ABSTRACT

There is clearly much more to be said about classic texts than that they have not, for the most part at least, been regarded as Scripture.1 This chapter therefore begins by discussing some other answers to the question. This is not simply for the purpose of defining terms, but because these answers reveal much about the way in which Christians have, in fact, gone about the practice of reading classic texts and, no less importantly, the process whereby certain texts have become classic. The concept of a ‘classic’ Christian text usually implies orthodoxy and a perceived

coherence with Scripture. Indeed, a classic text might derive its authority largely or partly from being an interpretation of Scripture (to take two very different examples: Bernard of Clairvaux’s Sermons on the Song of Songs or Karl Barth’s Commentary on Romans). But it is worth noting that what is orthodox for one Christian tradition might not be orthodox for another and that many a text will cohere with a specific interpretation of Scripture that might not be a universal one. (Not all Christians will accept the allegorical method of interpretation that Bernard uses to read the Song of Songs, nor the particular mystical theology that forms and is formed by it.) Thus, while there is a fairly broad consensus between Christians about the contents of the biblical canon – give or take a few books – there is by no means a similar consensus about a list of Christian ‘classic texts’. On the other hand, not all orthodox Christian texts can be regarded as classic

texts – a little-read treatise seems not to qualify. By a ‘classic’, one seems to mean a text that has played an important role in the (or a) Christian tradition. In other words, an understanding of reception – and thus of practice – is built into the notion of a ‘classic’. There are both stronger and weaker examples of this kind of reception. Most strongly, there are texts that have become foundation documents for Christianity or for a particular Christian tradition. For example, the version of the Nicene Creed received at Constantinople in 381 has been read by Christians as normative for the way in which they understand the relationship of Jesus Christ to God the Father. It is not only normative as a formula of words around which like-minded Christians could unite, but also as a rule by which to read Scripture (thus the members of the Council of Chalcedon in 451 clearly understood their role as reading the Bible through the Niceno-Constantinopolitan Creed and providing further

clarification where it seemed ambiguous). Furthermore, some creeds became classic texts for certain groups because they excluded other Christian communities, whether unintentionally or intentionally. For example, the fathers who formulated Chalcedon clearly intended to exclude some views and individuals, but it is highly unlikely that they intended the Creed to lead to schism as it did (because various eastern church communities thought its definition stressed the unity of Christ too little or too much). Other formulas of faith were specifically conceived to define a certain community over against another – some of the confessions drawn up in the Reformation fit this pattern, for example, although whether any particular confession should be read mainly as a rejection of certain other church communities or as an attempt to retrieve or return to what is crucially important about Christianity is an arguable point. Other classic texts have become normative for a particular Christian tradition not

because they were formulated to exclude opponents, but because they were drawn up for a limited group who saw themselves as having a particular role: for example, the monastic rules of Basil or Benedict have become classic texts for those communities following them and have come to be read as if they were founding documents of a particular kind of Christian tradition. Besides creeds, confessions and rules there are other classic texts of a more strictly theological nature that have been so influential on a particular tradition and so intimately bound up with its identity that they might be read as (partially) defining it: for example, the sermons of Gregory Nazianzus and John Chrysostom, Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, the writings of Luther, or Calvin’s Institutes. More weakly, one might suggest that a classic text is not necessarily one that has

founded a particular Christian tradition, but is one that has stood the test of time. For example one might point to the way that Augustine’s Confessions, or his City of God have proved themselves as great theological works over many centuries. Like the idea of a founding document, the notion of standing the test of time relies on the notion of reception – readers continue to read The City of God with excitement 1,500 years after it was written. The idea of durability also excludes books which are wildly popular for a short time but then sink into oblivion, but it also perhaps tacitly acknowledges that there could have been some other classic texts that are now lost. The notion of reception is more explicit in the idea that a classic text has not only

stood the test of time but has been accepted by a substantial number of people as classic. This does not, of course, mean that all Christians or even a majority need to accept a text for it to become a classic – theological disagreements and problems of literacy levels make this too high a bar to clear. But it seems that a certain weight of theological opinion needs to lie behind a classic text. That does not necessarily mean, incidentally, that a theologian agrees with everything in a classic text in order to regard it as a classic: a Protestant could easily regard Aquinas’ Summa as a classic text without agreeing with everything in it; modern Reformed churches can regard Calvin’s Institutes as a classic text whilst having a lively critical approach to its reading, interpretation, and application. Finally, the notion of a classic text seems to imply that it has stood the test of time

and has been received positively by many people because of its inherent qualities. That is, it is not coincidence that such a text has been received so positively; rather,

it has been received positively because it has proved to be fruitful. It has, for example, founded a lasting Christian community who continue to identify themselves by it, or it is complex and bears frequent re-reading which reveals new aspects of it, or it has stimulated further creative theological thought, or it has inspired certain kinds of moral action or reflection. As we shall see, a theological classic is often regarded as having the capacity to speak meaningfully to readers today – although that will not necessarily mean that one can apply it directly to modern problems in a simple way. The advice that ‘you will know them by their fruits’ (Mt. 7:20) could as easily apply to Christian texts as individual persons – although the difficulties of discerning a ‘good fruit’ remain the same. Thus, I am arguing that a classic text in Christian theology is a non-Scriptural text

which has been received by a Christian community or communities as a broadly orthodox expression of its faith and which has played and continues to play an important role in the development of a Christian tradition or traditions – that is, it has been fruitful either in terms of practice or theory. I would however emphasize a few further cautions. First, as I have implied, a text

accepted as ‘classic’ by one tradition will not necessarily be accepted as such by another: thus a Lutheran and a Greek Orthodox believer will probably have different opinions about the writings of both Luther and Gregory Nazianzus. Many Christians will be completely ignorant of texts which are classic for certain Christian traditions: for example, few Western Christians know the Doctrine of Addai which has immense importance for Syriac Christianity, tracing its origins back to King Agbar who, it has said, welcomed the disciple Addai (Thaddeus) into his kingdom. Second, although I have suggested that a text needs to have stood the test of time

to a certain extent, that does not mean that a text which is classic now has always been a classic. Throughout Christian history there has been a rich and fruitful process of the rediscovery of certain texts which have been overlooked (or, at least, overlooked by some traditions) but which have later (re)gained a classic status. Notable (but very different) examples include the Western European rediscovery of Origen by Renaissance scholars; the re-reading of classic texts of the English civil war (such as Winstanley’s The New Law of Righteousness) in the light of twentiethcentury interests in Marxism and liberation theology; and Christian feminists’ retrieval of women’s voices in neglected or rediscovered texts, such as the Book of Margery Kempe. The whole ressourcement movement of the twentieth century, under the influence of scholars such as Étienne Gilson, Jean Daniélou, and Henri de Lubac, sought to get back to the sources of the Christian tradition by making texts by Greek and lesser-read Latin church fathers more readily available; it was hugely influential on the shape of Catholic and other theology more generally. Currently, there is a movement in Evangelical Protestant circles – especially in North America – to renew both scholarly and lay interest in the early church fathers, after their neglect as ‘classic texts’ in comparison with the texts of the Bible and the Reformation.2