Understanding the Bible: Recognizing Genre

Odd as it sounds, the first step to understanding the Bible is to realize that there is no such thing as The Bible.  Or, to state it somewhat less paradoxically, we must realize that the Bible is not a single book written by a single author, but a library of books written over a number of centuries by many authors.  The word “bible”, though singular in form, comes from the plural Greek word βιβλία/ biblia—the books. When trying to understand the Bible we are attempting to master the meaning of a library.  And as anyone knows who has tried to use a library, it is imperative to understand that the books there are divided into many different sections, each section being a separate category or literary genre.

So, if I want to find a particular book so that I can be taught by its author, I first need to figure out its literary genre.  For example, if I wanted to learn about astronomy, I would not look in the Science Fiction section, but in the Science section. And—perhaps more significantly—if I picked up a book from the Science Fiction section about boldly going where no man has gone before and tried to learn astronomy from that book and from Captain Kirk, I would be sure to get things wrong.  That, however, would not be the fault of Capt. Kirk, but of Fr. Lawrence, because I did not realize I was reading a particular literary genre.

As in a public library, so in the Bible:  there are many differing literary genres.  Sometimes we tend to think there are only two different literary genres in the Bible—the historical and the apocalyptic.  That is partly because those are the only two literary genres found in the New Testament (which was written over the course of a comparatively short time of about 60 years or so).

In the Gospels and in Acts we find history.  That is, we find accounts of events of the author’s very recent past recounted with the intention of letting interested people know what happened.  Obviously this history is not unbiased (no history really is), and obviously the events recounted are selected from a large number of events to make a certain point.  But, in the words of St. Luke, having investigated everything carefully, the authors wrote things down so that the readers would know the exact truth about what they had heard about Jesus and His Church (Luke 1:1-4).  The same sense of history pervades the Epistles:  the authors like Paul, Peter, James, and John were writing to real people to let them know things like who Jesus is and how He wanted them to live.  We also find the apocalyptic genre in the New Testament, namely the Book of Revelation.  Its apocalyptic nature is screamingly obvious, given its abundant use of lurid image and symbol.

Given that the New Testament contains just historical and apocalyptic genres, it easy to project this approach to literary genre onto the Old Testament, and to imagine that those are the only two genres present there also.

I suggest that, given the fact that the Old Testament consists of many more books (and many longer books) written by many more authors over many more years, and subject to much revision and compilation, it is likely that we would find a number of literary genres there. And in fact we do.

In particular, we find creation stories (or “mythology” in some dictionaries), history, revised history, poetry, proverb, philosophy, erotic love poetry, prophecy, and historical romance.  Given that all these categories abounded in the ancient world of which the Israelites were a part, this is hardly surprising.  The Old Testament represents the literature of the Hebrew people written over centuries, so it should be expected that the many literary genres present in that world would find a place in their literature as well.  The difference between their literature and that of the world around them is that theirs served the transcendent purposes of the God who dwelt among them.  That literature was written to the people of its time, but because of the providential purposes of God, it served a higher, deeper, and longer-lasting purpose.  In the words of St. Peter, it was revealed to the prophetic writers of the literature that ultimately they were not serving just themselves, but us Christians (1 Peter 1:10-12). One can therefore find a deeper layer of meaning in the literature of the Hebrew people.

The question is:  how can we discern what kind of literary genre we are reading?  In the library signs are posted, so that one cannot easily wander into the Science Fiction section and check out a book on Star Trek imagining that one could learn astronomy from it.  But there are no such signs posted on each of the books of the Old Testament.

Most of it is pretty clear sailing.  The authors of Joshua and Judges seem to have wanted their readers (or their hearers actually) to believe that they were writing history, even if the historical events were especially selected and told in a way to make a certain point.  The authors of 1-2 Samuel and 1-2 Kings also seemed to represent events that actually happened, although once again the authors were writing not comprehensive unbiased histories, but a lesson to be learned from those histories—namely the lesson that say one should avoid worshipping idols.  The Psalms are also pretty straightforward, as are the Proverbs.  The core meaning Song of Solomon also seems tolerably clear—and maybe a bit too clear, given that exegetical history has been littered with noble but absurd attempts to deny the erotic elements there.  The works found under the names of Isaiah, Jeremiah, and the other prophets containing their prophecies and oracles also seem to be clear sailing regarding genre, even if the fulfillment of those prophecies is a subject of intense debate.

More problematic is recognizing when we are reading not history, but historical romance (or political satire).  Part of this problem comes from our unstated and unexamined presupposition that there can be no humour to speak of in the Bible.  When the texts are transposed from their original context of reading to a listening group or family, translated into sonorous and archaic language, bound in leather, and then read or chanted as a part of a religious ritual, the humorous elements are almost certainly to be an early casualty.

Bluntly put, no one would dream of laughing, grinning, or indulging in a wry smile at something read from the Bible in Church, and so we thereby banish humour as a component from our Bibles, even if the authors of the texts intended them to be satirically humorous—for wry humour is embedded in all satire.  But who said satire was unsuitable for Christians?  If we could listen to Christ like His first Galilean audience did, we would certainly detect wry humour—such as His image about a man with a huge log sticking out of his eye trying to pick a tiny mote of the eye of someone else.

I suggest therefore that satire and historical romance are valid categories for Holy Writ, and should not be banished from our list of acceptable Biblical genres without a hearing.  But how can one distinguish historical romance from history?

Certainly not by the lack of historical details.  Of course historical romances will purport to be historical—that is the point and power of the genre.  Historical romances do not flaunt their non-historical character by beginning, “Once upon a time”.  Like all historical romances and good historical fiction, it uses historical verisimilitude, using details that look like history to bring the hearer into its world.

Take for example the opening of the Book of Judith—a book that no one now accepts as history, but that all scholars regard as historical romance.

It begins by anchoring its story in history:  “It was the twelfth year of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, who ruled over the Assyrians in the great city of Nineveh.  At that time Arphaxad was ruling over the Medes in Ecbatana.  Around Ecbatana he built a wall of hewn stones, three cubits thick and six cubits long. He made the walls seventy cubits high and fifty cubits wide.  At its gates he raised towers one hundred cubits high with foundations sixty cubits wide.  He made its gates seventy cubits high and forty cubits wide to allow passage of his mighty forces, with his infantry in formation.  At that time King Nebuchadnezzar waged war against King Arphaxad in the vast plain that borders Ragau.  Rallying to him were all who lived in the hill country, all who lived along the Euphrates, the Tigris, and the Hydaspes, as well as Arioch, king of the Elamites, in the plains. Thus many nations joined the ranks of the Chelodites.”

This wealth of historical and physical detail gives the impression that one is reading history—as the author intends it to.  How then does one clue onto the fact that it is not history but rather historical romance?  1. By the fact that the historical details presented contradict known history, and 2. By the historical errors—or wild improbabilities—found in the story.  If there are many errors or improbabilities, one is almost certainly reading not history, but historical romance.

For example, in the case of the Book of Judith, we note that Nebuchadnezzar did not rule over the Assyrians in Nineveh as the text says, but over the Babylonians.  And by the time Israel was back in the land and Judith arose, Nebuchadnezzar and the other Babylonians were long gone.  Then the Persians were the ones in charge.  The combination of errors reveals that one is reading not history, but historical romance.

The point is one discerns one is reading historical romance by examining the details of the story, not because there are no historical details given.  All historical romances begin and read like history—that is how the genre works.

One asks:  if the Book of Judith is an example of Hebrew historical romance, who says that such a literary genre is unsuitable as Holy Scripture?  A narrowed and impoverished view of truth will say that only things historically true (or clearly apocalyptic) are suitable for Scripture.  But why should this be?  It is this kind of narrowed thinking that once suggested that only chaste and modest subjects were suitable for Scripture, so that the Song of Solomon therefore had nothing to do with sex.  I suggest that a God who created the world with its many rich cultures and its many literary genres and who deigned to become incarnate in such a world takes a wider view of what is suitable for teaching His people the lessons they need.

We need to learn so many things.  We therefore should be open to all the ways in which God might teach us:  by the tales of history, the trumpets of prophecy, the poignancy of poetry—including erotic poetry—and the lessons of historical romance.  A fearless and hungry heart will open itself to all truth, whatever its guise and genre.