The path forward academically in a post-postmodern context requires being transparent about ones beliefs, values, and even to some extent our personal experiences. Some of that is built into confessionalism. The confessional academic isn’t pretending she is unbiased; on the contrary, she is transparent about the place from which she is analyzing and assessing the data. In response, those who read the work produced by confessional academics should not treat that transparency as a disadvantage (resulting in a dismissive attitude toward the research), but rather as an advantage, since the presuppositions and values of their interlocutor have been acknowledged from the outset. 

The WordPress “Headline Analyzer” algorithm has determined that my title is not all that provocative or interesting, scoring a mere 22/100. When I re-titled it “top ten reasons why confessional institutions are better than the ‘free academy’” it scored 84/100; however, because I’m a responsible academician and refuse to cave to click-bate, I’m sticking with the original and more boring (and accurate) title.
If my reading of the academic landscape is correct, then most scholars, even those in historically confessional institutions, would likely disagree with or qualify my titular statement. After all, doesn’t being “confessional” mean that certain kinds of questions are, by definition, verboten? Wouldn’t that in turn mean that academics in those institutions have to sacrifice the “science” of biblical and theological study upon the altar of confessional consistency? At the very least it should be axiomatic that scholars at non-confessional institutions should regard the products of their confessional cousins as suspect, right?
Not at all. I believe the opposite is the case. Confessionalism, properly defined and winsomely practiced, provides a better and more productive academic environment than the “free-thinking” alternatives. I should qualify things before we continue: I recognize that this article presents an “idealized” view of how confessional academics work. If any of the following seems too rosy and glowy, feel free to insert copious “oughts” and “shoulds” in the list. With that qualification out of the way, here are a couple of reasons why confessionalism promotes academic research and integrity (with more to come).
Confessional Research is Slow
Slow doesn’t sound good but it is. Scholars that work in confessional institutions don’t often make the research headlines, and they’re usually not trying to make the headlines. They (hopefully) do not idolize the past, but they also don’t dismiss the knowledge and wisdom of previous generations. When they encounter a difficult text in Scripture they consult their tradition, and while they (should) feel free to disagree with that tradition if there’s textual warrent–the norming norm of all theology is Scripture–they ought also be reluctant to dismiss it. Slow can be valuable. Slow doesn’t mean that we ignore contemporary issues or drag our feet with regard to the tough questions; rather, it means that we are careful with the latest discoveries and reluctant to reject the wisdom handed down to us. We spend time assessing, debating, and integrating the best of what’s new with the best of what’s tried and tested, which will hopefully result in something fuller and more robust in the long term. But for more on that, see the next point.
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Should we be biblical or should we be confessional? But “why not both? Both is good!” We are confessional, which means we stand in the great tradition and ask “what’s next.” And we are Biblical, which means that when we ask that question we turn to the Word of Christ, working through the Spirit, and find it both fit and suitable for the building up of the church, for the race that we are called to run.

I teach at an academic institution (Reformed Theological Seminary in Washington DC, but that’s not the point of this post, and all opinions are my own) that prides itself on being both confessional and biblical, and while those two predicates may be popular in certain circles, they are more and more seen as an academic liability. I’m guessing that if I were to go out on the streets and take a poll of what people are looking for in seminary graduate education that neither “biblical” nor “confessional” would make the top 10. I’ll go even further: narrowing the field to Christians with a high view of Scripture, I might still be hard pressed to find biblical and confessional at the top of the list. Maybe biblical, almost definitely not confessional
Why? Because in various ways both ideas are seen as a kind of academic liability. The values of the academy are progress, relevance, development, creativity, freedom of inquiry, cultural engagement, and practical skills. Now I have those values too, but I also believe that being biblical and confessional is the most robust and efficient way of meeting those goals.
Biblical
Let’s start with biblical. The problem with being principally and thoroughly biblical is obvious: the Bible is outdated and outmoded. It doesn’t address the kinds of challenges and problems that most modern Christians are struggling with. Even in evangelical circles the way we talk about the Bible betrays this attitude: we need to “make the Bible relevant.” The assumption is that it’s not relevant, at least not with some serious redecorating; it has to be made relevant.
That attitude towards the Bible usually arises out of a misunderstanding of what the Bible is. It’s not a theology textbook or a “guidebook for life.” I know that most educated evangelicals wouldn’t speak that simplistically about what the Bible is, but nevertheless that seems to be the operating assumption about how the Bible is useful, even among those with some hermeneutical sophistication. It’s useful in so far as I can mine it for theological truth or apply it in my daily life.

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You are already well equipped to productively read this wonderful book. You don’t have to understand it all to get something out of it. If you are able to immerse yourself in it and stand in awe of the Victorious Lamb, you are doing well.

There’s a saying I’m kinda fond of, though it’s not very sophisticated: “the beginning of things tells you stuff.” The idea is that writers tend to show their readers how to engage with and appropriate their work within the opening lines of their work. I’ve written about that elsewhere, and it’s true for most works, both ancient and modern, but it’s especially true of Revelation.
There is so much we learn about the book in the first few verses. Moreover, what we learn in that short space has a systemic impact on how we interpret the book. Revelation seems so difficult and confusing, but John has actually given us firm footholds in the opening of his letter. He’s guiding his readers in how Revelation is to be read.
Here’s an incomplete and “in brief” list of some of the essentials.

Jesus is the first recipient of Revelation, not John. Most English Bibles title the book “The Revelation to John,” but that’s only partially correct. This is actually the very first thing that John tells us. This book constitutes “the revelation” that “God gave to him” (1:1), and the “him” in that clause can’t be anyone other than “Jesus Christ.” The verse goes on to explain how this book got into John’s hands. The Father first gave it to Jesus (and you can read about that in Rev. 5), then Jesus passed it along to John via an Angel, and John in turn wrote it down and sent it to the churches (Rev. 1:2). There’s a lot to unpack here, but remember when Jesus told the disciples that “not even the Son of Man knows the day or the hour” (Mark 13:32)? Well, the obvious next question is: when will that information be disclosed? Revelation is that disclosure, and it was disclosed first to the only one accounted worthy (Rev. 5:9). Then, and marvel at this my friends, the one worthy chose to disclose all these things to us (Rev. 1:19).
The first form of this Revelation was seen, not imagined, written, read, or heard. We haven’t left the first two verses yet. Revelation is “shown” to Jesus, then to John, then to the church. The first and primary iteration by which the Father revealed these things is through visions.
By contrast, the church at large only receives Revelation in its written form (1:19 again), not its visual form. John “writes what he saw.” The writing down of that which was first seen involves a kind of “conversion” of media. We’re moving from the visual, to the verbal. This in itself has multiple implications. Here’s two:

First, we can note that communicating information visually and communicating information verbally require different skillsets. How do you “novelize” a movie? How do you describe the impact that a personal experience to friends without lamely concluding “you just had to be there?” It’s tough, and it requires a lot of artistic and literary and story-telling skill. John has those skills (he wrote a Gospel!), and he uses them to “show” the church what he saw.
Second, and equally importantly, there is a corresponding burden on the reader to now “recreate” the vision from the written word. John is supposed to write what he sees. The reader, in their turn, is supposed to “see” what is written. There’s a burden on both writer and reader here. Our burden is to visualize the word written. You have a ready tool for this, given to you by God. It’s called the “imagination.” Use it.

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The Bible is an ancient book, and God speaks through it “in many ways” (Hebrews 1:1). As a result, it’s not always easy to determine genre…A good study bible or special introduction or commentary can go a long way to helping you bridge the gap, but the best way forward is to immerse yourself in the “many times and many ways” that God has spoken to us.

In the previous two posts of this series argued that one of the reasons we have trouble understanding the Bible is because we do not read it in the ordinary way that books are to be read.1 We assume that because the Bible is the Word of God (which it most definitely is), and because it is therefore inspired and inerrant, that it must consequently “break the rules” of ordinary human communication. I argued, by contrast, that the miracle of the Bible is that it speaks to us about extra-ordinary things (and with extra-ordinary accuracy) in a nevertheless ordinary way. We concluded, then, that one should read any biblical book, be it a letter or a narrative or a history or a compendium of wisdom or a doctrinal treatise, in the same way that you would read any other book of that type. Read any biblical discourse as if it were a particularly exemplary instance of other similar kinds of discourse, even though the ultimate author of this discourse is the One True God.
Which brings us to the present topic, because obviously the next question that arises is “what kind of discourse am I actually reading?” Let’s say you’re reading the “epistle” to the Hebrews and, following the advice above, you want to read it in the ordinary way similar discourses are read. Well, what is an epistle and how are epistles normally read? Do epistles have the same function 2000 years ago that they do today? And is Hebrews even an epistle?2 The answers to those kinds of questions are very important to our present thesis; one can’t read Hebrews (or any other book) in an “ordinary” way if one doesn’t really know the kind of thing that Hebrews is.
Which is why we have to talk about genre.
What is Genre?
What is genre? How might we define the term? One linguist describes it as “discourse type.”3 That is to say, genre is a description of the kind of “communicative event” that we are currently trying to interpret. Let’s say someone is speaking to you. What are they trying to tell you? Are they telling you a story? Are they giving you instructions? Are they asking you to do something? Maybe they are stating an opinion. Perhaps they are relating something that happened to them today so that you might offer them sympathy or council. Each of these represents a different type of discourse and determining the type of discourse that your currently hearing will, in turn, determine how you interpret it and react to it.
Scientists do the same with animals. Both cats and dogs have four legs—in that respect they are similar—but they differ in so far as dogs are awesome and cats are not, and that dissimilarity means they are classified differently. Similarity and dissimilarity is the key to identifying “type,” and genre is “discourse type.” Genre is classification; you are looking at a discourse and describing how it is similar to some discourses and dissimilar to others.
You have likely heard it said that interpretation requires context. Genre is “literary context.” Genre defines how a certain literary event fits within culturally adjacent literary events. To ask about a work’s “genre” is to ask “how is this work similar to other works, and how does that allow me to better interpret what it is trying to accomplish?” Furthermore, determining discourse type, or literary context, is key to interpreting what you are reading. Imagine you get it wrong. Imagine, for example, that you confuse fiction with non-fiction, or satire with genuine news, or the political stump speech with actual policy, or South Park with a child’s cartoon show. You’re likely in for some interpretive troubles. If you want to interpret any of these things correctly, you need to know how the genre works.
How Do I Determine Genre?
If all this sounds a bit too theoretical, here’s the good news: for the most part you identify the genre of a book intuitively and without issue. Most of us can’t help but be immersed in our surrounding culture, and as such we are constantly exposed to diverse types of “literary events,” each of which represent a different subset of literary genres. We thus learn about genre the same way we learn our native language: through constant exposure in natural settings. That’s why you don’t need to be told about the “rules” operative in fiction, or newspaper articles, or the op-ed, or sci-fi, or the latest rom-com.
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One way to kill any investigation is to assume you already know all there is to know. This is true when it comes to Scripture as well. You may have extensive theological knowledge, decades of practical and pastoral wisdom, and a wealth of exegetical insights, but don’t assume from the outset that you understand. This isn’t to say that we reinvent the wheel every time we approach the text, but have a healthy humility when it comes to what we already “know.”

If you’re trying to do rigorous exegesis of the Bible, but don’t know Hebrew or Greek, you may feel a bit handicapped. After all, students of the languages will regularly testify that they have transformed their ability to interpret Scripture. “They help me read the Bible more closely.” “I now see details in Scripture that I never noticed before.” “The Bible in English is black and white, while the Greek and Hebrew are technicolor.” Or to update that metaphor: “reading the Bible in one’s native tongue is oh so 480p; the Greek and the Hebrews is 8K HDR w/ Atmos Surround.”
I don’t disagree with the conclusion, but I do disagree with one of the premises.1 Part of the (post hoc ergo propter hoc) logic embedded in these testimonies is that knowing the languages caused or enabled this upgraded level of exegetical inquiry. That’s usually not the case. It’s not actually the languages that are leveling up the exegesis. The upgrade is actually the result of the languages slowing us down, forcing us to ask questions and puzzle over the text, creating a since of unfamiliarity and foreignness when it comes to the Bible. The languages make the Bible strange again.
And here’s the good news: you can do this too! You can ask great questions without any linguistic training, in the comfort of your own home! Nothing can replace the languages, but there are simple ways that you can force yourself to slow down and investigate the text in a manner similar to working out of the Hebrew or Greek.
Ask A Lot of Questions
The best way to slow yourself down is to inquire of the text. At root that’s all exegesis is: asking questions generated by the text and searching for answers to those questions in and around the text. That may seem a bit obvious, but we forget that the first stage in the process is actually having questions. We often use the text as a kind of compendium of answers, but when we treat it that way we actually end up where we started. We don’t learn anything unless we investigate the text and use the text to investigate ourselves.
So the first step is to ask a lot of questions. Go through the text sentence by sentence, phrase by phrase, and even word by word, turning it this way and that. (This should not, by the way, take the place of a more natural and ordinary reading process. This step assumes you’ve already read the Bible in a more ordinary way). As you slow down and dig into the texture of the text, start making a list of questions. Ask every question you can think of. Ask obvious questions (even if you already know the answer), non-obvious questions, unanswerable questions, personal questions, questions you think other people might have, even questions that might feel “edgy” or irreverent at first. As long as the questions are honest (that is, not disingenuous) and on-topic (that is, about the text and/or generated by the text), they count.
Here’s the trick though: ask a lot of questions. You will need to push yourself, because asking good questions takes work and your brain will get tired.
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