So that last post got me thinking about authority in the Church. When I think anout authorities I naturally think about normative texts. Texts are useful for certain things because they’re static; they don’t change their content or their minds (once the necessary textual work has been completed…) What texts do we hold to as authorities and how do we use them as such?

But, static texts don’t capture completely what the Church is about which is, well, Jesus. Jesus as the Head of the Body, our relationship to him as head, and our relationships to one another as fellow organs or what have you. How do or should communities moderate or mediate the texts that they identify as authoritative? How do community lines get drawn and for what purposes? How does one get a sense of “all Christians through time and space” and how do writings then find a back-door in as witness to communities and individuals within them?

In principle I find agreement with what I understand to be Andrewes’s summary: “One canon, Two Testaments, Three Creeds, Four general councils, Five centuries, and the series of Fathers in that Period determine the boundaries of our faith.” I’d be curious to see a list of exactly who the last include. Technically does Gregory fall into it–he seems to be at the borderline. I don’t believe Benedict is technically a Father. Bede is widely considered to be the last of the Western Fathers yet falls quite a bit past the deadline. And why four and not the full seven ecumenical councils?

Furthermore, as I mentioned below, how is authority reckoned, merely through contents–or does the logic and thought-processes of both Scripture authors and Fathers count?

Clearly this is not a simple topic but is at the heart of the current debates…

And how does all of this work out in practice?

Personally, I find that I tend to work with canons within a canon.

That is, when it comes to the Scriptures I tend to privilege
* The Psalms
* The Gospels
* Pauline letters, esp. Gal/Eph/Col
* Revelation
* Ezekiel

When it comes to the Fathers, I tend to privilege
* Benedict (whether he technically qualifies or not)
* Augustine (esp. on interpretive matters)
* John Cassian
* Vincent of Lerins
* Gregory the Great
* Bede
* Leo the Great
* Jerome
Not only do I have a very Western set of Fathers, but the astute will notice that Augustine, Jerome, Cassian, and Vincent are in the mix together despite disagreements–sometimes rather serious ones. I also have both popes sharing the acclamation “great” despite my rejection of papal claims. I used the word “organic” deliberately in the past post because I see our working through of these issues as a growing process, not necessarily something methodical or systematic.

How do you negotiate these things?

I am an Anglican moderate. What does this mean? Chiefly it means these things:
• I fit neither of the extremes in the current debates
• I hold to a literal interpretation of the creeds and place great importance on the sacraments
• I believe that the Anglican Way is a distinctive way of being Christian organically derived from the monastic tradition of the Church rooted in a proper balance of liturgical formation and an embrace of critical reasoning as chief means of growing into the Mind of Christ.

Rather than trying to move through these point by point, I shall present a more discursive reflection which shall return to these at intervals.

I. A Recantation
I think the appropriate place to begin is with a recantation of one of my earlier published pieces. I know that many people eschew labels as shallow means of pigeon-holing either others or themselves. I don’t agree. I think that they are useful tools for categorization when properly applied and suitably nuanced. I have, in the past, denied myself a label but, through navel-gazing and cogent arguments from my wife, will indeed embrace it. Despite what I wrote here, I am an anglo-catholic.

I haven’t changed my mind on the positions espoused in that document except to say that I have allowed others to claim it based on their litmus tests; I have prematurely surrendered it without adequately defending my own views for I find no other label that describes me better.

As my wife has reminded me recently, “High Church” as commonly used today refers to a liturgical preference—and says nothing about either theology or way of life. And, my connection to catholic tradition and practice go beyond how spikey I like my liturgy.

Having said all that and recognizing the often nebulous meaning of the label, I shall describe precisely what I mean by it and how that makes up a large part of how and why I am an Anglican Moderate.

II. Some Autobiographical Rambling
I have done a lot of reading of patristic and medieval church authors–more than most. After all, it’s what I do professionally. Though a biblical scholar, my field is more accurately the interpretation and proclamation of the Scriptures in the first Christian millennium with a focus on Northern Europe and the Isles. And so I’ve read a lot of sermons and commentaries and monastic rules and histories and saint’s lives and doctrinal statements. And I’ve delved into the secondary sources that treat these primary texts. I have been deeply shaped by these thinkers so much so that it cost me a good career path.

You see, my second master’s degree is in Lutheran confessional theology and I earned it as one of my ordination requirements in the ELCA. I had jumped through all the hoops, I was at the end of the ordination process and was one interview with a synodical committee away from becoming a Lutheran pastor. But instead I sat down and wrote a three page single-spaced letter to the committee on why I in good conscience could not be ordained a Lutheran pastor on doctrinal grounds; I’m assuming they received it–I never heard from them again.

The reason that I could not continue was because I had been converted to what I understood as a more excellent way. I saw the church moving away from is confessional heritage and especially the more catholic roots that placed an emphasis on the importance of the sacraments. It was moving to a general liberal protestant stance and despite the liturgical renewal movement and a renewed in the Eucharist in some quarters of the church the church’s liturgy remained mere adiaphora and the great heart of the church—the laity—especially those with ALC backgrounds, remained resistent to a high sacramental theology rightly questioning if it were just another academic fad. At the Lutheran seminary I was considered some suspicious kind of arch-conservative for writing a thesis on the importance of the Fear of God in confessional thought and its connection with penance. Of course, the conservatives would have nothing to do with me because of the pietist commitments of the Word Alone movement–the only alternative they knew to liberal protestantism.

Not only did I have issues with where the ELCA was going, I had issues with where I was going. My theology and spirituality was not only growing more liturgical and sacramental but it was increasingly finding a home in the Psalms. While Luther and others in the history of his movement have spoken warmly of the psalms, they have never played a central role in Lutheran spirituality. I had read deeply in western monasticism since college and had delighted in visits to St John’s abbey in that time and the Trappist Abbey of the Holy Spirit in seminary and an especially memorable pilgrimage to the Abbey of Gethsemane. The role of the psalms in monastic prayer had shaped my own devotional life and even as a Lutheran I used the monthly psalm cycle in the Book of Common Prayer. While at the Lutheran seminary my wife (still technically a Methodist) and I attended a small, vibrant and growing Anglo-Catholic Episcopal church and I still remember the morning in the undercroft when my heart was strangely warmed as the rector explained that the heart of the Book of Common Prayer was the Benedictine monasticism of the pre-Reformation Archbishops of Canterbury and that, therefore, its heart of hearts was the Psalter.

Furthermore, I came to understand the place of the saints in the Christian life and came to hold decidedly un-Lutheran views on their invocation and veneration.

Knowing the direction that the ELCA was going and the direction that I was going, I discerned that we were moving in two different directions–not diametric opposites or anything but simply different. I came to the realization that it would be dishonest for me to lead a Lutheran congregation as I would feel the need to lead them where they would not wish to go and much energy would be wasted in matters not edifying to anyone. So it was that my commitment to a non-liberal, pre-Reformation, monastic-centered Christianity prevented me from being gainfully employed in my vocation–a calling that still weighs upon me.

(I hope that it is clear that I do not bear Lutherans any ill-will. I did not leave it because I saw it as corrupt or theologically bankrupt or what have you. I still find myself using Lutheran theological formulations where they agree with ancient traditions and regard Luther’s catechisms as valuable writings, commending them heartily to Christians of any stripe. I just could no longer be an ELCA Lutheran.)

III. The Monastic Way within the Catholic Tradition
So I’ve talked a bit about why I’m not what I’m not–it’s time to make some positive formulations.

A. The Catholic in Anglo-Catholic
Anglo-Catholicism is not fundamentally about what happens on Sunday morning—and this is what many who claim the label do not understand. It is a way of life, a path to knowing God rooted in a classical, comprehensive, organic way of life that is expressed most visibly—yes, in the Sunday liturgy—but is in no way restricted to it. It is rooted in the past, in the living tradition of the Fathers of the Church and as such is prey to devolving into antiquarianism—doing old things and espousing old thoughts simply because they are old. It is a system of doctrine and discipline that is profoundly embodied. Outward gestures—bowing, crossing, genuflecting—reflect an engagement with the liturgy and an attitude towards the divine. Colors and vestments represent the ordering of things, the structures of the church mirroring the structures of the cosmos. Incense, holy water, introits—I could go on but don’t think I need to; these outward things are well known. Because Anglo-Catholic ideas are expressed in externals, it is prey to devolving into outward affectations—using gestures and wearing vestments, and smokin’ the place up simply because these things thrill the senses and not because they are the outward and visible signs of an inward and spiritual way of being. It is a system that inculcates the classically Christian religious affections—penitence, steadfast hope, holy joy—through the cyclic remembrance of the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Christ, his presence in the saints, the patterns of the creeds made visible, tangible, and kinetic in the observances of the church year. It consciously engages the affections and as such may fall prey to devolving into exaggeration—a wallowing in maudlin piety that seizes upon one or another of the affections, exalting them at the expense of the others, or a selective celebration of the cyclic commemorations. The Jewish tradition says (specifically in regard to Passover) that they should not feast with us who have not fasted with us. The same is true here as well; feast is balanced by fast with days as well as seasons. Yes, Advent is paired with Christmas and Lent with Easter but it doesn’t end there. If every Sunday is a memorial of our Lord’s resurrection so too is every Friday a memorial of his Passion.

Perhaps the most tendentious part of the label of Anglo-Catholics among those who observe its ways is the difficulty of the development of doctrine. St Vincent of Lérins is best known for the eponymous Vincentian Canon:

Moreover, in the Catholic Church itself, all possible care must be taken, that we hold that faith which has been believed everywhere, always, by all. For that is truly and in the strictest sense “Catholic,” which, as the name itself and the reason of the thing declare, comprehends all universally. This rule we shall observe if we follow universality, antiquity, consent. We shall follow universality if we confess that one faith to be true, which the whole Church throughout the world confesses; antiquity, if we in no wise depart from those interpretations which it is manifest were notoriously held by our holy ancestors and fathers; consent, in like manner, if in antiquity itself we adhere to the consentient definitions and determinations of all, or at the least of almost all priests and doctors. (Comm. 2.6)

As helpful as this is, its difficulties make it more a good idea than an enforceable decree. The single biggest problem is that its enforcement is based on a subjective determination of universal and ancient faith. Moreover the notion of “almost all” serves as a convenient means of avoiding testimony one wishes to ignore. Furthermore, as Caelius has noted, the canon fails through irony—St Vincent’s point in promoting it was to overturn and argue against the teachings of grace and free will taught by St Augustine.

Of equal importance to my mind and perhaps more helpful to the present day are his statements on doctrinal developments. He acknowledges—he must acknowledge—that things change and that the teaching of the Church in his day was not identical with what the apostles taught.

But some one will say. perhaps, Shall there, then, be no progress in Christ’s Church? Certainly; all possible progress. For what being is there, so envious of men, so full of hatred to God, who would seek to forbid it? Yet on condition that it be real progress, not alteration of the faith. For progress requires that the subject be enlarged n itself, alteration, that it be transformed into something else. The intelligence, then, the knowledge, the wisdom, as well of individuals as of all, as well of one man as of the whole Church, ought, in the course of ages and centuries, to increase and make much and vigorous progress; but yet only in its own kind; that is to say, in the same doctrine, in the same sense, and in the same meaning. … In like manner, it behoves Christian doctrine to follow the same laws of progress, so as to be consolidated by years, enlarged by time, refined by age, and yet, withal, to continue uncorrupt and unadulterate, complete and perfect in all the measurement of its parts, and, so to speak, in all its proper members and senses, admitting no change, no waste of its distinctive property, no variation in its limits. … For it is right that those ancient doctrines of heavenly philosophy should, as time goes on, be cared for, smoothed, polished; but not that they should be changed, not that they should be maimed, not that they should be mutilated. They may receive proof, illustration, definiteness; but they must retain withal their completeness, their integrity, their characteristic properties. (Comm. 23.54, 56, 57. All of Ch. 23 is most profitable in this regard.)

That is, the limits must remain and the chief goals must remain the same—the core commitments.

One of the great gulfs that has opened up between St Vincent and us is the Enlightenment and it’s children, modernity and now postmodernity. Many of us wish that these had not occurred. But they have. Some Anglo-Catholics (and other Catholics) attempt to simply ignore these happenings as if they had never taken place but in doing so they succumb to an odd form of antiquarianism itself made possible by these developments. I have come to believe that to attempt to live the life of faith and to carry on the doctrine and discipline of the church as if these things had not occurred is to live a fantasy. Now, in no way should we capitulate to these developments and fall into the error of liberal Protestantism. Rather, we must discern a path in accord with the classic teachings in light of our new surroundings and a radically different world from the one our spiritual fathers inhabited and envisioned.

As I see it, we hold to the words of the Scriptures and the Fathers for they are the things that have formed us in the past. However, just as important is to see these teachings for what they are—not simply a set of dicta set down for all times but a reflection on the method, the logic of faithful Christian living. The words of the Gospels, the letters of Paul, and the writings of the Fathers show us faithful Christian minds wrestling with how to live the Gospel in their day. We can do no better than to follow in their footsteps. Critical reasoning formed according to the Mind of Christ is inherent in them all. As a preliminary to what can only be a much longer and more involved discussion suffice it to say that in Vincentian terms the limits of the body of doctrine are the creeds and the words and works of Jesus and the principle at the heart of the body is the twofold love of God and neighbor.

Now, Catholics and Anglo-Catholics all hold to the teachings of the past but as we look closer we see differences and variations. How can they all be Catholic yet not all the same? The question is rhetorical, the answer well known. Within the Catholic tradition there are many ways. There is the way of the desert fathers, the way of the mendicant friars, the way of the Scholastics, the way of the nominalists, etc. The current doctrine, discipline and—most important—practice of modern day Catholicism is a welter of ways piled atop one another—some integrated with others, some not. All, however, stand within the bounds of Catholic thought. While bounded, Catholic thought has never been a narrow dogmatic straightjacket and attempts to make it so—no matter how highly placed within the hierarchy—are a novelty. One of these ways is the monastic way.

B. The Monastic Way: A Sacramental Christian Stoicism
The Benedictine scholar Claude Pfiefer writes about the Rule of Benedict, of Columba, and the writings of John Cassian in the following fashion:

The various rules were merely so many individual expressions of the tradition. All the ancient monks considered their real rule, in the sense of the ultimate determinant of their lives, to be not some product of human effort but the Word of God himself as contained in the Scriptures. Monasticism was simply a form of the Christian life itself, and hence it drew its inspiration from divine revelation. (from the introductory chapters to RB 1980)

I take this to mean that there was a common understanding of Christianity and the Christian life of which these writings are all witness. There are a number of common characteristics of these texts and the way of life that they model that have had a tremendous impact on how I understand my faith.

Philosophically the monastic way is rather simplistic. Some of the early Church Fathers were dedicated Neo-Platonists; the greatest of the Scholastics were Aristotelians and they were followed by the Nominalists. These philosophical systems were fairly robust and included physics and dialectic as well as ethics and so on. They were fairly comprehensive systems of thought. The monastic way, rather, embraced Stoicism. Rather anemic as far as systems go, the Stoics focused on ethics, particularly in the realm of actions. Their big thing was the cultivation of virtue and the suppression of vice. Some of the later NT writings especially one of my favorite yet least read books of the NT, 2 Peter, actively lean towards Stoicism in my view. Certainly Cassian, Benedict, Martin of Braga and others were heavily influenced by its constructions and formulations particularly in terms of how vice and virtue applied practically to Christian living.

At the beginning of the Conferences, Cassian narrates a conversation he and his friend Germanus had with a learned abbot. He asked their aim. Their response was “the kingdom of God.” He congratulated them on their good answer but suggested that this was an ultimate goal–what, he asked, was their immediate goal? They replied that they did not know. He suggested that it should be purity of heart—i.e., the cultivation of virtue—which he also referred to as sanctification. This captures the way that understand sanctification. It is a growth into the mind of Christ through the suppression of vice and the cultivation of virtue. Participating with the urgings of the Spirit, we train ourselves in the ways of faith, hope, and love, opening ourselves to God’s ongoing creative activity in our lives as the ravages of sin are (painfully and with difficulty) repaired

This cultivation of virtue is impossible without the sacraments. By ourselves were are capable of some progress towards virtue; we can achieve a modicum of success. True virtue, especially the supernatural virtues of faith, hope, and love, are only achieved through the motion of the Holy Spirit in our lives, a Spirit given to us in Baptism. In Baptism, the old self is drowned and we rise from the waters clothed in Christ, a dripping new creation. This is salvation—participating in the life of the Risen Christ. While Baptism is the beginning, the Eucharist is the food that continues the journey. In the Sacrament where the very body and blood of Christ is consumed, the process begun in Baptism is furthered as we are literally transformed inside-out into the Mind of Christ. The Sacrament of Penance is balm to the soul and aids in the identification of vice and its conversion into virtue as the Sacrament of Holy Unction is a balm to the body and mind. The Sacraments of Marriage and Holy Orders relate mystically to who Christ is and how Christ is incarnate in us, the baptized.

As Stoicism is essentially a pragmatic school, neither the monastic tradition nor I am terribly concerned about the mechanics of the Sacraments. It is enough that they are sacraments and that grace is conferred through them. This is the only reason I say that I don’t believe in Transubstantiation; it insists on doses of Aristotle that I feel are unnecessary. It is enough for me that Christ is truly present.

Some Anglo-Catholics I know are Scholastic Anglo-Catholics. They’re big on Aquinas and others. If it feeds them—great. But that’s not my style. The Scholastic focus on dialectic is a little too extreme for me to feel at home there. I think that the difference really is one of focus. Rather than focusing on getting doctrine and doctrinal formulations right, my focus is on how we cultivate virtue in our Christian lives. Yes, doctrine is important, yes, coherent systems are important but at the end of the day I think that sometimes an insistence on doctrinal formulations leads us beyond where we can responsibly go and makes us say things about God better off left unsaid. Better, rather, to praise him and imitate Christ.

For this indeed is our life according to the monastic way: the praise of God and the imitation of Christ. As Cassian said in explaining the Lord’s Prayer: “But where it is said ‘Hallowed be Thy name,’ it may also be very fairly taken in this way: ‘The hallowing of God is our perfection'” (Conf. 1.9.18). This means two things. First, it is our purpose to praise God and we should continually be about it. Second, our praise is itself a means of our perfection; we are formed in and by our prayer. The liturgical prayer of the monastic tradition, participation in the Mass, these things shape who and what we are and it is through them that we are drawn deeper into the Mind of Christ.

C. BCP as the Heir of the Monastic Way
The Book of Common Prayer is an heir to the monastic way. Benedictine liturgy is essentially the disciplined encounter with Scripture; the BCP is essentially Benedictine liturgy adapted for those who live in the world. As the Church developed its liturgies, the monastics created a balance between the Divine Office, characterized by the repetition of Scripture—weekly for the Psalter, yearly for the entirety of the canon, and the Mass, characterized by a mystagogical entry into the Mind of Christ through meditating on the mysteries of his life, death, resurrection, and ascension.

A loss of this logic, a confusing proliferation of devotions, and an over-zealous devotion to simplicity lead the Continental Reformers to dramatically alter this cycle usually choosing the biblical logic of the Office over the Mass. What they did retain bore little similarity to the monastic establishment of the Office.

The English Reformation chose another way. Instead of attempting a return to the way of the early church based on selective tendentious readings of complicated and conflicting New Testament evidence, the fathers of the English Reformation restored the logic of the monastic way, balancing once more the Offices and Mass.

This is the heritage of the BCP. Incorporating the ancient texts of the pre-Scholastic missals and their Stoic-flavored approach to Christian formation, it retains the monastic way more perfectly than any other protestant attempt. The canticles and hymns–the Magnificat, the Benedictus, the Te Deum—that have shaped Christians for centuries continue to shape Anglicans who faithfully embrace the discipline of the Prayer Book. And it is a discipline.

The Anglican Way presents a way of coming to know God not through sudden conversion experiences or even mystical revelations but through continual formation in the words of Scripture and words formed by Scripture. It requires the application of the Benedictine virtues–stability and obedience to the liturgical round and an openness to conversion by the texts and the Holy Spirit invoked by and working through them–for it to be truly efficacious. At the same time, it gives the freedom for critical exploration within the boundaries of the creeds and liturgies, not insisting upon strict conformity or uniformity, but rather consistency of prayer.

Thus, to complete my recantation, I both place myself within and strive to live up to the label of being “a Prayer Book Anglo-Catholic within The Episcopal Church.”

IV. Implications of a Sacramental Christian Stoicism Rooted in the Prayer Book
Now, I shall administer some hot button issue checks (hereafter HBIC) to situate what these beliefs look like in regard to the current controversies of the church.

A. Attitudes towards Classic Doctrine
In recent years, some of the fundamental tenets of the Christian faith have been re-examined especially by those working out the implications of the Enlightenment and Modernity. I can say that with most if not all of these, I heartily disagree. Yes, the Creeds are to be read literally. Yes, the inspired Scriptures of the (Complete) Old and New Testaments contain all things necessary for salvation. [HBIC: Virgin Birth? Yes. Physical Resurrection? Yes! Inspired Word of God? Yes. Inerrant Word of God? No.] Where I draw the line is when I—or the Church—tries to dictate what God can or can’t do. For instance… As a Christian I believe that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, and the Life and that none come to the Father but through him. [HBIC…Yes.] That none outside the Church (defined as those baptized into the Triune Name of Father Son and Holy Spirit [HBIC: Patriarchal Trinity? Yes.]) are saved [HBIC: Open Communion? No!]. BUT these are reasons for mission, evangelism, and spreading the good news of God in Jesus. They are not limits on what God chooses to do. If God chooses to save those who don’t fit my categories (as he’s threatened a couple of times in the Scriptures [HBIC: Universalist? No.]) There’s nothing I can do to stop him. Rather, my purpose is to praise him according to patterns with which the Church has shaped itself for centuries [HBIC: Historic Liturgy? Yes! ’28 Prayer Book? Ye–uh, umm, no…but definitely Rite I as well as Rite II].

B. Women’s Ordination
Along the same lines about limiting God, the Scriptures indicate to me that God’s promises operate outside of mechanistic parameters. If he wants to choose himself a Gentile messiah (Cyrus), then he will. If he wants to redeem the world through an accursed form of death (a cross), then he will. If he chooses to make his Son present on the altar through a woman—then he will [HBIC: Women’s ordination? Yes.]. Since in contrast to the levitical priesthood of the Old Testament the Tradition says he’ll allow it to happen through Gentiles I can’t believe that God is incapable of conveying his grace through women as well as men.

C. Same-Sex Unions
As a pragmatic school with its focus on human behavior, the Stoic and monastic project explores and shapes how people should act. Belief is part of the equation—but acting and being are more important than speculation for its own sake. Our goal should be reinforcing one another and strengthening those structures that cultivate virtue. This means building strong churches based on mutual respect, trust, and openness and families built on the same system. It is not good for humans to be alone and God has devised both local church communities and families for this purpose no matter how much we try to screw them up.

Chastity is a virtue and should be cultivated by all. Fornication is its concomitant vice to be restrained. Paul tells us that marriage is given to men and women for the sake of bridling fornication, giving heterosexual couples a way to direct their passions appropriately, monogamously. Furthermore, when done right, marriage is a model of the mystery between Christ and his Church. (Note: While I have spoken in glowing terms of the monastic tradition, this is one area where I depart from that teaching. They were all about the celibacy. I’m not called to that and I don’t believe most people are either. It is a spiritual grace given to some—certainly neither all or even most.)

Because of this logic and the virtues reinforced by Christian marriage, I cannot understand why the church would be attempting to actively suppress faithful monogamous relationships for homosexual couples. For the restraint of vice, the growth of virtue, and growth into the mind of Christ I believe that this is something that we should promote. [HBIC: The Gay Lifestyle? No! The Playboy Lifestyle? No! Same-Sex Unions? Yes.]

D. Openly Gay Clergy
I also mentioned that churches and families should be places characterized by trust and openness. The Church especially in its local communities should cultivate virtue in all its forms by teaching and modeling it—especially its leaders. One of the Reformation’s great goods was a recognition that the discipline of the Western Church was undercutting its moral proclamation. A medieval priest who attempted to preach morality to his flock yet kept a “housekeeper” may have been proclaiming Christian morality with his mouth but his lifestyle was showing something different. Luther and the Reformers decided that truth-telling and consistency was more to be prized than the historical discipline and reintroduced the married priesthood.

There have always been gay priests. There have always been gay bishops. Especially in Anglo-Catholic circles. Some of them have been called to and have modeled holy celibacy and have given us all a great example (just like heterosexual celibates). But more often than not, they have been forced to live a lie and undercut their proclamation. In the interests of promoting proper Christian discipline and doctrine and to free Christian clergy from betraying their vows and forming themselves as hypocrites, gay clergy should be allowed the same licit relationships as their straight brothers and sisters [HBIC: clergy in SSU? Yes. Closeted clergy saying one thing from the pulpit and doing another in their personal lives? No.] This will enable gay and straight clergy alike to proclaim an appropriate Christian sexual morality—celibate when single, monogamous when married—without either being hypocrites themselves or abetting institutionally approved hypocrisy.

If the church is going to hold these positions, however, it needs to do so clearly, transparently. The canons and the liturgies should be in accordance with church proclamation. Or else, once again, it’s moral teaching is undermined. Therefore we need to be sure that all three send the same message [HBIC: clergy living in sexual relationships outside of the canons and liturgies? No.].

Do the Scriptures and the Tradition of the Church oppose homosexual relationships in any form? Yes, they do as I read them. And yet—the Scriptures also show Jesus condemning and overturning both institutionalized hypocrisy and Scripturally-mandated Law. Jesus calls us to love God and love our neighbor—and love is brought about through the Spirit and the cultivation of virtue. My understanding of who Christ is based on Scriptures leads me to believe that this is believe that this logic is not contrary to who he has revealed himself to be.

V. On Moderation
For those of you keeping track, you will have noticed that I have said that I am not Lutheran and that I am an Anglo-Catholic. I have also located myself on a number of hot button items and litmus tests to demonstrate that I am neither a card-carrying “reasserter” or “reappraiser” (to use T19’s parlance).

So—how am I a moderate? In one sense, I’m a moderate by default—and I’m not necessarily pleased about that. That is, if the Anglican Communion is now spread out on a one dimensional spectrum from theological liberals to conservatives, I’m at neither end and thus fall in the middle. But I don’t like being framed that way. It’s very imprecise and does not even begin to model the theological, political, and practical complexities that shape our communion. Whenever Jesus was presented with a binary, he tended to pick the third option and throw everyone into a tizzy. I’d really like to do the same. It’s time to redraw the spectrum! That’s the way—the only way—people who believe as I do will finally get a voice.

There’s another way in which I can say that I am a moderate. That’s because in this conversation there are extremists and I’m not one of them. I define an extremist as someone who won’t listen. Chiefly they are characterized by 1) an inability to acknowledge when someone they disagree with has a valid point and 2) an inability to acknowledge blatant misbehavior or hypocrisy from someone they do agree with. I’m not talking about minor inconsistencies here either. Inconsistencies are bound to exist in any organic (that is, naturally growing and evolving) attempt to work out salvation in fear and trembling. I[‘m sure there are several inconsistencies in this document—and that bothers me not at all. It’s part of the process.

Instead, I stand for listening to those I do and do not agree with and providing room to recognize that you and I can have profound disagreements and yet agree that the other is not part of a malicious attempt to destroy the faith. The point of our discussions may not even be to change minds—though that may happen; I’ve changed mine before and I’m sure I will again—but to share how others are living out their commitments to the Triune God and negotiating the complexities of postmodern life as faithfully as possible. In this respect I will claim the label “moderate.”

So, in fine, I do claim to be an Anglican Moderate albeit with reservations. I do claim to be a Prayer Book Anglo-Catholic. I don’t claim to be right—but I do claim to be trying. In praise of God and imitation of Christ I am trying to witness to God’s love for the world the best that I can.

h/t to Ed Cook of Ralph the Sacred River

It’s actually a hinged tablet with a wax writing surface but hey…

No–I’m not the host . . .

Rather, Nick Kinsley at the blog Entangled States that I’ve recently begun reading has proposed a collection of thoughts by those who consider themselves moderates. You can find the announcement here.

This suggestion combined with the work of Fr. Greg Jones seems to be a move to organize and give a voice to the middle of the Episcopal Church. I’m not yet sure if it will work. I have a feeling that there are many different things that “middle” or “center” can mean. Having a “movement” implies having a direction in which to move (unless an active sense of inertia can be called a direction…) and I wonder if the “middle” is moving in the same direction.

As you’ll notice in my brief bio over there on the right side of the screen I describe myself as a moderate and I’m pretty serious about that so I plan to contribute something on the topic soon.

In the meantime, if you think you’re a moderate, post something up and let Nick know…

Well, I started actual composition on chapter 3 this morning after months of research. I was at the point where I felt things had clarified enough to start getting thoughts down on the screen. Of course, for me that’s when the second wave of epiphanies occur so I’ll write a lot and then read back through it to figure out what I’ve figured out–then rearrange it all again.

The focus this morning was getting a handle on the major kinds of Carolingian homiliaries and how they impacted the OE homiletical process. Naturally I’m using Gatch, Clayton, Smetna, and especially Hill (for those for whom the names mean anything…).

Here’s my first big insight. (I define a big insight as one of those things that you never really seen or heard before (or you’ve seen it or heard it and it hasn’t really clicked) but once you formulate it seems horribly obvious and you kick yourself repeteadly for not seeing it earlier.) There’s a demonstrable shift away from gospel commentaries in the early medieval period; Bede’s are pretty much the last big ones. That is, they still continue to be written but they don’t seem to circulate much or have much impact–like good ol’ Godwin of Sarum and those of Theodore’s school. Instead, the clear shift is to homiliaries. In fact, commentaries are even sliced up to fit in homiliaries at the sappropriate places as happens with Bede in Paul the Deacon.

I think I now have a good theory why . . .

I haven’t seen this theory before and I’m not saying it’s not out there in the mass of secondary material somewhere but I haven’t seen it in the major stuff I’ve read recently…

The shift from the commentary to the homiliary represents a shift in the paradigmatic locus of a gospel pericope. For a commentary, the paradigmatic locus and appropriate context for a pericope is located within the biblical book from which it was taken. For a homiliary, the paradigmatic locus and appropriate context for a pericope is the liturgical round. Thus, I’m going to suggest that your standard early medieval clergy et al. thought of a scripture chunk’s natural home as in the liturgy rather than in the Bible proper.

Others have posted more and better than I shall…

Suffice it to say that today is the Feast of St Benedict and it should be celebrated with all reverence especially by those of us who believe that the path of liturgy–the balance of the Office and the Mass–is a true path to know the Living Jesus.

Furthermore, Benedict in his wise Rule avoided the extremes of severity and freedom to present a balanced middle way that shows generosity to those advancing in virtue with godly obedience for the restraint of sin.

As an Anglican who feels that the Anglican Way preserves much that is truly Benedictine, offer it to the wider church as our gift, I most especially say in these days: “St Benedict, pray for us. We sure need it.”

(This continues Plain Sense I)

II Problems in Discussing the “Plain Sense”
By now it should be evident that the term “plain sense of the Scriptures” can be used in more than one way. In recent days, I’ve seen it used in at least three ways in the blogosphere (slightly caricatured for emphasis):

1. Plain Sense (bad) = fundamentalistic literalism offensive to those in touch with the reality (scientific and otherwise) of the 21st century

2. Plain Sense (bad) = unsafe reliance on meanings not sanctioned by or under the authority of the Catholic magisterium

3. Plain Sense (good) = the real straight-foward way to read the Bible with none of that wishy-washy liberal crap added in

Clearly there’s some semantic slippage within this term. I think we need to examine some differences to make sense of these different ways of using the term (and others not even cited here) and we’ll do it by offering a definition, then examining what the definition does and doesn’t say.

Here’s my provisional definition: The plain sense of the biblical text (or any other text) is the meaning that is most clearly indicated by the text itself taking into account grammar, denotation, connotation, figures of speech, figures of thought, and context.

First, this definition centers on the text. It does not focus on the author; authorial intent is not the plain sense of the text. We’ve all had our writing misunderstood. Sometimes, a person has figured out a way to read something we’ve written that disagrees with what we believe. And that’s tough–once a text leaves your pen, screen, or what have you, it begins taking on a life of its own. What you intended to say is part of that life, but is not the whole of it. For instance, look how many people think that the ++Rowan’s reflection paper about GC legislates a two-tiered communion. He has subsequently repudiated that–but that reading and understanding is now part of the life-history of that text whether ++Rowan likes it or not.

Second, this definition implies but does not state the role of the reader. Each reader gets a sense of a document’s meaning. While all readers construct meanings, not all meanings are equal–some are better than others. How do we judge between them? Well, part of it comes down to the realia of the text–grammar, denotation, etc.

In a New Testament interp class in my seminary days, my poor TA was trying to teach us about reader-response criticism. My partner for the assignment–now an Episcopal priest in Kansas City–and I returned to the larger group and assured them that the parable of the prodigal son was, in fact, a statement about the horrors of nuclear winter. We defended our bizarre interpretation by answering that our meaning was what the text had made us feel. Obviously–this is a bad reading. It is absolutely indefensible based on the grammar and syntax of the text.

Another facet of judging the quality of a reading examines how well the interpretation encompasses all of the evience of the passage. For instance, it is possible to argue that John’s Prologue is a gnostic hymn (and it has been so argued in the past)–but to do so, you have to find some way of accounting for v. 13–“And the Word was made flesh.”

I’ll not go on much further except to say that it’s typically easier to identify bad readings. I suppose bad in this case is a reading that seems substantively disconnected from where the text points. (And it is on these grounds that allegory is often criticized.)

Third, this definition is rather open and this is where complications arise. How does–or should–one determine the appropriate context of a text? Is it the paragraph that contains the text, or the paragaphs on either side of the prargraph with the text, or the chapter, or the book, or the canon as a whole? To some degree, it depends on what claim is being advanced. Again, it’s ob=ften easier to identify abuses of this. For instance, proof-texting: “It is good for a man not to touch a woman” out of 1 Cor is a rather egregious misreading. Rather, Paul presents this statement as the starting point for a discourse–not its conclusion.

A more complicated example is a text like Mark 9:1: “And [Jesus] said unto [the disciples], Verily I say unto you, That there be some of them that stand here, which shall not taste of death, till they have seen the kingdom of God come with power.” One way to read this–especially if you regard it is a disconnected saying of Jesus that was given a home by the evangelists–is that some of the disciples will not di before Jesus’s return. Indeed, one could even point to John 21 to suggest that there was a tradition in the early church that Jesus would return before the death of young John, the beloved disciple. Another way to read it is to keepo reading–the story immediately following is the transfiguration. Is that what was meant by “seen the kingdom of God come with power”? Quite possibly. At least, it certainly seems that Mark thought so . . . Context matters.

Fourth, a complication arises when we admit and start drawing attentions to figures of speech and thought. Some metaphors, similes, synecdoches, etc. are clar and obvious. When we speaking in the Psalms of sheltering in the shadow of God’s wings, I doubt most of us believe that God has physical wings. Ditto for a mighty hand and outstretched arm . . . But what about others–especially metaphors. How do you know when something is a metaphor and when it’s not? The key verses for any discussion of this topic are, of course, the institution narratives in the Synoptics and 1 Cor 11. Is “This is my body . . . this is my blood” the invocation of a metaphor–or a reality. And where’s the line between the two?

I think that most rational readers will agree that this is the place where the idea of the plain sense of Scripture shows a fundamental weakness. There can be disagreement between readers about what constitutes a figure of speech and/or thought and what doesn’t. Further more, even when the presence of such a figure has been identified, it is not always obvious which figure it is. For instance–to go back to the “shadow of his wings” bit–what kind of wings are they? A mother bired gathering her young–or a numinous angelic/divine figure? It does make a bit of difference in how we understand the text.

Fifth, my definition stops at the level of meaning. I would wager that many if not most of the complaints about the plain sense of the text are not really complaints about a meaning but at an application of a meaning. That is, the problem is not what people argue that a text means but what they argue should be done about it–or with it.

I’ll give you an extreme example from Church history. “If your eyes causes you to sin–pluck it out” etc. Eusebius tells us that on the strength of this text Origen castrated himself. You could concievably point to this as a just one of the horros of the “plain sense” of the text. And I’ll disagree. Here’s why: Most readers would agree that the text uses a figure of speech–hyperbole. Jesus gives us an extreme to make a point about the need to avoid sin. Origen doesn’t seem to read it that way–but neither does he read it “literally”!! Had he read it literally, he would have torn out his eye or cut off his hand instead of his–yeah well. Instead, he apparently read it as a synecdoche where mention of a part of the whole refers to either the whole or to another part of the whole (thus, generalizing “eye” and “hand” to “body parts that make you sin”). The problem isn’t even with the way that Origen read it, though, it’s how he decided to apply it.

Furthermore, ther are disgreements about the purpose of the meaning of the text. The semantic meaning of the text may well be clear but the intention or purpose behind it may be in question. “Along time ago there lived a king” means one thing if the king in question is Aragorn–another entirely if it’s Tiglath-Pilesar III (the guy whose army sacked Jerusalem in 587 BC}.This is, of course, tied in to how we apply it. (I wrote a bit on this here as well.)

III. Hypothesis
So, there’s a working definition of the plain sense of Scripture, some reflections about it and some weakness and/or dangrs associated with it. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that the plain sense isn’t nearly the problem we make it. That is, I’d wager that with a good 75-85% of Scripture, you’ll find next to no disputes about the plain sense of meaning of the text. I’ll give you some examples.

Deut 3:14: “Jair the son of Manasseh took all the country of Argob unto the coasts of Geshuri and Maachathi; and called them after his own name, Bashan-havoth-jair, unto this day.”

1 Sam 15:12: “And when Samuel rose early to meet Saul in the morning, it was told Samuel, saying, Saul came to Carmel, and, behold, he set him up a place, and is gone about, and passed on, and gone down to Gilgal.”

Matt 8:2: And, behold, there came a leper and worshipped him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean.

And yes, I’m picking verses at random here to make my point. Now try these . . .

Gen 3:24: “So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubim, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.”

1 Sam 15:33: “And Samuel said, As thy sword hath made women childless, so shall thy mother be childless among women. And Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the LORD in Gilgal.”

Exod 22:18 “Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.”

I submit to you that none of my readers–or other readers chosen at random–will disagree about the plain sense of these texts. However, there can and will be disagreements about the purpose and application of these latter texts. The meaning, though, is not at issue.

That’s enough for now–more later. . .

Well, this past week has sure been one for news. First, ++Akinola warns that if things don’t change and soon he’ll create a rival Lambeth and now the C of E has stated that there is no theological bar to episcopal consecration of women. As with +(+)Schori, it is now only a matter of time before we have a female Archbishop of Canterbury. As a result, FiF UK is even now making plans to bail.

In all honesty, I can’t see how the center can hold. The notion of an international communion held together by affection rather than doctrinal confessions has failed. I pray that this is defeatism talking and that I will be proven wrong–but I just can’t see from where I sit now. My crystal ball suggests not a Conservative Communion and a Liberal Communion arising out of this. What ever arises will be more messy. Why? ++Akinola is a protestant. Recent convert to Catholicism Peregrinator from Canterbury Tales made this comment on a discussion at Texanglican’s place:

The Episcopal Diocese of Fort Worth is going to have to remove their tabernacles, melt down their monstrances, and hide their rosaries if their going to process to the altar, I mean, holy table with Akinola.

For Akinola, Anglo-Catholics are part of the problem, not part of the solution.

And he’s right.

FiF will not align with ++Akinola. Some probably will leave for Rome, but I can imagine an alternate structure being set up for English Anglo-Catholics that will reach out to American and other Anglo-Catholics (How does Archbishop of Walsingham sound?)

I see nothing less than three potential global Anglican bodies:

1. Canterbury and the former broad church wing–now the liberal wing.
2. An Evangelical Communion centered in the Global South.
3. An Anglo-Catholic wing, probably also centered in England.

Whether these potentialities become realities depends on a whole lot of things which cannot now be foreseen. Perhaps the most important involves who can–or will–reach out to the Continuum.

I said above that the collapse of the AC is perhaps the collapse of an international communion held together by affection rather than doctrinal confessions. Note what I said–and what I didn’t say. I didn’t say that this heralds the collapse of a communion held together by common prayer. Because we’re not. Our prayer internationally has not been common for the past 50 years or so. I believe that the Prayer Book and prayer book spirituality is the true hallmark of Anglicanism. What if we did commit ourselves to common prayer? What if we walked apart as bodies no longer of one mind but if we promised to one another to study how we can return to our common heritage of prayer?

Can the Anglican splinters still witness to the world a path to Christ through steadfast liturgical prayer?

Why do people get into Lesser Feasts and Fasts? Is it because they’re famous Episcopalians who did good stuff–or is it because we as a church feel that they are among the Blessed Dead?

Do we still have a sense of who the Blessed Dead are? We kept the Feast of All Saints; we dropped the Feast of All Souls.

The Church used to structure its sense of temporal connection with three categories:
The Church Militant: us poor bastards slogging our way towards salvation now.
The Church Expectant: Those who have died in the Lord who sleep in the earth until they are called before the great judgment seat on That Great Day.
Tjhe Church Triumphant: Those dead in the Lord who prolepticly enjoy the very presence of the Lord and intercede for us before the Throne of God.
So . . . where are we on those last two these days?

As a Lutheran I had a notion that the saints were people who embodied Christ to and and for others. I still think that’s true. But . . . in my encounters with the early medieval sources (including the good, the bad, and the laughable) and in my own “faith journey” I’ve come to believe that not all saints are, well, equal.

I’m still wrestling with some of these things–feel free to wrestle along with me…

It’s time that we talked a bit about the “plain sense” of Scripture. I’ve seen a certain amount in the blogosphere recently about the plain sense, so I thought I’d say a word or two (or a couple thousand) about it to give a biblical scholar’s perspective on the issue.

I. A Short History of the Plain Sense
The main argument in Church history that led to the need to talk about a “plain sense” of the Scriptures is, of course, the Reformation. John Calvin, Martin Luther, and others argued for the pespecuity of the Scriptures which is a fancy way of saying that the Scriptures are clear and understandable. As long as a person has the Spirit, they can understand what the Spirit meant in the composition of Scripture. Now–that was a loaded sentence so we’ll say a few things about what they were saying and what they weren’t–and yes, I’ll be working with some sweeping generalizations here.

A. Rejection of the Need for a Magisterium
In the first place, the claim of the perspecuity of the Scriptures was a reaction to the atmosphere of the Late Medieval Roman Catholic Church. Perhaps the most important meaning of their declaration is that a magisterium with an authoritative interpretation of Scripture was unnecessary. Note, please, they weren’t saying hat the teaching of the magisterium was necessarily wrong (at least not on all points); they were arguing that it was unnecessary and that Christians could read and understand Scripture for themselves.

With this statement, they were making a bit of a departure from standard church practice. In the first place, they were sanctioning giving the whole Scriptures to the people in their own language. We focus on the latter part but the former part was the real issue. After all, there had been vernacular translations and paraphrases of certain sections for quite a long time.

Giving the whole Scriptures to the people was a rather problematic endeavor. The Church had noticed that heresies arose when people read the Scriptures for themselves–and by themselves. After all, the Marcionites, Arians, Nestorians, Sabellians, Cathars, etc. were not heretics because they *weren’t* reading the Scriptures; they *were* reading them, reading them improperly, and thus the Scriptures were promoting the problem, not solving it.

Furthermore, there was always anxiety around the Old Testament. The Church believed and taught that the Old Testament and New Testament fit together as a seamless whole. The revelation of Jesus superceded parts of the OT. After all, according to Paul the Law was a pedagogue–the slave who instructed children–but since the children have achieved their majority as inheritors of the kingdom, the pedagogue can be dispensed with. More particularly–the Church knew which sections no longer applied. Any old Joe who picked up a Bible didn’t..

Looking at the Old English material, this anxiety can be clearly seen. Ælfric in his sermons warns against applying the old law in a blanket fashion (like in the sermon for the Circumcision of Our Lord); Æthelwold in his translation of Benedict’s Rule warns against the monks hearing of the Books of Samuel and Kings outside of a liturgical setting where they were properly (i.e., typologically) interpreted.

As a result, lay people–the literate ones at least–were given only parts of Scripture (like the Psalms) and edited portions of the Gospels for their reflection and pious devotion. The Reformers threatened this whole system.

B. Rejection of Interpretive Methodologies
Another facet of this insistence on the perspecuity of Scripture was directed towards the abuses of allegorical interpretation. And there were certainly abuses that needed correcting. Look at any sermon or interpretation of the number of fish caught in the disciples’ net in John 21 and you’ll see a perfect example of what I mean–wild speculation abounds. The Reformers were arguing that these excesses violated the clear meaning of Scripture. There are at least two things to keep in mind, though: 1) the Reformers themselves were schooled in and used these “allegorical” methods and 2) these were pre-Scholastic methods operating in a post-Scholastic environment.

First, the Reformers were themselves schooled in these methods of interpretation; it was deep in their bones. Consequently, when you open their writings–and I’m thinking specifically of some of Luther’s sermons here–you find exactly the same thing. While they rejected the excesses of the method, they knew and used the method itself. Understanding their rejection of it means understanding the limits they thought should be palced on it.

Second, these reading methods were quite old. They were patristic, in fact, and sprang from the reading methods of Late Antiquity. Allegorical interpretation proper is most often found coming from a monastic milieu (Gregory the Great being a foremost promoter) that operated within the categories of Stoic philosopy. That is, their focus and interest was on human action–moral action in particular. Taking seriously that all Scripture was inspired to be profitable and upbuilding, they played in and with the text within the boundaries of the creeds. They would take texts that seemed (to them) to serve little or no useful function and wring it for every potential bit of profit, sometimes utilizing rather unusual mental gymnastics to find some divine honey.

Scholasticism with its Aristotelianism and later Nominalism explored and used the texts in different ways than the Stoic-flavored contemplative readings. Under the dialectical schoolmen, the texts became less a playground and far more a mine for doctrine. This is the attitude that the Reformers brought. If the text was a source of axioms for theological proofs, it had to have a stable meaning that didn’t change so much. So–allegory had to be curtailed if not rejected. Note that Aquinas interprets the Scriptures the same way; the literal sense is the sense to be used for the establishment of doctrine.

Now, these two meanings were the anti-Roman meanings of the Reformers’ dicta. But–here are some other factors embedded in there as well.

C. The Agency of the Holy Spirit
The Reformers–like the Catholic magisterium–believed that the whole text, Old and New Testament, was written by a single author: the Holy Spirit. Furthermore, the Spirit taught how the Bible was to be read. Without the Spirit, the Reformers believed that the Scriptures were inscrutiable–or at least could not be rightly read. Thus, they assumed the unity of the OT and NT, and that some literal meanings were either not correct or had been superceded.

One of the most important safeguards here is that if the whole Scriptures were by the Holy Spirit all apparent contradictions within Scripture are just that–apparent rather than actual. For instance . . . when in his ministry did Jesus cleanse the Temple: at the beginning as reported in John or at the end as in the Synoptics? (Many interpreters concerned with contradiction asserted that he did it both times. You’ll still find this today in some circles.) Potentially more damaging, who are the “brothers and sisters” of Jesus recorded in the gospels? Could they really be the biological children of Joseph and Mary–who, it was taught, were celibate? (These family members were interpreted as cousins.)

What happened when the Reformers put the Scriptures in the hands of the people is what the magisterium predicted–problems. People without the discipline and teaching of the Church–often without even a basic understanding of the creeds–began interpreting the Scriptures in ways that neither the magisterium nor the Reformers intended. Various heresies were soon revisited. Antinomian controversies rocked the nascent Lutheran Church. The “Enthusiasts” began proclaiming complete liberty from all morality. Calvinists, in particular, attempted to translate the legisltion of Torah into the law of the land with remarkable failures. Marian devotion plummeted after the first generation of Reformers. In short–they had a mess on their hands.

One of the outgrowths (and causes) of the Reformation was Renaissance learning. Western scholars started studying Greek and Hebrew, old texts were compared with one another, and Protestant biblical scholars began talking about the grammatical sense of the text. As these trends progressed and universities became the locus of major biblical interpretation, the grammatical sense became a way of saying “the clear sense not constrained by a Catholic interpretation.” As things moved even further this became “the clear sense not constrained by either Catholic or Protestant interpretations.” Finally, it became “the clear sense free from any dogmatic constraints” and we were on our way towards the scientific study of Scripture.

The sceintific study of the Scriptures began doing its work which included noticing all sorts of contradictions, seams in the texts, historical blunders, and many of the traditional presuppositions were called into question. The original intentions of the author became the dominant “meaning” but the authors in question were now the many separate human authors rather than the Spirit. Finally, the accuracy of what the text revealed was questioned. Questions of cosmology, biology, and history arose as the texts were read without dogmatic restraints and as they were read in parallel with other contemporary texts.

Finally, certain parts of Protestantism could no longer ignore these developments and they began a backlash against this method of reading the text. The result was a certain hardening or rigidity of reading known to us as fundamentalism. The fundamentalists, in a way, insisted on what the Reformers did–that there was a single correct literal sense of the text over against other ways of reading–but they were arguing something different against different opponents from what the Reformers had been arguing. This is the point when the novel notions of infallibility and inerrancy were introduced. So, these are the seeds of modern day “literalism.”

The problem of terminology now arises. In essence, the fundamentalists and the biblical scholars were in agreement: most passages of the Bible have a more or less obvious meaning. To interpret them apart from that is to depart from the clear or plain sense of the text. I don’t say “literal” here because a strict literalism means a rejection of figures, schemes, and tropes in a way that is itself an aberration.

As all self-conscious readers of texts know, sometimes a text signals that its contents are not meant to be read literally. Figures and tropes are clearly literary devices and should be read that way. When Jeremiah says that the Word of God is a hammer, no rational person thinks that God’s breath congeals as a hand tool. Furthermore, certain genres in Scripture clearly signal that they are to be read with a different set of understandings–unless you believe that there is a literal seven-headed red dragon running around somewhere a la Revelation.

In order to avoid these misinterpretations and misrepresentations, both biblical scholars, fundamentalists, and other believers talk about the “plain sense of the text.” And I don’t think that this is a problem. In fact, I am prepared to argue that this is the sense that the great majority of all Christians use when they sit down to read the Bible (or any other text for that matter). So–what’s the problem?

(To be continued…)