CHAPTER 4         

CHRISTIANITY—THE HUMAN EQUATION

. . . the knollege and practising of the worde of God, which is the light to our paths, the keye to the kingdome of heaven, our comfort in affliction, our shielde and sworde against Satan, the schoole of all wisdome, the glasse wherein we beholde Gods face, the testimonie of his favour, and the only foode and nourishment of our soules. . . .

—Translators’ preface to the Geneva Bible,
published in 1560, after English Protestants took refuge in
Switzerland during Queen Mary I’s persecution of non-Catholics

POLYSEMY AND PLURALISM

The New Testament stands as Christianity’s foundational witness to multivocality. Like the Hebrew Bible, its collection of books speaks with various voices, but it is more explicitly a synchronic portrait of diversity in the emerging Church. The eponymous books ascribed to Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John all present themselves as “the gospel according to . . .,” and they contain significant differences that attest to the subjective ways in which individuals understand religious experience and present the “worde of God.” The ratification of four canonical gospels “introduces a principle of mutual correction and limitation whereby each Gospel is deprived of pre-eminence or complete validity”—working over against notions of inerrancy and ultimacy.¹

Multiple passages reference controversy and diversity among the believers; the Jerusalem Council described in Acts 15, for example, authorizes different ways of participating in the covenant of Jesus for Jews and Gentiles. In Romans 14:1–15:13, Paul acknowledges distinct practice and doctrine within the community and encourages followers not to quarrel over disputed matters. As portrayed in 1 Corinthians 11:19, he is not happy about divisions among the followers but surmises that the natural differences might be necessary to discern the best path; the subsequent chapter discusses different ways in which each person receives the Holy Spirit, comprising interdependent parts of the body of Christ.²

Modern New Testament scholars repeatedly point out the texts’ substantive diversity of Christologies, theologies, and ideas about the developing Church. Originally composed as autonomous perspectives, they came into relationship as part of the canon. Regarding the two collections of epistles (Pauline and non-Pauline), Robert Wall maintained that they “form an effective, self-correcting interplay of theological and ethical concepts,” legitimizing ecclesial diversity and modeling how biblical diversity enhances the life of the church.³ What holds the New Testament together? John Reumann shared the humorous but telling response: “Two covers and a lot of church traditions.” Countless volumes have attempted to discern a unifying core, and the numerous suggestions (e.g., grace, justification by faith, reconciliation, being “in Christ,” covenant, love of God, promise, salvation, shalom) constitute yet another testimony to the multivocality of scripture and its interpretations—arguing against absolutizing the Word.⁴

The process of forming the Christian canon also traveled a pluralistic path, albeit a bumpy and contested one. Marcion (85–160 CE) and his followers opposed the very idea of a dual canon; they did not see the “Old” and “New” Testaments as a continuous narrative of God’s redemptive plan. There were also disputes about which gospels should be included. It was Irenaeus (second century) who first suggested that there were four authentic versions. Congregations tended to have one or two that they preferred, and selection of the four was likely a compromise.⁵ Since the discovery of ancient books at Nag Hammadi, we have become aware of additional texts—e.g., the Gospel of Thomas, the Gospel of Philip, the Gospel of Truth, and the Gospel to the Egyptians, that were excluded from the canon but remained in circulation in some quarters of the Christian community.⁶

Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical History 6.26, 7.25 (c. 325) classified the different standing of various Christian texts in circulation—acknowledged books, disputed books, and heretical works—but other historians and documents differed on what belonged in each category.⁷ Multiple lists continued to circulate and, even after official ecclesial decisions in the latter half of the fourth century, communities did not agree. Trying to enforce uniformity, the powerful archbishop Athanasius of Alexandria sent an order in 367 to purge all apocryphal books with “heretical” tendencies. Nonetheless, prior to the dogmatic definition of the canon approved at the Council of Trent (1564), its proper limits continued to be debated.⁸ The declaration at Trent was primarily a response to Protestants questioning the boundaries of scripture, but the reformers’ exclusion of apocryphal books and Martin Luther’s 1522 edition of the New Testament, in which texts he personally held in low regard (Hebrews, James, Jude, and Revelation) were placed at the end, all grew out of longstanding canonical controversies. To this day, the Protestant, Roman Catholic, Orthodox, and Coptic canons vary from one another.

Origen (184–253 CE) had imagined Christian heresies in a positive light. He used the term with its original Greek denotation, “choice” or perhaps “faction,” to defend Christianity against a philosophical critique that viewed lack of agreement as a sign of falsehood. Origen retorted that “heresies of different kinds have never originated from any matter in which the principle involved was not important and beneficial to human life.” They were necessary, emerging not from schism and strife, but from the earnest desire of intelligent individuals, “led by certain plausible reasons to discordant views” in their efforts to define Christian teaching (Against Celsus 3.12–13). Eventually, however, heresy came to differentiate choices that stood outside orthodox tradition, and Origen himself was accused of heresy for some of his heterodox ideas.

Many scholars ascribe the pressure to standardize faith and practice to Roman imperial culture after Christianity became the official religion of the empire; it pressed administratively for uniformity and order and moved philosophically toward Platonic universalism. Emphasizing the role that the emperor Theodosius I (ruling 379–95) played in settling the great theological debates, Charles Freeman argued that his actions were motivated by politics rather than theology: an exertion of his will to power by co-opting the power of religion.⁹

Dialectical tension between forces of pluralism and uniformity unfolded throughout Christian history, including in the understanding of scripture, where differences in interpretation could have significant implications. Based on the creation of humanity in Genesis 1, Clement of Alexandria (c. 150–215) insisted that men and women share equally in divine perfection and are to receive the same instruction; he listed numerous women (biblical and later) who were worthy of praise for learning, skill, valor, and leadership. Reading Paul’s letters (see Rom. 16), he concluded that women played leadership roles in the apostolic age, serving as deacons and traveling alongside their male colleagues to spread the gospel among women (Paed. 1.4, 6; Strom. 3.6, 4.19). While the majority of Church Fathers adopted a more restrictive policy that did not allow women to preside over sacraments, teach, speak in church, etc.—also grounding their positions in exegesis (1 Cor. 14:34–35, 1 Tim. 2:11–15)—the role of women in the church was in dynamic flux for at least the first five centuries of Christian history and is again contested in the modern age.¹⁰

At times, this multivocality was valorized. Writing about the command to “increase and multiply” (Gen. 1:28), Augustine (354–430 CE) offered a meditation on exegesis that acknowledged its subjective nature. He understood such open-ended reading strategies to be intended by God: “Consider the verse ‘In the Beginning, God made heaven and earth.’ Scripture presents this truth to us in one way only, and there is only one way in which the words can be shaped by the tongue. But it may be understood in several different ways without falsification or error, because various interpretations, all of which are true in themselves, may be put upon it. The offspring of men increase and multiply in this way” (Conf. 13.24).¹¹

The Catholic Church continued to preserve the work of numerous exegetes, including their contradictions and arguments, with new voices adding to the discourse. In the Middle Ages, the standard version of a “study” Bible was the Glossa Ordinaria, which set distinct interpretations from different times and places together on a single page and illuminated the polyphonic nature of scriptural verses. It reflected individual perspectives, historical contexts, and shifting emphases over time on how to read scripture.¹² (Similar to the rabbinic Mikra’ot Gedolot, these texts were the most frequently copied works for centuries.) Thomas Oden, the general editor of the Ancient Christian Commentary on Scripture series, has attempted to bring back this catena tradition. In his introduction he notes, “One will immediately see upon reading these selections that within the boundaries of orthodoxy . . . there are many views possible about a given text or idea and that these different views may be strongly affected by wide varieties of social environments and contexts.”¹³

Such diversity did not exist without problems, however, and disputes about the contents and meaning of scripture could be intense. The Jesus movement polemicized against traditional Jewish interpretation of Hebrew Bible for its refusal to embrace Christological readings. Tertullian (160–220 CE) railed against allegorical readings, which he believed led away from the truth (On Modesty 9.2.3). He asserted that the Church had established the authoritative interpretation and rejected “heretical” groups laying claim to scripture at all: “Thus, not being Christians, they have acquired no right to the Christian Scriptures; and it may be very fairly said to them, ‘Who are you? When and whence did you come? As you are none of mine, what have you to do with that which is mine? Indeed, Marcion, by what right do you hew my wood? By whose permission, Valentinus, are you diverting streams of my fountain? By what power Apelles, are you removing my landmarks? This is my property’” (Prescription against Heretics 37).¹⁴

What appeared to be small interpretive arguments could instigate or undergird lasting breaches. The statement attributed to Jesus, “This is my body, this is my blood” (Matt. 26.26), for instance, prompted a major disagreement between Martin Luther and Ulrich Zwingli about the nature of the Eucharist. It was perhaps the first famous dispute about what the word is means. Luther believed that Jesus was actually present in the bread and wine, but Zwingli maintained that the passage spoke in metaphor, that the bread and wine signify the presence of Christ in the world. Each marshalled additional verses to support his perspective, and they attempted mediation at Marburg—but ultimately it precipitated the establishment of separate Protestant confessions. Thus, while the diversity of interpretations could cultivate possibilities of pluralism and growth, it also prompted division. Christians regularly declared each other outside the boundaries of faith. As John Dryden quipped in his 1687 poem “The Hind and the Panther” (II:150–155),

For did not Arius first, Socinus now

The Son’s eternal god-head disavow?

And did not these by Gospel Texts alone

Condemn our doctrine, and maintain their own?

Have not all hereticks the same pretence,

To plead the Scriptures in their own defence?

Contesting the idea of scripture was also fraught. The creation of Christian orthodoxy was accompanied by an anachronistic mythology that godless error—represented by anything that diverges from established dogma or praxis—entered Christianity after the apostles died. Tertullian, for instance, maintained that truth always precedes counterfeit, and the Church is charged with reestablishing the former. In the modern period as well, many Christians erroneously believe that their understanding of doctrine obtained from the beginning, erasing the pluralism of early Christianity that in fact came first and was deeply embedded in the development of Christian scripture, exegesis, theology, and institutions.¹⁵ Esteemed scholars within the Catholic and Protestant worlds—e.g., Alfred Loisy (1857–1940) and Charles Augustus Briggs (1841–1913), were excommunicated and put on trial for heresy, respectively, for supporting historical-critical study of the Bible. Their method was believed to threaten orthodox conceptions of its authority and infallibility.

Ignoring the pervasive interpretive pluralism that characterized the history of Christianity, some fundamentalist readers presume to reason their way to scripture’s single, precise meaning—mistakenly assuming that they can somehow stand outside history. Christian Smith remarked, “Without realizing it, evangelicals embraced a view of scripture that was more driven by Cartesian and generally modern preoccupations with epistemic certainty than by Scripture itself and a long Christian tradition of scriptural interpretation.”¹⁶ This type of biblicism also ignores diversity within the fundamentalist community, where many exegetes recognize that belief in a singularly perfect text does not require belief in singular perfect understanding. In a collection of essays by evangelical scholars with diverse notions about gender and sexuality in Christianity, Gordon Fee commented, “God did not choose to give us a series of timeless, non-culture-bound theological propositions to be believed and imperatives to be obeyed. Rather, he chose to speak his eternal word this way, in historically particular circumstances and in every kind of literary genre. By the very way God gave us this Word, he locked in the ambiguity.”¹⁷

Polysemy and pluralism are thus persistent realities of Christian experience with scripture, even though the present review also reveals abiding tensions. Multivocality was not thematized the way it was in Jewish exegesis but, for many Christian readers in the current era, exegetical diversity takes on comparable value. Ellen Davis hailed the Bible’s “inexhaustible complexity.” Embracing the rabbinic instruction to turn scripture over and over, she reflected, “It is a verb one might use of turning a crystal over and over to examine its different facets, or of turning compost until it is ready for the soil. . . . Reading Scripture well is like being a master gardener, and the Bible is like soil; the thoughts of those who study it deeply grow in that medium.”¹⁸

NATURE OF TRUTH AND HUMAN AUTHORITY

A traditional critique of postmodern reading is that it forfeits the notion of truth. As Lieven Boeve described it, “Truth is fragmented, the radical particularity and contingency of human cultures and traditions is unmasked.”¹⁹ If no interpretation can lay exclusive claim to truth, some adherents believe the result is unacceptable relativism—trapped in irreducible plurality and subjectivism. Long before postmodernity arrived on the scene, however, Christians grappled with the nature of truth. The issue is central to self-critical engagement with scripture and wards against using the sacred text as a weapon.

There have always been ontological questions about truth (what is it?) and epistemological ones (how do we know it?). In the modern age, truth is perceived exclusively as something that corresponds to external reality. Medieval Christian scholars like Anselm of Canterbury (1033–1109), however, also spoke of a thing being true when it conformed to divine intent for its creation—a teleological theory of truth that he believed would improve the study of scripture. The result could be similar to the rabbis’ idea of “beyond the letter of the law” and later readers’ novel interpretations, designed to privilege what they understood to be God’s overarching purposes.²⁰ The abolitionists who invoked God’s commitment to liberation and love of neighbor in order to argue against scriptural sanction of slavery, for example, saw biblical truth in this way. Addressing how we might come to know truth, Augustine argued that everything is known merely as God makes it manifest to us (De magistro 12.40, Conf. 12.25); only divine knowledge can be absolute. Aquinas sought to approach truth through dialectical argument, explicitly drawing out diverse perspectives.²¹

Spinoza’s work marks the move toward modern biblical interpretation. He repudiated medieval methods that served primarily to align scripture with ecclesial dogma, claiming in his preface to A Theologico-Political Treatise that he would “examine the Bible afresh in a careful, impartial, and unfettered spirit.” His reasoning evoked a historical positivism that asserts its own absolute authority, but also moved scripture out of the business of ultimate truth. “Henceforth the task would be less a matter of mining the texts for timeless theological doctrines (the quest for what is true) and more a matter of determining historically contextualized meanings (the quest for what was meant).”²² More recently, Flemish philosopher Herman De Dijn asserted that religion is not really about truth in any event. Truth is a cognitive-scientific quest. Religion is about meaning, about being immersed in a particular and contingent tradition, belonging within a particular community. “Meaning is not about universal and objectifiable truth, but about ‘truth-to-live-by,’ unassailable and unmasterable.”²³

Other early modern voices did not abandon religious truth claims but reintroduced contingency in other ways. Existentialists and Romanticists emphasized subjectivity in our perception of truth, arguing that although God’s truth may be absolute, our beliefs and knowledge cannot be. Kierkegaard (1813–1855), for example, defined truth as “objective uncertainty, held fast in an appropriation process of the most passionate inwardness,” and declared it “the highest truth available for an existing person.” He also focused on truth as that which is most relevant to our existence. Even if it were possible to establish the historical veracity and authentic inspiration of Holy Scriptures, without “a single little dialectical doubt,” it would bring one no closer to faith—a posture that can only be approached subjectively.²⁴

One also finds scattered through the history of Christian thought sources of authority other than scripture that shape the truths-to-live-by. For Catholicism, the most significant is “tradition.” In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, tradition became understood as a distinct source of revelation, akin to Oral Torah. Where scripture was silent, God had providentially arranged for a stream of unwritten tradition going back to the apostles.²⁵ Although the Reformation challenged papal authority and the centrality of tradition, hoping to restore scripture to its throne, Protestant denominations also affirmed multiple ways of discerning God’s truths. The Wesleyan quadrilateral, for example, identifies scripture, tradition, reason, and experience as legitimate ways of knowing.

The role of reason and experience is often framed in the language of conscience and is found in every age. Cyprian of Carthage (third century) asserted the right of an individual bishop, in conscience before God, to make up his own mind regarding the proper way to perform baptism. Luther was told to recant at the Diet of Worms in 1521, but responded, “Unless I be convinced by evidence of Scripture or by plain reason—for I do not accept the authority of the Pope or the councils alone, since it is demonstrated that they have often erred and contradicted themselves—I am bound by the Scriptures I have cited, and my conscience is captive to the Word of God.”²⁶ Documents from the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) affirm that in religious matters, no one should be forced to act contrary to their conscience.

Human reason and experience explicitly shape the meaning of the Bible. In the Middle Ages, Sacra Pagina utilized grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, and other human sciences to draw out and test the theological “truths” of sacred text. Catholic magisterium relied on the authority of the pope, the collective voice of the bishops, consensus theologorum (agreement of trained theologians and exegetes), and consensus fidelium (common belief of ordinary Christians) to constitute the meaning of the text. None were absolutely authoritative by themselves, and these distinct bodies could (and did) disagree.²⁷ Claims of infallibility were rare. The Council of Trent and Vatican I, the two notable exceptions, were defensive responses to the Reformation and modernity, respectively, trying to preserve the power of the Church in the world. Outside of these contexts, there was room for individual Catholic scholars to challenge Church teaching on scripture; some who did still gained the status of “Doctor of the Church.”

Long before the rise of historical criticism, ancient interpreters acknowledged, “Mystery, then, was characteristic of sacred texts. God is the speaker, but humans are the writers, and multiplicity of meaning (plain and obscure) is to be expected in the discursive space between what the words humanly say and what they divinely teach.”²⁸ Eventually this space came to accommodate critical biblical scholarship; documents such as Divino afflanta Spiritu (1943) allowed it, and Dei Verbum (1965) actively promoted it so that “the judgment of the Church may mature.”

ACCOUNTING FOR THE HUMAN: EPISTEMOLOGICAL HUMILITY, DOUBT, ACCOMMODATION, AND CHANGE

While according human reason and experience a voice, Christian theology and exegesis also recognized the fallible nature of human beings. Charles Schultz offered a playful expression in a Peanuts cartoon: Charlie Brown says to Snoopy, “I hear you’re writing a book on theology. I hope you have a good title.” Snoopy closes his eyes and settles upon what he considers the perfect title. He types out: “Has It Ever Occurred to You That You Might Be Wrong?”

Many early thinkers like Clement, Gregory of Nyssa, John Chrysostom, Basil the Great, and John of Damascus, spoke of all that we cannot understand about God and God’s purposes. It is not merely a matter of intellectual humility, but an admission that much of what we might seek to understand about the divine is simply unknowable. According to Cyril of Jerusalem (fourth century), “[W]e explain not what God is but candidly confess that we have not exact knowledge concerning Him. For in what concerns God, to confess our ignorance is the best knowledge” (Catechetical Homilies 6.2).²⁹ The most influential early expression of this idea came from Pseudo-Dionysius (sixth century), who felt even describing God through negation was too presumptuous; his apophatic theology was popular among Christian mystics.³⁰ It was also seen as a tool for preserving church unity within diversity. Nicholas of Cusa (fifteenth century) borrowed the term “learned ignorance” from Augustine; recognizing the limitations of human understanding made it possible to accept multiple rites and schools of Christian thought.³¹

How does this relate to the dangers of scripture? In an edited volume on learned ignorance in the Abrahamic traditions, James Heft described the resulting space for doubt as an instrument of pluralism: “An emphasis on learned ignorance, or the realization among learned people that their grasp of reality is inescapably limited, prevents all forms of fundamentalism, which assumes that believers are in perfect possession of ultimate reality. Once that illusion is fixed in believers’ minds, all that remains is to force their belief on others. But Judaism, Christianity, and Islam all affirm that God alone is absolute and that all affirmations about God and God’s revelation are inescapably limited.”³² Doubt also drives our continuing passion to learn. Peter Abelard, a brilliant scholastic theologian (1079–1142), wrote, “By doubting we come to inquiry, and by inquiry we perceive the truth.”³³

Jerome and Origen admitted there could be minor errors within scripture, although the idea was not broadly embraced.³⁴ More commonly accepted was the limitation of human language to communicate divine intent. It was enough of a truism that James Madison invoked it to argue by analogy that the laws of the new republic could not be established without ongoing debate: “When the Almighty himself condescends to address mankind in their own language, his meaning, luminous as it must be, is rendered dim and doubtful by the cloudy medium through which it is communicated.”³⁵

The notion of accommodation is one of the most common strategies used to dilute scriptural absolutism in the history of Christian thought. During the patristic period, it appeared in both hurtful and helpful forms. It served as a polemical device against Jewish practice, arguing as did Paul that “the law” was a pedagogue to lead people to Christ (Gal. 3:24); appropriate to the condition of the people at the time, it lured them away from idolatry and drew them from the temporal toward the eternal. It had been supplanted, however, by the coming of Jesus and justification through faith. The idea of divine commitment to speak to the human heart, adapting as necessary to time, place, and individual character, also made room for ongoing change. Origen, for instance, explained that the doctrine of salvation was presented on several levels—body, soul, and spirit—to reach individuals with different capacities for faith and reason. It allowed a spiritually gifted person to achieve the highest level of truth while protecting the masses. He also believed that the new covenant was a temporary accommodation, shifting over time with the community’s spiritual capacity: Jesus’s incarnation served as a revelation of the divine to guide the faithful from flesh to spirit, but the New Testament would be superseded when the people grew ready for a full realization of heavenly truth.³⁶ Scriptural truth is fluid if God always meets human beings where they are.

John Chrysostom (d. 407), sometimes called the doctor of condescension (synkatabasis) for his frequent use of accommodation, employed it in elaborating on ideas of virginity, incarnation, and other central doctrines of Christianity.³⁷ The Latin Fathers embraced it too, especially after the Visigoth invasion in 410 CE. According to Stephen Benin, “The idea of change and permanence, which emerges as part of the divine plan of revelation, took on enhanced meaning in a world where Rome, the very symbol and guarantor of stability, authority, and permanence, could be sacked and put to the torch.”³⁸

Scriptura humane loquitur, Aquinas and others taught, mirroring the Jewish maxim that Torah speaks in the language of human beings. It can highlight straightforward rather than encoded teaching, or a willingness to use imagery, expressions, and ideas that the human mind can understand even though they are imprecise. William of Auvergne (c. 1180–1249) described scripture as a divine textbook for all levels of students, with deliberate multiplicity. He used a range of metaphors: a mine with distinct veins of precious metals, a garden of delights, a wine cellar, a medicine chest, a table set with a rich assortment of different dishes where each guest finds food that appeals most.³⁹ Anselm of Havelberg (1100–1158) focused on change over time, insisting that “this variety is explained not on account of the mutability of an immutable God who is ‘always the same and whose years shall have no end’ (Ps 101:28), but on account of human infirmity, which is mutable and on account of temporal changes from age to age” (Dialogues 1.13.117).

These complex, dynamic conceptions of faith and scripture all mitigate against the ultimacy of the text and abuse of biblical authority. It is not simply the idea that God’s teaching evolves, but a consciousness that religious truths are not eternal, that everything we might consider absolute is only provisional. Aquinas died having been rejected in ecclesial and scholastic circles; his teachings were declared unacceptable by the Franciscans. A short time later, however, he was canonized and declared a Doctor of the Church. When Divino afflante Spiritu (1943) reversed official Catholic attitude toward critical biblical scholarship, “the anathema and unacceptable of one age became the doctrina communis of another.”⁴⁰ There is an old joke that relates the sure signs of a new Church teaching: First there are increasingly severe warnings against a particular idea or practice, culminating with a truly exceptional condemnation. A short while later, an authoritative statement that endorses the previously reviled opinion is promulgated, beginning with the words, “As the Church has always taught. . . .”⁴¹