Peering into the Depths

Which rules should guide our reading of Holy Scripture?

I confess I’ve become increasingly allergic to talk of ‘principles’ or ‘rules’ for biblical interpretation. Not that I think such things are of no value whatsoever; only that they regularly strike me as lifeless and inert when set alongside the actual text of Scripture. For instance, when I work up the courage to read the poetry of the biblical prophets, which requires not only a fertile imagination but also refined emotional sensitivities, I struggle to see how a list entitled “Guidelines for interpreting Prophetic Literature” will provide much help. Or in attempting to take in the cataclysmic visions that make up John’s apocalypse (i.e., the book of Revelation), I suspect it will be more of a distraction than a help to consult so-called ‘principles for interpreting apocalyptic literature.’

I grant that this could be, in large measure, a matter of personal taste. Perhaps I’m showing a bit too much of my own biases and idiosyncrasies. Certainly there are general guidelines that will aid the beginning student of Scripture as she seeks to navigate its various genres and literary conventions. In some ways, interpretive rules are akin to training wheels on a bike, which can assist a beginner in learning to ride but become cumbersome, even an obstacle, to the proficient rider. It would seem legitimate, then, to carve out a space for such rules, even if it’s a limited one.

In registering my unease, though, I’m not necessarily taking aim at any specific interpretive rule. Obviously, rules can vary a good bit in quality. My interest is more on the encounter with Scripture that this approach fosters. I’m thinking especially about how certain rules can generate wrong expectations about how reading the Bible ought to go. What kind of experience is facilitated when an interpreter comes to the Bible armed with rules for reading?

The Bible, of course, is a collection of texts—incredibly complex in composition, full of ancient idioms and terse narratives. To plop down in a random part of Scripture can feel, at times, like you are a wanderer lost in the woods. My suspicion is that interpretive rules, though well-intended, can be attempts at alleviating the natural feelings of confusion, bewilderment, and dissonance that attend Bible reading. Such rules provide a level of control; they make the text feel more manageable, intelligible, and graspable. What seemed disturbing or strange is actually, when interpreted through this lens, quite rational and easy to follow. Following a clearly demarcated path offers a degree of comfort to the interpreter, who feels assured that staying on the straight-and-narrow will lead to solid, orthodox conclusions. Which, to be fair, is very likely the case. But, the tradeoff is that you may arrive at sound biblical conclusions without having a transformative encounter with Scripture. Bible reading has been made routine, straightforward, and easily replicable. What is (potentially) lost, however, is some of the demanding discipline of listening—really straining to hear—what the text is actually saying. The more rigid and uniform the process, the more predictable will be the results. And if church history offers us any clues, it suggests that there isn’t going to be a single route that all pilgrims must take in uncovering the meaning of Scripture. Though some paths are surely better than others, it is also true that each person must find the armor that suits him best.

Lake Tahoe, California by Albert Bierstadt (Wikipedia)

I find my sympathies aligned with the classicist Gilbert Highet, who reportedly said that anyone who reads the Bible and isn’t puzzled at least half the time doesn’t have his mind on what he is doing.¹ Rather than viewing confusion as an indication that something has gone wrong, Highet seemed to think that we should expect to be puzzled much of the time. Thus, I give you permission to be suspicious of anyone who only ever speaks confidently and comfortably about the meaning of Scripture. As often as not, the Bible resists simple classifications or easy generalizations. It speaks in unexpected ways, addressing questions that feel quite irrelevant and far-removed from our everyday experience. If our rules have not prepared us to sit in that puzzled state for a while, then they are not preparing us to be good readers of Scripture.

But are there certain rules or principles that actually facilitate the sort of encounter with Scripture that I’m commending? The key, in my opinion, is that they be flexible and open-ended enough to not foreclose interpretive options prematurely.² Rules that are overly rigid and formulaic end up molding those who use them into the image of the rule-maker. Which, to be clear, is not the worst thing in the world. It does, however, seem to fall short of the sort of dynamic encounter with God in his Word that saints throughout the ages have experienced. And it is the unscripted nature of these encounters that I’m especially wanting to preserve. To be involved in the give and take of genuinely listening to the Lord and responding in faith and obedience—that is the beauty of biblical interpretation. Moreover, it’s difficult, if not impossible, to say at the outset precisely what shape this back-and-forth will take. While such an encounter may occur for the modern interpreter who employs grammatical-historical rules of exegesis, God was also pleased to reveal himself to medieval interpreters employing the fourfold method known as the “Quadriga.” Again, I’m not meaning to imply that ‘anything goes’ when it comes to biblical interpretation. Rather, I’m suggesting that formalized rules can mislead some into believing that there is “one best way” of interpretation. In reality, interpretation is more art than science.

So let me offer a simple interpretive rule that seeks to make space for the kind of disorienting encounter with Scripture that allows for genuine insight. The rule is this: Assume that you are only seeing a fraction of what’s there in the text, and continue to look long after you think you’ve seen all that there is to see. Obviously, there is always a danger that we read into the text things that are not there. But, I dare say that our characteristic temptation is much more in the other direction: to fail to read out of a text all that is actually there. Our reading practices, honed in this digital age, are to skim, scan, brush over, look for the cliff-notes, and then to think that we’ve gotten the ‘gist’ of it. Theologically, though, wouldn’t we expect that if God has revealed his thoughts and intentions to us in a book that it would have some level of depth and richness to it? And that this would, in turn, require from us some level of attention and contemplation to uncover the meanings contained therein? Whatever you make of the “Quadriga” of the medievals, their method clearly evidenced a belief that Scripture possessed depth and richness. They believed that there were layers of meaning to the Bible that required disciplined effort to uncover.

Thomas Ward, a philosophy professor at Baylor, describes this way of reading as “cracking your head” on a book. While his discussion revolves around dense theological and philosophical texts, I think the metaphor works well for biblical interpretation. In his reading of Aquinas, Ward explains, “There was what I could get from the surface, but there was a hidden depth that one could only access by believing it was there.” If you read something and assume that you got it all on the first pass, why bother with re-reading? I don’t pour over my grocery list because I don’t believe there are any ‘hidden depths’ there; it’s just groceries. But there are other texts that deserve deeper reflection because they possess more beneath the surface. Ward suggests that we nurture a “persistent belief in the hidden depth of the texts.” And as brilliant as Aquinas or Calvin or Augustine were, shouldn’t we Christians be utterly convinced of the infinite depths of Holy Scripture? Here’s Ward’s concluding counsel for reading hard books, which I think is apt advice for reading Scripture: “If I think I understand something, I assume I'm only on the surface of it. To get closer to deep understanding, I need to move intellectually into a space in which I lack understanding. Feeling confused, then, is for me the sign that I'm getting closer to reality.” Again, feelings of confusion, dissonance, bewilderment—these are not signs of a wrong turn but actually indications that you are penetrating more deeply to the reality.

I can still recall sitting in a high school English class as we discussed Shakespeare (perhaps Macbeth?) and thinking how unlikely the interpretations being offered were. As teacher and students both engaged in, to my mind, quite fanciful dialogue about intended symbols or themes or what have you, I was dubious that Shakespeare had consciously intended such things. It all seemed like the creative ingenuity of the interpreters being foisted upon this work. (There is irony in the fact that I found it incredible that Shakespeare might have intended some or all of these things, yet I would have had no problem in granting some of my favorite artists, say Radiohead, complete intentionality in whatever creative depths were discerned in their music.) Reflecting now, I realize that, if anything, we were only skimming the surface of Shakespeare’s work. The level of depth and artistry, consciously intended by the man himself, is staggering. But I was blind to it because I lacked a belief in the ‘hidden depth’ of his work. Anything that exceeded my current capacities for comprehension or imagination—which were surely woefully underdeveloped at that age—seemed too incredible to possibly be intended by another human.

Don’t make that mistake with Holy Scripture. Assume that you are only seeing a fraction of what’s there in the text, and continue to look long after you think you’ve seen all that there is to see. Don’t panic if you begin to feel puzzled or bewildered. Continue peering into the depths. Sooner or later, you’ll grasp hold of something real.

1. This line is recounted by Eugene Peterson in Working the Angles: The Shape of Pastoral Integrity (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1987), 103.

2. A promising example of the kind of capacious rules that I have in mind can be found in Bobby Jamieson and Tyler Wittman’s new book Biblical Reasoning: Christological and Trinitarian Rules for Exegesis.