for all of my Reformed friends–no matter the type or level of your Reformedness:
is 1 Cor 2.6-16 (esp. 14-15/16) a key or central text for defending the inspiration and/or “illumination” of Scripture? if yes, how and why?
for all of my Reformed friends–no matter the type or level of your Reformedness:
is 1 Cor 2.6-16 (esp. 14-15/16) a key or central text for defending the inspiration and/or “illumination” of Scripture? if yes, how and why?
Let’s be honest: the book of Revelation (or, the Apocalypse) is a bit wild and even tantalizing, often resulting in confusion and debate. Unfortunately, these results persist due to the rather unhelpful (and other “un-” adjectives) interpretations of people like CI Scofield, Hal Lindsey, John Walvoord, and Harold Camping (just to name a few)–all of whom seem to find delight in debates, and who tend to read the text of Revelation through a predetermined (or pre-established) theological grid for the sake of maintaining that grid.
Fortunately, there are a handful of people who are committed to reading the text in a way that is sensitive to the history, culture, and theology of the time in which it appeared, with the hope of alleviating (some of) the confusion and debate, while allowing (most of) the wild and tantalizing bits to remain–primarily because they serve a purpose. Two of these people have written on the book of Revelation, and both now have lecture files available online for intellectual (and spiritual) consumption:
I cannot recommend either (or both) of these highly enough. While I have not listened to his lectures (yet), Beale’s work (especially his little pamphlet in the NIGTC series) was influential in my earlier studies and subsequent teaching of Revelation. I can only imagine that the lectures stress the needed balance between scholarship and pastoral concerns. And I can say that Mulholland’s lectures are worth every minute. He is engaging, insightful, knowledgeable, and deeply considerate of the needs of the students.
I need your help and would greatly value your input/insight. For the past two years (maybe more), I’ve been toying with the idea of writing commentaries on the NT–primarily, to begin with, the letters of Paul. I know: go figure. My plan is to start small(ish) and work my way toward the longer Pauline letters. I should say this plan also involves a consideration of the level of theological detail/content of the letters. In other words: I want to begin with letters that address only a small handful of topics and work my way through those where discussion is more involved. (NB: this is not to suggest that the ones with fewer topics are less important than the others). Accordingly, my tentative schedule is as follows:
However, when it comes to coverage and content, I’ve been rather stuck on what to include. There are loads of details that I find fascinating but would surely bore the socks off of just about everyone else. That is to say: I realize and accept that commentaries are not everyone’s cup of tea (or coffee) and that their often technical nature tends to be kryptonite for most would-be readers. Because of this, I thought it best to ask around and see what would be interesting or of value to readers. Hence, I need your help.
In the main, and if you are unfamiliar with commentaries, most writers will adhere to a general two-part format, which might include any number of sub-topics:
Riveting stuff, I know. By and large, this format and many of its features, specifically their content, reflect the ongoing dialogue between scholars in the field, with the hope that non-specialist wanderers will find it interesting or even informative. Moreover, the kinds of topics discussed–and the level at which they are discussed–are often determined by the aims or purpose of a given commentary series.
For example: the International Critical Commentary (ICC) series is geared more for academics while the Interpretation (Int) series is orientated more for pastors and church-goers. (NB: this is not to suggest that the Interpretation series is not academically minded; all of the contributors in this series are experts in their respective fields). For comparison, with regard to the letter to the Galatians: the ICC¹ expends 65 pages on introductory matters, while the Int² covers just shy of 11 pages. And in terms of total coverage, the Int falls short of 160 pages (excluding bibliography) and the ICC swells to just over 500 pages (excluding bibliography and indexes).
So, to come back round to my request for assistance: what kinds of things, or level of details, would you like to see in a NT commentary? What interests you? What bores you tears? What would be something that would enhance your reading and/or understanding of a NT text? What questions would you like answered–or at least addressed? What about style and/or format? I’m looking for insight from anyone who is willing to offer it, no matter if you are an expert in NT scholarship or if you have a scintilla of understanding about Christianity or somewhere in between. I would love to hear from you so that I can write for you.
¹ This refers to E. de Witt Burton’s 1920 commentary in the ICC series.
² This refers to C. Cousar’s 1982 commentary in the Int series.
I truly wish I was making this up, but alas it is legit. A Baptist College in Elgin, IL has flexed its well-defined complementarian muscles and organized study programs it deems appropriate for men and
Here is the “General Studies for Men” track:Ah yes, the obligatory course on “Appropriate Music”, which none of the three schools I went to offered. It’s no wonder I still have struggles in my life–with all that Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bizet, Tchaikovsky, and (heaven forbid) the modern Yo-yo Ma blaring in my ears all the time. Maybe I can audit that course… And I know prospective (male) students are saying, “
Dude, Brother, I can’t wait to take ‘Biblial Counseling’ my Senior Year!” I can only assume that 2 hours on “Church Epistles” either means an incredibly truncated look at NT epistles, which is sad, or how to write killer church newsletters. And why do I have a feeling that 3 hours on “Manuscript Evidences” (in conjunction with “Biblical Apologetics”) means: how to defend and honor the KJV against all the pagan corruptions (e.g. NIV, NASB, or even the Catholic “Spirit of the Reformation Bible”)?
And here is the “General Studies for Ladies” track:Wait, what happened to all the theology courses? The Church education? Or even “Biblial Counseling”? Oh, I forgot; we’re talking about ladies here, which means they only need to know “Basic Keyboarding” and “Word Processing” skills so that they can tackle that “Secretarial Elective” their Sophomore year–can’t waste time on all that heady, abstract, theology stuff. Moreover, they can’t lose any ground on “How to Rear Infants/Children”, which also means they need to know how to “Sew”(!). And if they’re feeling really ambitious, they can take 6 hours of a “Domestic Science Elective”, which, for PBC, I’m assuming means operating hi-tech appliances in the home. Why else would you give it a fancy title if it wasn’t something technical?
…this kind of stuff truly breaks my heart.
 Why they use an imbalanced pairing in terms is beyond me. One would think that if you’re going to use “men” then its natural pairing would be “women.” Or, if you’re going to use “ladies” then its natural pairing would be “gentlemen.”
 Turns out, I’m not too far off the mark. Here are some course descriptions that I can only assume fit the Elective:
“CE307: Advanced Cooking. This course is designed to give the student the skills necessary to work with large group meal preparation.”
“CE308: Advanced Sewing. This course is designed to further develop the basic skills found in CE 206 Sewing.”
“CE410: Home Maintenance. This course provides basic principles of home care to include principles of color, line, fabric and room arrangements. Students will be required to develop ideas for the arrangement of a variety of rooms and presentations.”
For a multitude of reasons, one of my favorite movies is “A Few Good Men.” Jenn and I, for a while, watched it as a weekly (or at least bi-monthly) ritual. Along with eating pizza. And quoting the entire movie. One of the more tragic exchanges in the movie is the cross-examination of Pfc. Louden Downey, especially right near the very end of it, which goes like this:
Ross: Now you say your assault on Private Santiago was the result of an order that Lt. Kendrick gave in your barracks room at 16:20, am I right?
Downey: Yes sir.
Ross: But you just said that you didn’t make it back to Windward Barracks until 16:45.
Ross: If you didn’t make it back to your barracks until 16:45, then how could you be in your room at 16:20?
Downey: You see, sir, there was a blowout…
And it goes downhill from there (fast). I say it’s tragic because Downey quickly realizes that he’s put himself in an inescapable position, one that has dire consequences, all the while believing he’s done the right thing. You’d have to see it, if you haven’t already.
In 2011, I attended the famed British New Testament Conference, that year held at the campus of University of Nottingham. For those unfamiliar with it, the Conference holds a handful of main sessions on random (but profound) topics and a number of seminar-like sessions devoted to specific topics in the NT. In the latter, the sessions could involve 1) seasoned scholars communicating their recent findings on a given subject or 2) doctoral students seeking an audience (and feedback) for their research topic.
One difficulty with these sessions is making choices, for a handful of topics might all sound interesting but their respective times overlap. I remember that year illustrating that very problem–i.e. there were a lot of good-sounding topics and many of them conflicting with each other, thus making my decisions difficult. One of the decisions, however, was easy to make and it fortunately did not overlap with another session. The topic (or, title of the paper): “Pressing on Towards the Goal: Ekphrasis in Phil 3:13-14 and the Aim of Philippians.” For us nerdy NT folk, such topics can be enticing.
The gist of the presentation was: 1) εκφρασις is a rhetorical device used as “a descriptive speech which vividly brings before the eyes [of the audience] the subject shown [by the speaker]“; 2) Paul’s letter to the Philippians elucidates a particular message for its audience, one that is to be grasped and implemented; 3) while the metaphor of Phil 3.13-14 is brief, it is used by Paul to illustrate concisely his overarching point; 4) thus, Phil 3.13-14 is an example of εκφρασις. Or to quote the presenter: “Paul is using vivid language to bring before the eyes of his audience an image of himself as a runner aiming his life singularly at the goal of gaining Christ.”
I have no real issues with the first three points of the argument, especially points 2 and 3. In fact, I appreciate what this reading does for understanding the letter as a whole. My beef, however, is with the final point. “Why?”, do you ask? Two related reasons: provenance and chronology. A third reason might be, weak (or unsubstantiated) assumptions, but I’ll leave those alone for now.
Throughout the presentation, the speaker (we’ll call him, “Joe”) used εκφρασις as though it were common-coin in the ancient world, especially among rhetoricians and thus knowable (and usable) by Paul. However, the above definition comes from a chap called, Aelius Theon and it is found in his book entitled, Progymnasmata. I should point out that “Joe” knows this to be the case, for he cites Theon’s work when he gives the definition. My problem is that “Joe” nowhere argues a case for Paul’s knowledge of Theon’s definition; he simply assumes that Paul uses it.
Moreover, what “Joe” does not disclose is that, on best guesses, Theon’s teaching (and writing) on rhetoric–and thus specifically the rhetorical use of εκφρασις–post-date Paul’s letter to the Philippians. So, if (according to the presenter of the paper) Theon’s teaching on the rhetorical use of εκφρασις post-dates Paul’s letter to the Philippians, how can we accept the conclusion that Paul uses εκφρασις–as defined by Theon–in his letter? This, to me, looks a lot like the Louden Downey problem all over again. My hope is that “Joe’s” (full) dissertation spells things out a bit more, thus avoiding this dilemma. I’ll have to wait and see, once he finishes it.
This is something I wrote for my brother early last year. It’s a brief(ish) exposition on John 3.16–the favorite verse placarded at football games. This exposition was mostly me thinking out loud. I’m completely open to further insights and/or criticisms.
1. Historical Setting
The meeting with Nicodemus takes place early in Jesus’ public ministry. To summarize: in Galilee, Jesus calls a small handful of disciples; with his disciples and mother, Jesus attends a wedding-feast in Cana (of Galilee), at which point he performs his first miracle—although the source or cause of the miracle is known only by the disciples; he then makes a short stay in Capernaum (15 miles east of Cana) before traveling roughly 80 miles south to Jerusalem, in order to attend the Passover. However, instead of celebrating Jesus is enraged by what is being done in the Temple, and his actions bring him into immediate conflict with the religious elite.
It is on the heels of this conflict that the meeting with Nicodemus occurs. Since 2.23 says Jesus remained in Jerusalem for the Passover, and since 3.22 says Jesus and his disciples traveled into the region of Judea, and since the encounter with Nicodemus falls between these passages; it is safe to assume that the conversation takes place while Jesus is still in Jerusalem. Whether or not the conversation occurred specifically in the Temple proper, we cannot be absolutely sure; it seems reasonable enough to assume that it happened somewhere within the Temple complex.
With regard to the meeting itself, two points should be noted. First, Nicodemus comes with an awareness of the “signs” (or miracles) that Jesus performed in the Temple (see 2.23). We can assume either that news about the “signs” quickly spread to Nicodemus or that he himself witnessed the “signs.” Second, Nicodemus meets with Jesus at night, most likely in an attempt to safeguard himself from the Jews, those angered by Jesus’ previous statements (see 2.18-20; cf. 19.38). Although it is entirely possible that Nicodemus came to Jesus at night because it would ensure an “uninterrupted conversation” (Beasley-Murray 1987: 47). Both of these points (i.e. “signs” and night-visit) will be crucial when we come to the question of theological themes.
2. Literary Relationship
John 3.1-21 is both preceded and followed by a discussion of Jesus’ identity, a discussion that pervades the entire Gospel narrative and one that has a specific goal (see 20.30-31). At the start of chapter 1, we read a theological summary of Jesus’ true identity, one that remains virtually unknown to many throughout the narrative. (Only the readers of the Gospel have knowledge of Jesus’ true identity). Following this we read various testimonies about Jesus, although they tend to be quite vague and even cryptic. Moreover, it becomes apparent in these instances that those testifying about Jesus are unaware of the full implications of what they are saying.
In chapter 2, we find illustrations of Jesus’ identity revealing itself in what he is able to do—e.g. water into wine, prophesying, performing signs and wonders. It is here that we find evidence of the disciples (and others witnessing the words and deeds of Jesus) as not fully aware of Jesus’ true identity; they simply marvel at what he does. In one text, John provides a parenthetical statement about the disciples’ later understanding of the events they witness now—see e.g. 2.20-22 (cf. 12.16). Then, following the dialogue with Nicodemus, we have John the Baptizer’s testimony about Jesus’ identity, although once again we are confronted with vague and cryptic remarks (see 3.22-36). However, despite the vagueness, these testimonies function as clues for understanding Jesus’ identity as the Gospel unfolds.
Between the descriptions of what Jesus is able to do and who he is, there is a discussion of why Jesus came. This specific discussion is the dialogue between Nicodemus and Jesus, where the conversation begins with a question of identity but quickly moves to the topic of purpose. To say this differently: we see how Jesus’ identity is necessarily connected with his role in God’s plan of salvation, a plan that remains hidden but is being revealed in and through Jesus. Absolutely central to this conversation is the dilemma of how one is able to know Jesus’ true identity and purpose, and it is here we find a necessary distinction between ways of knowing.
3. Logical Structure
Based on the content and flow of the passage, John 3.1-21 divides fairly evenly. In the first half (3.1-11) we have Nicodemus (and ostensibly a select group of Jews—many of the pronouns in this section are plural) expressing a particular view of who Jesus is. It becomes obvious that this view is inadequate or even faulty, and the failure stems from an improper way of understanding or interpreting reality. In the second half (3.12-21) we have Jesus (and ostensibly his disciples—cf. 3.11 and Jesus’ use of “we”) expressing an alternate view, one that is perfectly adequate or reasonable—and not simply because Jesus is the one giving it. It is adequate or reasonable because it is consistent with the proper way of understanding or interpreting reality, and in this case that proper way is shaped by God’s revealed wisdom.
4. Theological Themes
In terms of order, the first theme to recognize is the tension between darkness and light. As noted earlier, Nicodemus “came to him [Jesus] at night” (3.2). While it might be historically the case, John’s interest in the time of the encounter is more theological. John has already used “darkness” as a description for the state of the world at the time of Christ’s incarnation, which he further describes as “light” coming into the world (see 1.4-5, 9-10). Moreover, the “darkness” is portrayed as unable to know (or comprehend) the “light,” and as a result the “darkness” rejects the “light.” The sting of 3.11 is that while Nicodemus and some of the Jews are sympathetic to Jesus because of his deeds (cf. 2.23; 3.2b), they remain opposed to him because they reject his testimony concerning who he is (see Lincoln 2005: 152). This introduces the second theme.
John 2 ends with Jesus not trusting those who only came to him because of the “signs” he performed (see Haenchen 1984: 1.192), a theme that reappears in the Gospel (e.g. 4.46-48; 6.14-15, 25-27). In short: faith dependent upon “signs” (or miracles) is neither a stable nor adequate faith (see Bultmann 1971: 131). Moreover, such faith operates according to a particular way of understanding or interpreting reality—especially the things of God—and this way is insufficient. However, it is this faith (or belief) and this particular way of understanding that stand behind Nicodemus’ question and dialogue with Jesus. Nicodemus understands only on a superficial (tangible?) level, which therefore hinders his ability to understand Jesus’ (hidden) meaning. For Jesus, true belief (or true faith) is about seeing beyond the “signs” and coming into the presence of the one who has the power and authority to perform them (see 6.32-40, 51-58).
This (in)ability to see beyond the superficial represents the third theme: the tension between ignorance and knowledge. Jesus’ refusal to trust those only seeking “signs” is said to be rooted in his knowledge of “what was in man” (2.25), which suggests a knowledge of identity and purpose, whereas Nicodemus’ failure to understand Jesus’ teaching is rooted in an improper way of knowing. In other words: Nicodemus is ignorant of God’s revelation in Jesus whereas Jesus has full knowledge of God’s wisdom. To put it yet another way: Nicodemus attempts to know God’s wisdom via human efforts or reasoning (bottom-up), while Jesus says such wisdom can only be known by God’s revelation (top-down). Thus, only by a transformation of mind can one know God’s wisdom and thereby his salvation, which results in entering the kingdom (see 3.3, 5; cf. 3.13; Rom 12.1-2; 1 Cor 2.10-12). Hence, one must be “born from above” (3.3).
Closely associated with this is the last theme: the tension between death and (eternal) life. Throughout the conversation the emphasis falls on (eternal) life, with death being primarily an implication (cf. 3.16, which contains the only [direct] reference to death in the entire passage). It is worth noting that the discussion on (eternal) life occurs in the context of God’s kingdom, God’s revelation, God’s salvation in Jesus, and the appropriate way for understanding all of these things. Moreover, it is no mistake that only here in John’s Gospel is (eternal) life necessarily linked with Jesus’ identity and purpose (see Brown 1971: 1.147; Ridderbos 1997: 136-39) and true belief in Jesus’ identity and purpose as the only way to (eternal) life (cf. Acts 4.12). We see this in 3.14b where Jesus affirms: “it is necessary for the Son of Man to be lifted up”, with the reason for the necessity given in 3.15: “so that whoever believes in him might have eternal life.” Thus, the possibility of (eternal) life is dependent upon Christ being “lifted up” (i.e. crucified) and participation in that (eternal) life is dependent upon belief in both the purpose and work of Christ.
This is nothing but a quick rant. More like a sucker-punch, really. While reading through Carson & Moo’s, An Introduction to the New Testament (as you do on a Wednesday morning), particularly the chapter on the Corinthian letters (go figure), I found this rather strange observation:
Both Corinthian epistles are occasional letters, that is, they are letters addressed to specific people and occasioned by concrete issues
–Carson-Moo, Introduction (2005), 415.
This is strange because, with the possible exception of Ephesians (though I’m not convinced that it is an exception), all of Paul’s letters are occasional. So why specifically designate–or single out–only the Corinthians letters as “occasional”? Is it because those letters address more problems in one go than the other letters do? If so, that in itself does not necessarily make them more “occasional” than the others and thus worthy of the description. It simply means the Corinthians had more problems, and the proliferation of problems in one location is (essentially) the occasion for writing… four letters.
Poor form, guys. Poor form.
 Admittedly, Carson-Moo acknowledge this point later (see 490), but they hardly do anything with it. In fact, the acknowledgement reads more like a throw-away line than anything else.
At present, because I have a little spare time before my viva, I’m reading two different commentaries (as you do): one on Matthew (by R.T. France) and the other on 1-2 Thessalonians (by L.L. Morris). In both I was struck by particular lines of argument on specific points (different ones, of course) and was, quite frankly, unimpressed. My umimpressedness was not necessarily due to the specific arguments themselves, rather it was because of the underlying (and unexplained/unjustified) reasons supporting them. Let me explain.
A common approach for associating Mark’s Gospel with a Gentile (i.e. non-Jewish) audience is to point out the frequent authorial explanations of Jewish practices and terms (e.g. Mk 5.41; 7.3-4, 34; 12.18; 15.22, 34, 43). The gist of the argument is: Mark would not need to offer such explanations if he were writing to a (predominantly) Jewish audience. Fair enough.
A similar line of argument is used (albeit in the opposite direction) for associating Matthew’s Gospel with a Jewish audience: apart from the decidedly Jewish genealogy (and its usage), the persistent appeal to the Hebrew scriptures, and the allusive parallels between Jesus and Moses (or Mosaic traditions); Matthew leaves unexplained the key Jewish practices and terms (e.g. Mt 1.21; 5.22; 15.2; 23.5; 27.6), and he employes ideas and concepts that would resonate strongly with a Jewish audience (e.g. “son of David”, “kingdom of heaven”, “lost sheep of the house of Israel”). Thus, so the argument goes: the best explanation for this is that Matthew is writing to a (predominantly) Jewish audience–a line of argument that France adopts (and obviously accepts). Again, fair enough.
But then France says this (pp. 68-69–emphasis added):
Alongside this very striking concentration on introducing Jesus as the fulfillment of the Old Testament runs a higher note: Jesus is the Son of God. This, one of the main themes of Matthew’s Gospel as a whole, is clearly implied by his stress on the conception of Jesus by the Holy Spirit (1:18, 20), and by the name Immanuel, “God with us” (1:23), and becomes explicit in 2:15 and 3:17, from which it is taken up to become the central theme of the testing of Jesus in 4:1-11.
Here’s what troubles me: when he addresses 1.23 in particular, specifically the name Immanuel and its emphatic links with Isaiah (see pp. 79-80), France says nothing about Matthew’s need to offer a translation of the name. (NB: France leaves off the key bit of the verse–i.e. “which translated means”). Why would a term like “Immanuel”, with strong ties with Isaianic (i.e. Jewish) prophecy need to be defined for a (predominantly) Jewish audience? More to the point: why does France (p. 17) allow for a shared understanding between Matthew and his audience of the name “Jesus” (1.21) yet not offer the same allowance for Immanuel? I’m asking in earnest; I’m not trying to be cheeky (for once).
One of the more sticky passages in Paul’s letters is 2Thess 2.6-7, particularly the identity of the so-called “restrainer”. I’ve been working on a slightly longer post dealing with that particular translation, so there will be more details about it later. For now, suffice to say that commentators have almost categorically translated the term, κατεχω as “restrain”. But this is not the only translation. Morris, thankfully, acknowledges the three possible ways in which κατεχω can be used (p. 130):
The verb can mean (a) “to hold fast” (as in 1 Thes 5:21), (b) “to hold back” (as in Phm 13), (c) “to hold sway” (if intransitive).
While I am grateful for Morris recognizing these possibilities, something not usually done, he immediately goes on to say this (p. 130–emphasis added):
D.W.B. Robinson argues for this third meaning, but the verb does not have this meaning elsewhere in the New Testament and not many have been convinced.
With all due respect to Morris (and I do respect a lot of his work), this twofold response is not a good counterargument; it’s not even a good argument. The second part operates on the (unjustified) assumption that wide acceptance of a particular translation equals right/correct translation. That seems to be flirting dangerously with argumentum populum. But it’s the first part of Morris’ counterargument that bothers me.
Just because κατεχω is not used intransitively elsewhere in the New Testament does not exclude the possibility that Paul is using it intransitively here in 2Thess 2.6-7. Not only is Paul known for hapax legomena, but he is also know for taking familiar terms and applying to them rare (if not obscure) meanings (cf. e.g. 1 Cor 2.4). Moreover, in arguing for the authenticity of the eschatology in 2 Thessalonians, Morris acknowledges that “[Paul] is just the kind of thinker to come up with an idea that nobody else in the early church could have produced” (p. 27). So, if creativity is allowed to Paul on the concept level, why does Morris not extend the same allowance at the word level–especially when there is plenty of evidence to suggest that Paul was lexically creative? Besides, being create with concepts seems to require creativity in language to articulate those concepts.
 Yes, I do think Paul wrote 2 Thessalonians. Don’t agree with me? No worries; you are entitled to do so. Don’t like it? Sorry you feel that way.
This post continues my foray into the Synoptic Problem debate; the first being found here. As mentioned earlier, the view of Markan priority is integral to “solving” the Synoptic Problem. In general, I accept the basic twofold premise that 1) the Synoptic Gospels have similarities and difference and 2) that these can be explained by some type of sharing of material–whether it be the Synoptics themselves or other sources (or both). However, because Luke’s Gospel is the only one that expressly mentions reliance on other sources (Lk 1.1-4–especially 1.1-2), I am approaching the debate by only focusing on the Gospels of Matthew and Mark and their relationship. Specifically: on the basis of internal (i.e. textual) evidence, can either Matthean or Markan priority be established? Or: who used whom? Or, more controversially: can it be proven that one even used the other?
Moreover, I am coming at this debate without committing myself to any one explanation about either the details or the whole. In other words, I am not presuming literary or oral dependence as either dichotomous or exclusively adequate explanations for the similarities and differences in Matthew and Mark. If it turns that one option happens to explain the evidence better, then so be it. My point is that I am not going to consider the evidence in a “Literary dependence is the best method, so let’s apply it to the Gospels” sort of way. That seems to presume the adequacy of the method before it is even tested. Alternatively, if both options (i.e. literary and oral dependence) sufficiently account for the evidence, then that possibility must also be allowable.
For my study of this debate, I decided to take the (rather unpopular) tack of questioning Markan priority. Before rocks are snatched up and arms cocked, let me qualify that statement: specifically, I am concerned with the particular arguments commonly employed by scholars for Markan priority.¹ Accordingly, my focus is primarily an investigation of the arguments used to get to Markan priority, and I take this as my focus because a number of questions/problems seem to arise from within the arguments themselves. In saying this I am not suggesting that all of the arguments are questionable or problematic; some of them are quite good. I am merely pointing out that some are not so good. Thus, any disagreements with specific arguments should not be read as attacks on the whole of Markan priority.
The interlocutor for today’s post is Udo Schnelle and one particular argument he provides in his, History and Theology of the New Testament Writings (1998). After briefly tracing the history of solutions to the Synoptic Problem, and implicitly denying each one along the way (see 162-66), Schnelle launches into a discussion on the “Two-Source Hypothesis” (see 166-72). For those unaware, this hypothesis operates on two key assumptions: 1) Mark’s Gospel was written first, and 2) Matthew and Luke used Mark and another source–i.e. “Q”–when composing/compiling their respective accounts. To address both of these points, and having already hinted at it in his historical survey (see 164), thus anticipating the discussion here, Schnelle contends:
One compelling argument for the priority of Mark is the order of pericopes in the Synoptics. (166–emphasis original)
Personally, this specific claim is a bit problematic. I say that partly because this particular line of argument is not the best place to start, and partly because the order of pericopes–in and of itself–says nothing about textual priority. Something more fundamental needs to be established before making this type of claim or before this argument carries any weight.² But I’ll let it stand for now. As a supporting example, Schnelle immediately follows this contention by pointing out:
From 12.1 on, Matthew clearly follows the Markan order of pericopes when he takes over Markan material. (166-67)
In saying “Matthew clearly follows the Markan order” and “he takes over Markan material” (my emphasis) Schnelle is asserting the pre-existence of Mark and its use by Matthew at the literary level. However, this supporting example only works if Markan priority is already assumed and being used, yet Markan priority is what is (supposedly) being established by this supporting example. By arguing in this way, a methodological (and logical) flaw is exposed: the argument must rely on or assume Markan priority in order to establish Markan priority via Matthew’s use of Markan material. This smells like petitio principii. Thus, I do not find this particular argument “compelling”.
¹ In the spirit of E.P. Sanders (i.e. Paul and Palestinian Judaism), though not agreeing with all he says, I think it is a good thing to reconsider the long-standing arguments and to test their adequacy.
² To measure consistency or divergence when following an order is to assume the existence of a pre-existing and established order, but the reasons for that assumption are conspicuously absent.
Once this post goes live I’m bound to get an ear-full from Gospels scholars, particularly those of the Markan priority type. But no matter. A little disagreement is good every now and then. As long as it’s constructive.
For the past two weeks I’ve been (re-)exploring the world of Gospels scholarship, specifically the discussions on the so-called “Synoptic Problem” and the priority of Mark. In the majority of cases, the view of Markan priority (i.e. Mark’s Gospel was the first to be written and then used by Matthew and Luke) is integral to “solving” the Synoptic Problem. The two big questions that have bugged me for a while, and they are the ones fueling my (re-)exploration, are: 1) are the arguments for Markan priority really that good/persuasive, and 2) on the basis/assumption that Matthew and Luke used Mark, did Mark use any sources or is he exempt from relying on such things?
To stir the pot a little (with an industrial blender), I am finding myself not being persuaded by most of the arguments for Markan priority–i.e. I don’t think they’re all that good. I’ll have to come back to that discussion later, for it will take a little more time to develop. Based on what I’ve seen thus far, I can say the same thing for the case for Mark’s use of source. For this post, I am going to consider one argument (=piece of “evidence”) related to that case. The argument comes from B.H. Branscomb (The Gospel of Mark , xxiii) and runs as follows–with running commentary by yours truly:
The series of conflicts between Jesus and the Jewish religious leaders narrated in ii.1–iii.6 evidently came to the editor [of the Gospel] in written form. . . .
How this is evident is not clearly defined, but I’ll let it slide for now–unless it’s evident in a petitio principii sort of way.
This is generally accepted. . . .
That’s news to me, but then again I’ve spent the majority of my academic research in Pauline studies. Admittedly, this “generally accepted” remark was made in 1937 and things may have changed since then. Or maybe they haven’t. Anyone?
But the source from which this came also contributed some further material. . . .
So, based on everything said so far, we’re dealing with a (supposed) written source from which the editor of the Gospel of Mark gleaned information. Okie dokie.
For in xii.13 there appears another conflict episode introduced by a reference to the combination of Pharisees and Herodians against Jesus with which iii.6 closes. The Herodians as a party are not mentioned elsewhere in ancient literature. . . .
Hang on a minute. You can’t say “The Herodians as a party are not mentioned elsewhere in ancient literature” after contending that the conflict story which mentions the Herodians is derived from a written source which came to the editor’s attention. Had you said, “The Herodians as a party are not mentioned elsewhere in ancient extant literature” that would be fine, because you already admitted that the other “sources” used are no longer extant. But you didn’t, and that’s not fine–especially if we’re using the details of your argument. In other words: if we accept that the editor used a written source, and that written source mentions the Herodians, then they are “mentioned elsewhere in ancient literature”, despite the fact we longer possess that source as independent testimony.
Nowhere else does Mark mention this combination of opponents, nor do the contents of either section suggest their names. . . .
Yeah, so? Nowhere else, outside of 7.26, does Mark mention the Syrophoenician race. Are we to assume that Mark (or the editor of) could only obtain knowledge about such people from written sources? I just don’t see the necessity for that assumption, or the one in the previous claim (of Branscomb, that is).
It seems plain that there is a connection between the two passages, and the influence of a written source would seem to be the natural explanation. . . .
“Big deal” to the first half, and “No it doesn’t” to the second. It does only if you’re already assuming the use of a written source, but that’s starting to slide into petitio principii.
But how much more this document supplied, whether the one additional episode only, or the section from xii.13 to xii.34, cannot be said with assurance.
That’s it?! Hardly a convincing case. No real arguments outside of suppositions.
Branscomb’s got seven more pieces of “evidence” that presumably prove the existence of (written) sources behind Mark’s Gospel. If the remaining seven are anything like this one, in the words of Prince Humperdinck: “I’ll shall be very put out.”