The paradoxical incarnation of Jesus Christ—fully man and fully God, the righteous Judge who came not to condemn the world but to save it, full of grace and truth—set in motion (among other things) a paradoxical community of Christians. Christ followers are in the world, but not of it; hopeful for blessing but braced for persecution; striving for holiness but forgiving of sin.
Humans are not very good at holding these virtues in tension, however, and it’s no surprise that we tend to fall off on one side or the other. So often what begins as a seemingly minor philosophical spat calcifies over time into stubborn polarity. Theologically, politically, culturally, we square off, setting up opposing camps and glaring across battle lines at one another. Even when we’re not angry, we seem to prefer tidy boxes for our various positions, rejecting nuance and settling for simpler, less-rich versions of the good. So it is that some circles emphasize grace, others, truth; some prefer reason, others, affection; some flee the culture, others capitulate. In recent years, rowdy discussions over the “Benedict option” pit community and reflection against engagement and mission, when all are invaluable, sorely-needed concepts.
To design a school of theology in a landscape of such vigorous line-drawing is to face an endless stream of binary questions: will you teach practical ministry skills or insist on rigorous intellectual engagement? Will you emphasize the past or the future? Are you for pastors or lay people? Mission or hermeneutics? Respectability and accreditation or innovation and academic freedom?
Grace or truth?
Light or heat?
Head, heart, or hands?
Yes. (Are we allowed to say that?) William Tennent School of Theology does not fall neatly into the available models for seminary education.
So what are the prevailing models of theological education?
In the Evangelical Review of Theology, Brian Edgar of Asbury Theological Seminary argued back in 2005 for a four-fold typology. He began by building on the work of David Kelsey in describing the Athens and Berlin models. “Athens,” steeped in Greek pedagogy, has as its primary goal “the transformation of the individual. It is all about character formation, the cultivation of excellence and knowing the supreme good, which, when applied to theological education means knowing God.”
“Berlin,” named after Germany’s post-enlightenment university culture, emphasizes research, theory, and vocational application. Just as medical schools produce doctors and law schools, lawyers, seminaries should produce skilled ministers. Born out of a struggle for perceived academic legitimacy, Berlin-styled schools might emphasize “scientific” concerns such as textual criticism on one hand, and practical concerns such as hermeneutics on the other.
To these two models Edgar adds Robert Banks’ “Jerusalem” model, a mission-minded approach taking place in the context of the wider community, and the “Geneva” model, a confessional approach designed for members of a particular faith community. Jerusalem leans into the great commission, pushing students out to the ends of the earth; Geneva leans into traditions and creeds, rooting students firmly in the past.
“What’s it going to be?” Edgar seems to ask, positing a series of questions to help educators determine their pedagogical bent. Is the aim of your seminary upward or outward, affectionate or intellectual? While many schools borrow from more than one model, it’s easy enough to pigeonhole institutions according to Edgar’s taxonomy.
Herein lies the problem. We are reactionary creatures, prone to jettison the strengths of our rivals along with their weaknesses. But it’s a fuzzy logic that forces a choice between the great commandment and the great commission.
Justo González, pushing against this dichotomy, begins his fascinating study, The History of Theological Education, with this assertion:
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 (ix).
Whichever mode of theological education we land on, it must be both upward and outward if it is to be consistent with the clear teaching of Christ.
It also has to maintain the dual priority of the intellectual and the doxological—or as Jonathan Edwards might say, light and heat. As Edwards wrote nearly 275 years ago, “Holy affections are not heat without light; but evermore arise from the information of the understanding, some spiritual instruction that the mind receives, some light or actual knowledge” (192). We meditate and study to grow in knowledge, which in turn kindles our love and affection. It can’t be an either-or proposition.
Martyn Lloyd-Jones, applying Edwards’ thinking to education, elaborated:
The tragedy is that many lecturers simply dictate notes and the wretched students take them down. That is not the business of a lecturer or a professor. The students can read the books for themselves; the business of the professor is to light a fire, to enthuse, to stimulate, to enliven. And that is the primary business of preaching. Let us take this to heart. Edwards laid great emphasis upon this; and what we need above everything else today is moving, passionate, powerful preaching. It must be ‘warm’ and it must be ‘earnest.’
Tennent has taken Lloyd-Jones’ challenge to heart. Our mission statement straddles the paradox: “We equip leaders for the purity of the gospel, for the love of the church, and for the advance of Christ’s mission, all for the glory of God.” We combine a rigorous academic experience with rich relationships; a deep exploration of the matchless Word of God with a joyful outpouring of what we’ve received. Our motto follows suit, “lux et calor.” Light and heat. Truth and love. Head, heart, and hands.
Michael Morgan serves as Academic Dean for William Tennent School of Theology. He is the author of John Newton: Catalyst for Compassion. Catherine Morgan is his lucky wife, and the author of Thirty Thousand Days and Sparrow: Cultivating a Sabbatical Heart. They are thankful to live in Colorado with their three children.