In another post, I argue that we are all responsible for pursuing unity, and that that pursuit demands an ecumenical approach to biblical interpretation and church participation. This ecumenical approach chooses its steps intentionally and humbly in light of our division, including the basic recognition that we achieve theological and exegetical maturity, the very cornerstones of how we participate in our churches, neither easily nor automatically. No shortcuts exist. However, many easy and automatic cul-de-sacs contribute to our division.
Sadly, our clergy reinforce these cul-de-sacs for understandable and practical reasons. The tangible and concrete exigencies of daily life seem far more pressing than theological questions and ecumenical mandates that seem remote. However, short-term obedience does not exempt us from long-term obedience, nor the easier mandate from the harder one, nor the local from the worldwide, nor the urgent from the important. Christ delivered his revolutionary call to unity within the concrete exigencies of his day, and his expectations have always been “both-and”.
The ecumenical approach thus emphasizes the role and importance of achieving theological and exegetical maturity prior to a conclusive and irrevocable theological evaluation of the ecclesiological options. I argued that the intentional separation of encounter from evaluation best achieves this. That is, maturity requires getting the big issues out on the table so that we can exegetically and theologically evaluate them at the same time.
This approach and process may seem esoteric. What does it look like? I aim to offer some examples of exegetical and theological reflection that follow this approach. Each will try to paint the difference between an approach that brings fewer concerns to the exegetical process and one that brings a fuller set. Ideally, we bring a relatively complete set of theological concerns to our exegesis, but here I will highlight the distortion that occurs when comparing a few to just one.
Let us consider passages in Scripture where God withholds the Spirit (or a full manifestation of it) until the apostles (or their delegate, e.g., Paul) lay their hands on people (Acts 8.14-24; 11.12-17; 19.1-7). Now, we may approach such passages with just one issue in mind, say, one of Pentecostal interest: what is the baptism of the Spirit? Or we may approach it with multiple issues from the broader Christian tradition. For example, what role does apostolic authority play in the earliest period? Does it play any role in the movement of the Holy Spirit, and what does this have to say about apostolic authority and the Spirit’s movement today?
If we approach these verses with the former perspective, Pentecostalism seems as supported as any other option. On the other hand, if we approach the verses with the latter, fuller perspective, then Pentecostal distinctives, and Protestant distinctives more broadly, meet with significant challenges. But notice how approaching the same texts with different perspectives results in different conclusions.
Moreover, the smaller the set of issues one brings to a set of Scriptures, the easier it is to come away with a seemingly airtight perspective. Yet this simplistic “clarity” comes with all the hidden costs of reductionism. It comes at the expense of fullness, for Scripture contains many tensions and much space. As a result, we make it support many competing perspectives. The one-sided perspective cannot see this, so its recourse is to embrace the reductionism either by denying that these texts speak to a multiplicity of issues or by ignoring certain issues altogether. This is easier, and therefore it strikes many as better. So we arrive at impasses. But the reverse is also true: the more issues one seeks to settle with the text, the more refined the results and the more likely one is to find a way through the impasses. We’re going to look at three passages, identify what assumptions lead to impasses, evaluate those assumptions, and demonstrate how the set of issues we bring to our reading of Scripture not only curtails what applications we make but also reveals our hidden (and questionable) interpretive tactics.
Acts 8.14-24: This is the story where the Samarians had received the word of God and John’s baptism but not yet the Holy Spirit until Peter and John laid their hands on them. Simon Magus, believing that Peter and John had some (type of) authority over the release of the Spirit, wanted it too.
Now, the Catholic will point out that the passage does not say that Peter and John shared any message with the Samarians. In fact, the Samaritans had evidently already received “the word of God”. Scripture records only that the apostles prayed and laid their hands on them, and then the Spirit came. The trigger seems not to be a message but apostolic endorsement. The Catholic may also point out that even Simon Magus recognized that Peter and John held some authority over the bestowal of the Spirit, not an irrelevant point for establishing claims for the primacy of Peter and apostolic succession. But the evangelical will say, “The apostles reprimanded Simon Magus! How can we think he got anything right?” Moreover, the Evangelical usually asserts that the Samarians first received a message, although Scripture does not record it. An argument from silence perhaps, but . . . an impasse.
The Evangelical assumption is that more happens than is recorded, and this leads to an impasse. Interestingly, Catholics would agree with this assumption. In fact, this is not only a brief exegetical aside for the Catholic, but an operating principle born from historical awareness. If there is more going on that the text doesn’t record, and that “more” affects our interpretation of the text, then we really ought to recognize in this the Catholic principle and advantage. For Catholicism not only says that this happens, but it insists that the historical church did not lose track of those hermeneutically-significant considerations but stores them in her deep memory. Moreover, if they have been so difficult to keep a handle on, why should we find credible claims that these concerns are conveniently retrievable by the modern Evangelical interpreter whose theological stances have a priori exercised a determinative influence over his exegesis and therefore excised important ecclesiological questions? No, those hermeneutically-significant considerations, guiding and protected by the tradition, often offer the very explanation why doctrine went in the direction it went.
For example, take Petrine primacy and apostolic authority. Evangelicals cannot easily see evidence for this anywhere in Scripture because they refuse to see it as a legitimate question. Yet this verse emphasizes the role of Peter and John in the release of the Spirit. It also establishes that some reach for it illegitimately. There are two ways to take this. Evangelicals assume that Simon could not partake in the apostolic ministry (of exercising and redistributing the power of the Spirit) because he was a magician, opportunistic, and/or “thought he was someone great”. But perhaps this is only half the story.
Perhaps this interpretation construes the story in a fashion directly opposite from the reality. Acts 8.13 portrays Simon Magus as a genuine disciple. He believed, was baptized, and followed the apostles. Perhaps he is not yet a wolf in sheep’s clothing (although tradition suggests he went there). Perhaps he initially believed in good faith, and then jealousy prompted him to buy the apostolic privilege (i.e., to effectively call upon the Spirit)? This is not an implausible way to construe the details. He seemed genuinely affected by the stern warning and sought apostolic intercession (8.24). Perhaps Scripture intends precisely this remedy for similar offenses.
Evangelicals assume that the apostles’ reprimand of Simon and his inability to dispense the Spirit both owe to the same impure motives and illegitimate move, such that had he not been jealous and not sought to buy the Spirit, he would have been able to do what the apostles were doing. But let us consider an alternative possibility.
What if we should interpret things in the reverse? What if he became a real disciple, like any of us, and wanted what we all want (to see the Spirit passed to others)? If so, if his motives began in relative purity, then his jealousy more likely results from something he knew he could not have rather than something he didn’t yet have. “Not yet having” tends to foster less jealousy and engender greater patience, and if it was something “he didn’t yet have”, the whole scenario may very well have played out in the same way Simon began–as a disciple, seeking guidance from Peter and John how to do what they were doing.
Moreover, Peter’s reprimand was that Simon was “full of bitterness”. Doesn’t the fullness of Simon’s bitterness seem a bit exaggerated, if this was his first time seeing what the apostles did? Isn’t it more plausible to propose that his jealousy and bitterness had been festering because what he saw was what he had been seeing while he followed? Perhaps Simon’s jealousy stemmed from the understanding that he would never do what the apostles were doing. What if Luke intended Simon’s story as a warning to Christians who were jealous over the exclusivity of the apostles’ authority? What if Peter’s description of Simon as “held captive by sin” (8.23) is not the cause of the reprimand but the effect of his envy for apostolic authority in the dispensation of the Spirit?
The important point: Most Evangelicals are so far removed from an ecclesiological situation wherein apostolic authority is the accepted and practiced norm that they cannot entertain its validity or viability. It is like trying to sell a cell phone to an Ecudorian aboriginee. It’s like, “Why would we need that?” There are just no categories or connections to make sense of it.
Instead, Evangelicals place the emphasis in this text on the “free gift”. They do this without any knowledge of how gift-giving actually worked in first-century Palestine, and they construe the situation to be like the unmanned mall kiosk on which a box of samples sits next to a sign that reads “free, take one”. And they assume that if they can take one, they can give one. It never enters their mind to question whether what they have grabbed is a sample, whether they secured it legitimately, or whether they are authorized to redistribute it. These are just not questions they ask. Nor are they questions they are willing to entertain.
The Catholic, on the other hand, sees in this passage precisely what most Christians, for over fifteen hundred years, have seen in many passages. They recognize that while the gift cannot be bought, neither may it be disassociated from its apostolic custodianship. And when the Evangelical asks, “How do you see this?”, expecting exegetical argument, the Catholic answers with a historical one. “The reason we are the way we are now is because that is how we’ve been. We’ve been this way because the majority consensus over the long history of the church has taken this issue seriously and carved out this theological position in response.”
Acts 11.12-17 (cf. 10.44-48): This is the story of Cornelius’ house (full of relatives and friends too), and they await the coming of Peter to release the Spirit. Now, here one sees that Peter shares a message, and he lays his hands on those at Cornelius’ house, and the manifestations of the Spirit were tongues and exultation.
There’s little reason to assume that the tongues were ecstatic speech. In fact, they seem to resemble whatever happened at Pentecost (11:15, “the Holy Spirit fell upon them just as He did upon us at the beginning”), which is on record as spontaneous language translation to make the message understandable to those who didn’t speak the apostles’ native Aramaic. But even if ecstatic speech is in view, the important point here is that the gift was the Spirit itself, not a mere manifestation of it.
But at what point did the Spirit fall? The (typical) Pentecostal and Evangelical emphasizes that it came after (and because of) “a message by which you will be saved”. However, the phrase “by which” (ἐν οἷς) has multiple interpretive possibilities and could easily carry the sense of “through” (cf. NIV), so we should not assume it means “sole means by which”. In other words, there may very well be other requirements for salvation too, say, apostolic endorsement. Think of croquet, that yard game where you whack the ball through hoops in the ground with a mallet. It is essential to get the ball through all those hoops to win. No one hoop is sufficient, though each is necessary. In fact, the relative pronoun hois is plural, referring back to the plural hremata (sometimes rendered “word” or “message”). Given its plural form, it may very well include multiple messages in need of communication and obedience.
More importantly, upon what basis can we disregard one of the most conspicuous narrative ingredients? The Spirit didn’t just come to Cornelius on His own or in response to Cornelius’ earnest desire. The man first encountered the apostolic community, specifically Peter, before the Spirit was given. Peter’s agency here is pregnant with meaning and relevance to the issues surrounding apostolic community and succession, if we allow ourselves to evaluate this issue.
Now, the Evangelical will not like this observation. He will shift the application of this verse from the “apostolic person” to the “apostolic message”, wherein the person of Peter is conveniently transmogrified into a mere message. But if we so construe it, we must at least acknowledge what we have done. Our reinterpretation is a distillation of a narrative ingredient (from person + message to just message), and while it may seem quite natural and innocuous to us five centuries after the Reformation, not so before there were Protestants.
On the flip side, Catholics have repeatedly announced that this maneuver relegates the person of Peter, and all that he represents, into irrelevance, despite the fact that the historical church has provided consistent testimony that such distillation is not only unnecessary but harmful–it divides the church and leads her leaderless. As mentioned, this may be the very thing that Simon Magus was condemned for in Acts 8–usurping or bypassing apostolic authority. But this testimony extends at least as far back as late second-century or early third-century, wherein Tertullian specifically condemns stripping out the person of Peter (On Modesty 21).
Few Protestants will find this narrative possibility persuasive. However, the larger point at which I’ve been driving is that distillation as a method, whether distillation of the message from the person sharing it or distillation of the issues brought to our reading, increases impasses. The question we must ask, if we take the ecumenical mandate seriously is this: If the practical effect of an interpretive method is to multiply impasses and therefore division, hasn’t it earned for itself a certain pragmatic suspicion? Shouldn’t we apply greater caution and scrutiny to its use and especially to what theological conclusions build from it? Where ecumenism rightly prompts us to look askance at distillation, I think the objective observer will notice that Catholicism better fulfills the narrative particularity of our text (i.e., makes better sense of more details) and interfaces with multiple theological foci.
Acts 19.1-7: Paul found some disciples at Ephesus who hadn’t yet received the Holy Spirit but only the baptism of John. He doesn’t share any new message but repeats what the Baptist had said, and then baptizes them. Then the Spirit falls.
With respect to the role of baptism and the reception of the Spirit, the text does not say whether the laying on of Paul’s hands was during the baptism or later, so this passage would seem to be compatible with nearly all forms of Christianity on this question: baptismal regenerationist (e.g., Catholicism, Orthodoxy, etc.) or not (e.g., everyone else). Thus, with this question in mind only, we arrive at an impasse.
However, if we were to consult this text about the apostolic role in the reception of the Spirit, the ambiguity fades. We know the Spirit came through the laying on of Paul’s hands, and we know that by this point, the Jerusalem (apostolic) council authorized Paul (Acts 15) to serve as its representative to the Gentiles. So why focus upon questions that yield ambiguous results and avoid those that don’t?
The fact remains that when we focus upon each passage singularly, or when we bring only a subset of questions to the text, it is easy to miss things. For example, we can get all wrapped up in how the particulars may or may not seem consistent with our theological paradigm and all the while miss the common framework these verses portray.
Conversely, if we synthesize the various situations, and we bring multiple theological issues to the text, we can more readily see that consistent theme–communities who did not receive the Spirit until the apostles laid their hands on them. Does this not suggest that, according to Scripture, there are times when the Spirit opts to move from God through the apostolic community into new believers? Catholics naturally wonder, why shouldn’t this be the rule rather than the exception? So what one communion sees as normative in this text isn’t even on another’s radar. That’s because this theme of apostolic mediation is difficult to see when it is not first on the table as a serious ecumenical and theological issue to address.
In this same text there is an ambiguity that may suggest to some interpreters a delay between water baptism and the Spirit’s coming. Pentecostals (and many Protestants) tend to disassociate the baptism of the Spirit not only from water baptism but also from the mediation of the apostle(s). Why? Biblical presentations of the “formula of salvation” (i.e., the mantra runs, “faith comes by hearing”) do not always mention apostolic agency (although it’s often assumed, e.g., Acts 2.38). Another, underappreciated reason requires our attention. Asking fewer theological questions tends to produce fewer theological and biblical tensions. It is for this reason attractive, but the false premise is that tensions are bad. While multiple questions introduce more tensions, those tensions often produce better theological balance, increased doctrinal precision, interesting new vistas, and more nuanced applications of Scripture.
For example, in Acts the Spirit’s movement (whether described by “baptized”, “fell”, “received”, or “came upon”) is nearly always (perhaps always) in response to both the person and message of an apostle. This highlights the apostolic role. To fairly assess whether or not the apostolic role might have any bearing upon today first requires that we make these types of observations, which tend to elude those who read Scripture without ecumenical issues in mind.
When we consider our verses from Acts altogether and alongside ecumenical issues, the theme of submission to the apostolic community emerges quite prominently. Yet when we confine ourselves to singular or parochial concerns and take each verse in isolation, we can explain away the apostolic role. The result is that these verses appear consistent with Pentecostal distinctives. For the Pentecostal who sees in the baptism of the Spirit an experience separate from the giving of the Spirit, this theme of apostolic mediation seems a distant and nearly antithetical superimposition upon Scripture because the genesis of Pentecostalism lies in democratic and anti-clerical commitments.
This perspective requires not just specific political conditions, not just the aforementioned distillation of the apostolic message from apostolic mediation, but also the historical awareness that it represents a new twist (i.e., a third work of grace [early 1900s]) on a new twist (i.e., Wesleyanism’s “entire sanctification” as a second work of grace) on a new twist (i.e., Anglicanism itself), each of which had its inception and devised its validity from English translations of the Bible. Pentecostalism, like many modern expressions of Christianity, must make sense of the fact that these are theological developments and distinctions virtually unknown to earlier periods.
Setting aside the fact that, with these new twists, we are now in desperate need of a robust philosophy of the development of doctrine, the big question here still pertains to hermeneutics. What gives us the right to set themes or set them aside, to base doctrines on silence, or to stress or ignore certain details and emphasize others? Whimsical and self-interested, surely it cannot truly be the individual. We consistently arrive at impasses precisely because we are inconsistent. We are not asking the same questions, and this is so because we are not all bringing a full set of ecumenical issues to our reading of the text. We are not using mutually agreed-upon hermeneutical principles, nor are we consistently applying the principles we individually have.
Yet within the tradition, various hermeneutical principles have been competing for validity, usability, and propriety (i.e., appropriateness). Why should we start afresh in every generation when we can learn from our predecessors?
To reject those traditions by claiming that the Spirit guides us leaves a conundrum. Either this theory is evidently hogwash because, in the shadow of the many conflicting doctrinal systems of the past 500 years, it clearly doesn’t work, or, our theological diversity is actually desirable. But if the diversity is desirable, and God is speaking separate truths out of the left side of his mouth from those he speaks out of the right side, does this not eviscerate the integrity of truth? And how could we ever tell another Christian that his viewpoint on a doctrine or moral issue is any less valid than our own?
No, to reject tradition is to unanchor ourselves and be led either by one myopia or another. The best hermeneutical principles and conclusions still exist within tradition. We ignore them at our own peril.