"The New Testament evinces its universal design in its very, style, which alone distinguishes it from all the literary productions of earlier and later times"
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Schaff is making a stylistic argument for theological scope: the New Testament, he insists, carries “universal design” not just in doctrine but in the way it sounds. That move matters because it shifts authority from contested claims to an apparently neutral datum. Style becomes evidence. If the text’s language feels unlike “all the literary productions” around it, then its mission can be framed as unlike them too: not tribal, not local, not merely Greek or Jewish, but built to travel.
The subtext is a 19th-century confidence that form reveals essence. Schaff writes in an era when philology, historical criticism, and comparative literature are rising; Christianity can no longer lean only on inherited reverence. So he leans on texture: the New Testament’s plainness, its mixed registers (street-level narrative beside cosmic proclamation), its portability across class and empire. “Universal” here isn’t just geographic. It’s social: a book that can address the educated and the unlettered without changing languages.
His phrasing also smuggles in a competitive claim. By separating the New Testament from “earlier and later times,” Schaff implies not merely uniqueness but superiority, a kind of literary providence. The argument flatters modern readers, too: if you can sense the distinctive style, you can sense the universal reach; aesthetic perception doubles as spiritual discernment.
Contextually, Schaff the church historian is trying to secure Christianity’s credibility in modernity without surrendering its exceptionalism. He meets criticism on its own turf, arguing that the New Testament’s very manner of speaking is the fingerprint of a faith meant for everyone.
The subtext is a 19th-century confidence that form reveals essence. Schaff writes in an era when philology, historical criticism, and comparative literature are rising; Christianity can no longer lean only on inherited reverence. So he leans on texture: the New Testament’s plainness, its mixed registers (street-level narrative beside cosmic proclamation), its portability across class and empire. “Universal” here isn’t just geographic. It’s social: a book that can address the educated and the unlettered without changing languages.
His phrasing also smuggles in a competitive claim. By separating the New Testament from “earlier and later times,” Schaff implies not merely uniqueness but superiority, a kind of literary providence. The argument flatters modern readers, too: if you can sense the distinctive style, you can sense the universal reach; aesthetic perception doubles as spiritual discernment.
Contextually, Schaff the church historian is trying to secure Christianity’s credibility in modernity without surrendering its exceptionalism. He meets criticism on its own turf, arguing that the New Testament’s very manner of speaking is the fingerprint of a faith meant for everyone.
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| Topic | Bible |
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