A Biblical Theology of Education
By Rod Dreher
Rawlings School of Divinity
CLED 720: Biblical & Theological Foundations of Education
Genevieve Hamer
July 8, 2022
A Biblical Theology of Education
The topic at hand—a biblical theology of education—is like an oversized, under-inflated
beach ball: you can’t miss it, and it’s easy to swat around, but it’s very difficult to control.1
Nevertheless, let me try to impose at least a little order on the topic. Begin with the
expression “biblical theology.” Although there are many variations, today’s use of the
expression commonly conjures up one of two ideas.
First, whereas “systematic theology” tends to order its treatment of the theology of the
Bible along logical and hierarchical lines (see, for example, a standard systematic theology like
that of Bavinck or a more popular one like that of Grudem), biblical theology tends to order its
treatment of the theology of the Bible along temporal lines, focusing on the contribution of
each book and corpus along the path of the Bible’s storyline. The distinction between
systematic theology and biblical theology is never absolute, of course, but it is strong enough to
warrant recognition. Thus, a biblical theology of, say, the temple, traces out temple themes in
the early chapters of Genesis, follows their trajectories all the way to the Apocalypse, and
observes how these trajectories are not random but interrelated, constituting the warp and
woof of interwoven themes, unfolding across time. Similarly, one can speak of the biblical
theology of creation/new creation, of priesthood, of exile, and of much more. But in this sense
of “biblical theology,” can one legitimately speak of a biblical theology of education?
I don’t think so. It’s not as if there is a theological development of the theme of education
from one end of the canon to the other. Of course, one could cheat a little and insist that all of
God’s self-disclosure across human history constitutes an education of those humans. In that
sense, education is biblical theology. But no one uses the term “education” today in precisely
that way. Consider the definition of education advanced by Wikipedia (“Education is the
process of facilitating learning, or the acquisition of knowledge, skills, values, morals, beliefs,
and habits”). This static vision of education is not following the storyline of redemptive history.
To put it another way, it is difficult to discern that the canon provides developing reflection on
education. So, in this sense of “biblical theology” we may reasonably doubt that there is such a
thing as a biblical theology of education.
A second common contemporary meaning of “biblical theology” is theology that is found in
or based upon the Bible—a way of referring to systematic theology that is biblically faithful. On
this view, our title makes education a subset, in effect, of systematic theology. This is
conceptually less problematic. To talk of the biblical theology of education, in this sense of
biblical theology, is akin to talking about the biblical theology of ecology or the biblical theology
of angels. Ecology, angels, and, I would say, education, are not central biblical themes akin to
Christology, atonement, and theology proper, but enough is said about each of them that if we
assemble these bits carefully and inquire as to how they fit into the Bible as a whole, it is
surprising how much can be learned. So, let us assemble some of the bits and pieces of what
the Bible says about education. Then we shall briefly survey how those bits and pieces have
worked themselves out in a handful of historical arrays, before we explore the peculiar
challenges of putting these pieces together at the beginning of the twenty-first century, in the
Western world.
1. Observations on Some Biblical Bits and Pieces
One of the first passages cited by writers who survey what the Bible says about education
is Deuteronomy 6:6–9: “These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts.
Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk
along the road when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands
and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of our houses and on our
gates.” Indeed, in the future when a new generation asks what this is all about, the older
generation is to fill them in on the entire exodus history, the history of the redemption of God’s
covenant people and the bedrock that warrants the call to obedience (6:20–25). The concern is
to educate each new generation.
Three details stand out:
(1) The primary responsibility lies with the parents who are called to shape their children.
(2) The focus is not on education broadly conceived, but on knowing their own God-shaped
history and the covenantal structure and stipulations that rest on that history.
(3) The context in which this theological formation takes place is not a formal educational
institution but family life—sitting at home, walking along the road, answering questions in the
intimacy of the family. A millennium and a half later, the same family structure is presupposed
in the Olivet Discourse: “Two men will be in a field; one will be taken and the other left. Two
women will be grinding with a hand mill; one will be taken and the other left” (Matt 24:40–41).
In the economic culture of the time, the two men were likely to be two brothers, or a father
and a son; the two women were likely to be two sisters, or a mother and a daughter. That is
why the separation brought about by the Lord’s return is so shocking. But that is also where
education takes place.
Of course, some training takes place outside family lines: Eli mentors Samuel, Elijah
mentors Elisha, to cite two obvious instances. Nevertheless, recall the importance of the family
in the wisdom literature: “My son, do not forget my teaching, but keep my commands in your
heart, for they will prolong your life many years, and bring you peace and prosperity…. Listen,
my sons, to a father’s instruction; pay attention and gain understanding. I give you sound
learning, so do not forsake my teaching. For I too was a son to my father, still tender, and
cherished by my mother. Then he taught me, and he said to me, ‘Take hold of my word with all
your heart; keep my commands, and you will live.’ … My son, keep your father’s command and
do not forsake your mother’s teaching” (Prov 3:1–2; 4:1–4; 6:20; cf. 1:8). Family instruction lays
emphasis on conduct: “Start children off on the way they should go, and even when they are
old they will not turn from it” (Prov 22:6). The role of the mother in educating her son in the
faith surfaces unforgettably in the influence of Lois and Eunice on Timothy (2 Tim 1:5), and,
sometimes regrettably, in the influence of Rebekah on her son Jacob. All of such trans-
generational education is, of course, informal.
The importance of the written materials that make up what we today call the Bible surfaces
in both personal and institutional contexts. When an Israelite came to regal power, his first
responsibility was not to audit the books of his predecessor, nor to appoint a full slate of
cabinet officers, but to copy out, by hand, “this law” (scholars continue to debate how much is
included in the expression), then read it every day for the rest of his life (Deut 17:14–20)—a
stipulation more commonly observed in the breach than in the performance, or all of Israel’s
history would have been different. Psalm 119 is a sustained meditation on the law of the Lord
and its shaping power.
Times of reformation and revival are driven by the rediscovery of the written Word (Josiah)
or by the exposition of that Word (Nehemiah). Although the exact referents are disputed, Paul’s
desire to be reunited with the books and the parchments disclose a similar priority (2 Tim 4:13),
as do affirmations of the unyielding importance of Scripture (2 Tim 3:16; 2 Pet 1:19–20). In
recent years, scholars have shown how during the patristic period Christians stood out from
their pagan peers, not least by being people of a book: their teaching, evangelism, catechizing,
and worship were all shaped by written documents, by Scripture. All of this presupposes a
sustained interest in learning what texts say, that is, in theological education. Whether early
Christians read, say, 1 Corinthians for themselves, or accessed it primarily be hearing it read at
length in the congregation, they stood out for their desire to become educated in their sacred
texts.
The roots of such priorities lie deep within Old Testament soil. Unlike the other tribes, the
Levites did not settle in one tribal area, but were scattered among the tribes, not least because
their responsibilities included teaching the Word of God to their fellow Israelites. In other
words, there was an institutional pattern of educating the people in holy Scripture. This side of
the exile, that pattern morphed into the synagogue system, with its heavy emphasis on
memory and recitation. In the New Testament, under the new covenant, assemblies were to be
led by pastors/teachers/overseers, and one of the qualifications demanded of such leaders was
that they be “able to teach” (1 Tim 3:2). The Pastoral Epistles devote quite a lot of space to
spelling out what the teachers must aim to accomplish: they must ground the believers in
sound doctrine, warn divisive people, provide encouragement, and so forth. More broadly,
Christians are to admonish one another. All of these are forms of education—Christian
education. And, after all, even Christian proclamation of the gospel is a form of education.
The Bible also lays some stress on the lessons to be learned from history—or, more
precisely, the lessons to be learned from history as interpreted by God. The entire book of
Judges overflows with the point: when the covenant people slide into idolatry, God sends
judgment until there is repentance and a desperate call for help. The book as a whole teaches
that the people are incapable of long-term faithfulness without a godly king to keep them in
line. The juxtaposed blessings and curses of Deuteronomy are designed to educate the people
along similar lines. The seven churches of Revelation 2–3 are threatened with the dire
consequences of prolonged sin: the candlestick is removed, the church is destroyed.
Although there is very little reflection in the Bible on how each new generation was
educated in the broader knowledge and science of the day, there are adequate glimpses of the
range of expertise. Genesis 4 identifies nomadic herders, musicians, and technical folk with
rising mastery of tools made from bronze and iron. David was a poet; Solomon set himself to
master proverbs; scribes collected and compiled them; and all of these skills require training of
some sort or other—education, if you will.
The word “wisdom” covers a wide range of competencies, of course, but in some contexts
it refers to something like a technical skill. Bezalel and Oholiab are “wise” men because they are
endowed “with knowledge and with all kinds of skills—to make artistic designs for work in gold,
silver and bronze, to cut and set stones, to work in wood, and to engage in all kinds of crafts”
(Exod 31:3–5). When David reflects on the sky, he declares, “The heavens declare the glory of
God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after
night they reveal knowledge” (Ps 19:1–2; cf. vv. 1–6). Like Paul in his reflection on what can be
learned about God from the natural order (Rom 1:19–20), David runs quickly to theological
implications, but we cannot fail to note that these theological structures are anchored in
observations of the natural order. Job knows about constellations such as Pleiades and Orion:
presumably someone educated him in elementary astronomy. Once again, there is little
reflection on the processes, structures, and methods of education, but quite regularly the
biblical writers spell out nature’s theological implications.
I cannot abandon this survey without saying something about the Lord Jesus. One of the
dominant ways by which his disciples referred to him is as “the Teacher.” After Jesus and
Martha have finished their quiet exchange in John 11, Martha, we are told, “went back [to her
house] and called her sister Mary aside. ‘The teacher is here,’ she said, ‘and is asking for you’”
(11:28). Jesus himself ratifies the appropriateness of the designation when he instructs his
disciples how to prepare for the Passover: “Go into the city to a certain man and tell him, ‘The
Teacher says: My appointed time is near’” (Matt 26:18). Or again, in John’s Gospel, Jesus tells
his disciples, “You call me ‘Teacher’ and ‘Lord,’ and rightly so, for that is what I am” (13:13). In
Matthew’s Gospel, the apostle provides five large teaching blocks, the first of which is the
sermon on the mount, which begins with the comment, “His disciples came to him, and he
began to teach them” (5:1–2), and ends with the observation that “the crowds were amazed at
his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their teachers of the law”
(7:28–29).
Mark’s Gospel reports much less teaching, but the evangelist has a predilection for
referring to Jesus as the Teacher.2 Certainly the canonical Gospels depict Jesus teaching in a
variety of modes: lecturing; mentoring those closest to him; coining one-liners; interacting with
opponents; illustrating some element of his teaching with parables or with symbol-laden
miracles; unpacking grace, faith, obedience, and more. None of this is presented as a
disquisition on education. The focus, rather, is on the content—Jesus himself, the kingdom, his
path to the cross and resurrection, eternal life—and that content is presented by a master-
teacher. One may legitimately learn some things about education by watching Jesus, but it
would rather miss the point to come away and say, “After studying Jesus in Luke’s Gospel, I see
how copying Jesus’s teaching styles will improve my performance in my classes teaching
students the challenges of how nuclear fusion might one day contribute to the electrical grid.”
