The History of Theological Education

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The

History of

Theological

Education

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The History of theological education

Copyright © 2015 by Abingdon Press

All rights reserved.

No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted by the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be addressed to Permissions, Abingdon Press, 2222 Rosa L. Parks Blvd., Nashville, TN 37228 or [email protected].

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

González, Justo L.

   The history of theological education / Justo L. González.

      1 online resource.

   Includes bibliographical references and index.

   Description based on print version record and CIP data provided by publisher; resource not viewed.

   ISBN 978-1-4267-8778-2 (epub)—ISBN 978-1-4267-8191-9 (print)

   1. Theology—Study and teaching—History. 2. Theology—Study and teaching—United States. I. Title.

   BV4023

   230.071—dc23

2014041386

All scripture quotations unless otherwise noted are taken from the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright 1989, Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Primary source quotations marked AT are the author’s own translations of the works.

MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

Contents

Preface

Introduction

1. The Early Church

2. The Catechumenate

3. From Constantine to the Germanic Invasions

4. The Romanization of the Germanic Peoples

5. Early Medieval Schools

6. The Beginnings of Scholasticism

7. The Universities and Scholasticism

8. The Last Centuries of the Middle Ages

9. In Quest of Alternatives

10. The Protestant Reformation

11. The Catholic Reformation

12. Protestant Scholasticism and Rationalism

13. The Pietist Reaction

14. Modern Theological Education

15. A Brief Overview

16. Bringing It Home

Preface

Afew years ago, I received an invitation from the Seminario Nacional Teológico Presbiteriano in Mexico City to conduct a workshop for its faculty and for colleagues in other institutions in Mexico. The subject they wished me to address was the history of theological education. Later, when I was invited by Columbia Theological Seminary, in Decatur, Georgia, to deliver their annual Smyth lectures, I took the opportunity to continue reflection on that subject and also to relate it more closely with the challenges that theological education faces in the United States.

This book is the result of my research and reflection for those occasions. Therefore I dedicate it to my colleague and friends, some in Mexico and some in Decatur, who either directly or indirectly have forced me to look anew at the history of theological education in the Christian church. Foremost among them is my wife, Dr. Catherine G. González, who is herself a professor emerita of church history at Columbia Theological Seminary and who had the patience to read my manuscript more than once and the grace and wisdom to suggest many valuable corrections.

To all of you, thank you!

Decatur

First Sunday in Advent, 2013

Introduction

This book is built on four basic premises. The first is that some form of theological education is part of the very essence of the church. The first great commandment calls on the church as a whole, and on every believer in particular, to love God with all our minds. This means that theological inquiry is not to be regarded as an interesting pastime for curious people but rather as an act of devotion and obedience to God. At the same time, however, the second great commandment implies that such inquiry is not to be only for our individual benefit but also for the benefit of others. The love of God is not really such without the love of neighbor. Therefore, good theology always has a communal dimension. It is developed within the context of the church as it seeks to experience and enjoy God and to proclaim God’s love for the world.

Given this communal nature of theology, it follows that in a broad sense good theology is always expressed in theological education—in letting believers know what the church as a whole knows. Good theology seeks to communicate itself, to be part of the church, to bring other believers to know and experience what it knows and experiences.

This is the first premise of this book, that not only theology but also theological education is part of the essence of the church. Or, to put it bluntly, that a church without theology and theological education is falling far short of its calling.

The second premise is that theological education as we have understood it in the last few centuries is in crisis. While, as we shall see further on, this crisis is multidimensional, it may be verified by simply looking at enrollment in seminaries and schools of theology.

In this respect, the Roman Catholic crisis is profound. The lack of candidates for the priesthood is appalling. Very few traditionally Catholic countries—not even Ireland—produce enough priests to meet their own needs, much less to supply the needs of others. In Europe, the United States, and most of Latin America, seminaries and schools of theology that used to have hundreds of students now graduate less than a dozen a year. A few years ago, when I spoke at one of the most prestigious Catholic schools of theology in the United States, the graduating class included only eight candidates for the priesthood. Furthermore, the fewer priests there are, the more they must spend their time in ritual and sacramental functions, and the less personal contact they have with their flock. This in turn makes the priesthood even less attractive to young men considering a vocation of service, thus making the crisis even more acute.

Protestants are often tempted to think that the Roman Catholic crisis is due to clerical celibacy and the refusal to ordain women. Certainly, this is part of the equation. But it is not all of it. There is an old Spanish saying: Cuando veas las bardas de tu vecino arder, pon las tuyas en remojo—when you see your neighbor’s fence burning, douse yours, because neighbors have a common fence. The fire on the Catholic side of the fence is already smoldering on the Protestant side. In mainline Protestant denominations in the United States, the problem is not so much lack of pastors as it is lack of pulpits as rural churches disappear or merge, as congregations decline in urban settings, and as the ordained ministry loses the social prestige it had a few decades ago. As a result, denominational seminaries are finding recruitment of candidates for ordination among their traditional constituencies ever more difficult. In many, the crisis is hidden by one or more of three factors or strategies. The first is the—still relatively small—recruitment of ethnic minorities. In some Presbyterian and Methodist schools, the influx of Korean students ameliorates the situation, while in a few seminaries of other denominations the presence of Hispanic students has the same effect. Second, a number of mainline seminaries have turned to recruiting students from denominations that do not require an MDiv degree for ordination and developing programs for them. Third, some institutions have developed DMin programs that temporarily bring up their numbers—although it is evident that, as the pool of people with an MDiv diminishes, recruitment for the DMin will become ever more difficult and competitive.

If to such issues in recruitment one adds financial difficulties, questions regarding relevance, and the fact that the churches that have traditionally required a seminary degree are by and large the same denominations whose membership is rapidly declining, it is clear that theological education as commonly conceived—essentially as the work of educational institutions dedicated to training for the ordained ministry and accredited by organizations such as the Association of Theological Schools (ATS)—is in crisis.

The third premise serves to qualify the second, for it is that, while theological education in the sense of that traditional establishment is in crisis, theological education in a wider sense is not. The day after I spoke at that Catholic school of theology graduating eight candidates for the priesthood, I attended the graduation of a lay training program conducted in the same city and mostly by the same faculty. There was row upon row of graduates, and the crowd attending the event filled the cathedral to overflowing. Likewise, some years ago The United Methodist Publishing House produced a series of studies—

Disciple: Becoming Disciples through Bible Study

(1),

Disciple: Into the Word into the World

(2), and so forth—that required participants to make a firm commitment to weeks of study and participation in group sessions. Its success has been spectacular, expanding far beyond the limits of The United Methodist Church. The recent release of Covenant Bible Study is another example of committed learning and the cultivation of faith’s wisdom in a small group context. Like

Disciple

, weekly gatherings add a conversational approach to scripture study that is disciplined by daily reading and informed by thoughtful video examples of scholars and pastors discussing the Bible around a shared table. Similar stories could be repeated almost ad infinitum. Everywhere there are programs of lay theological education, Bible study groups, online courses, and much more. And, in terms of numbers,most of them have little difficulty recruiting students. Indeed, in this context the crisis is not in recruitment but rather in quality control—in the proliferation of programs offered by those who, as Gregory the Great would say, claim to be teachers of what they have never learned.

Finally, the fourth premise is that the study of the history of theological education—particularly of theological education in the wider sense—is one of the best tools we can use for guidance into the future. Such study will help us see that much that we take for granted as necessary may not be so—reminding us, for instance, that for fifteen centuries the church subsisted, taught its theology, and at times flourished, without a single seminary. It will warn us of some of the pitfalls into which others have stumbled. It will suggest new avenues and vistas for theological education—avenues patterned after past successes and avoiding past shortcomings and vistas widening the horizon and scope of theological education.

It is on the basis of these four premises—and of several others, probably many hidden even to myself—that this book is written.

1. The Early Church

As we look at the past of theological education, we must begin by acknowledging that the New Testament does not offer much useful data. There is no doubt that the years of Jesus’s public ministry were a time during which his immediate followers were preparing for ministry. Later on, when Peter suggests that somebody be chosen to fill the vacancy left by Judas (Acts 1:15-26), he sets requirements for that post. (Interestingly, one of these requirements is that the candidate must have been with Jesus since the very beginning of his ministry to the very end, and this is a requirement that very few among the eleven fill.) So they cast lots in order to elect this new person—not a method many would recommend today! Later the congregation in Jerusalem chooses seven, but we are not told what training or formation the seven may have had. Furthermore, the seven are supposed to be administering the aid to the widows, but at least two of them—Stephen and Phillip—end up preaching. Still later Paul chooses Timothy, who has received some training from his mother and grandmother. The Pastoral Epistles mention some of the characteristics that bishops and deacons must have, but there is no word about how they are to be trained or taught.

Even after the period of the New Testament, we are told little about ministerial training, although there is much we may infer. First, there is no doubt that in order to lead worship one had to be able to read. Christian worship on Sunday mornings, which usually lasted several hours, had two parts, the Service of the Word and the Service of the Table. In order to lead in the latter, it was necessary to know at least something about the history of Israel and the work of God in the gospel, particularly since the person presiding had to lead in the great Eucharistic prayer, in which God was thanked for all the divine mercies, not only in the present but also from the very beginning of creation.

But in order to preside at the Service of the Word one had to know more. Certainly, it was necessary to know how to read, since most of the service consisted of scripture readings. We know that the literacy index in the Greco-Roman cities—which was where Christianity first made headway—was low, as might be expected. It is estimated that in the Latin-speaking provinces the index of literacy was between 5 and 10 percent.¹ But there are also indications that most people in the church were women, or men belonging to the lower echelons of society. Except in the very high levels of society, few Greco-Roman women knew how to read. Among slaves and artisans, who did not need to read and in any case would have little use for literacy, illiteracy was common. The main exceptions were the slaves who served as tutors for children in wealthy families—the pedagogues—and those merchants and artisans who had to use the rudiments of writing in order to keep their accounts and to sustain the communications necessary for their business. Therefore, there would be few among the members of the early church who knew how to read, and it was from among these few that bishops were elected, since one of the main functions of a bishop was to preside over worship. (Hermas, whose brother was bishop of Rome toward the middle of the second century, was a slave, although sufficiently learned to write the book that is known now as The Shepherd. Although he does not tell us what his duties were as a slave, it is quite likely that he was a pedagogue or at least an amanuensis for his masters. The status of his brother Pius is not known. Since Hermas was a slave, it is most likely that Pius was also a slave—or, if not, a freedman.)

Furthermore, the Service of the Word required not only the reading of scripture but also its interpretation. Those who had some secular studies, especially in the field of rhetoric, were particularly able to perform these functions, since a goodly part of rhetorical studies was devoted to the interpretation of ancient Greek and Roman poets and other authors. The principles of interpretation that would apply to those classical texts in the field of rhetoric were also useful for the interpretation of biblical passages during the Service of the Word. (This is why many of the allegorical interpretations of scripture that theologians of the time were prompt to offer, although very strange from our point of view, were perfectly acceptable for those who heard or read them. What these interpreters were doing with the Bible was similar to what secular orators of the time did with Homer or Hesiod.) In any case, the church had no school where it could teach people how to read, much less the principles to be applied in the interpretation of ancient texts. Therefore, one must conclude that most bishops had learned these matters in pagan schools.

Bishops were also the link joining the churches together. Since most contacts with other bishops had to take place through correspondence, this too required that bishops know how to read and write—or at least that they know the principles of writing sufficiently well to employ an amanuensis. Although most of this ancient correspondence has been lost, we have an example of this in the epistle the church of Rome wrote to that of Corinth through Bishop Clement of Rome, late in the first century. Slightly later, we have the seven letters of Ignatius of Antioch, five of them addressed to churches he had visited on his way to martyrdom, a sixth to the church of Rome, where he expected to die, and a seventh to young Bishop Polycarp of Smyrna. And even later, we have the correspondence that Polycarp sent to the Philippians. Among other bishops who took up writing, one may mention Papias of Hierapolis, who set for himself the task of collecting sayings of the Lord, and Melito of Sardis, of whose many writings all that remains is a beautiful Easter sermon, possibly written in order to have it circulate among nearby churches. In 411, in an African synod gathered to condemn Donatism, there was only one bishop—Polainos of Zura—who was deemed ignorant in letters,² but it is not clear whether this means that he was actually illiterate or simply that he was not learned.

In brief, although there are many indications that a good number of the bishops of the second century were relatively learned people who at least knew how to read, how to interpret texts, and how to sustain a correspondence with their colleagues, there is no indication that the church had any schools for the training of such bishops or pastors.

Even when schools began to appear somewhat later, these schools were not intended for the training of pastors, for these were still elected without any other instruction than what they might have received in pagan schools as well as in the church itself, particularly in the Service of the Word. There are many examples that show these procedures, but in order to see how they functioned, it is well to review and compare the careers of two of the most distinguished theologians of the Western church, Ambrose and Augustine.

Although raised in a Christian home, and even though he himself was a faithful believer, Ambrose had not even been baptized when he