory. Certainly Aktionsart theory had greater explanatory power than what it displaced. In other words, there had been some advances in the study of the Greek verb. The question now, however, is whether the large number of texts that Aktionsart explains poorly might be better served by aspect theory. In other words, can we speak of further “advances” in the study of Greek? Or should we apply the liturgical formula, “As it was in the beginning, is now, and evermore shall be, world without end”?
I have used aspect theory as my way of inviting reflection on Con Campbell’s title: Advances in the Study of Greek. But the fact of the matter is that this book casts its net far more widely than aspect theory. Its range is broad: Campbell sets out to survey and evaluate the current topics in (primarily biblical) Greek where, in his view, recent advances have been made. In other words, this book is not a survey of the current state of affairs in Greek study, but a survey of those domains of study where, in Campbell’s view, advances are being made.
Aspect theory is one part of the story, of course — indeed, a part of the story in which Campbell has been a key player. But along the way, Campbell carefully explains various linguistic theories, summarizes debates on deponency and the middle voice, probes idiolect and genre and register, and summarizes the approaches of Levinsohn and Runge. His summary of Runge’s treatment of Greek particles is worth the price of the book. In his ninth chapter, Campbell engages in evenhanded discussion as to whether we should retain Erasmian pronunciation of Greek, or switch to modern pronunciation. In his last chapter, Campbell the teacher surfaces, as he offers a range of pedagogical reflections, largely drawn from his own experiences of learning and teaching Greek.
I cannot say that Con Campbell always convinces me — though he usually does. But I know no other book quite like this one. The range of coverage is hugely impressive. This book is not for beginners, but it will prove enormously useful in helping scholars, advanced students, and serious pastors to find out what is going on in the field of New Testament Greek studies — especially if they are tempted to think that advances cannot be made. That stance can be maintained only by those who are attracted to the delusion that three thousand years of scholarship have witnessed no paradigm shifts. It will also prove useful to the many New Testament scholars who would like to understand recent developments in linguistics and Greek, but whose distaste for linguistic jargon prevents them from breaking into these burgeoning fields. Here is a way in.
D. A. Carson