A Personal Confession: Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD
A Personal Confession
What I believe as a theologian…
1. The Primacy of the Incarnation
All theology must begin here: Et Verbum caro factum est. The mystery of the Incarnation is not a seasonal meditation but the primary theological fulcrum on which all else turns. God does not shout from a distance—He comes close, and that proximity of the Word made flesh defines everything else.
2. The Early Church as Living Tradition
The Church of the Fathers is not a museum but a memory alive with wisdom. Athanasius, Augustine, Basil, and Chrysostom are not relics of antiquity—they are our companions and our interlocutors. Their questions remain ours; their fidelity still instructs us.
3. The Liturgical Life of the Church
I believe what the Church prays forms what she believes and how she acts in the world. Liturgy is not performance—it is theology enacted, sung, and received. It shapes not only our doctrine but our imagination. The Eucharist is not one image among many; it is the very ground and grammar of our faith.
4. The Church as Broken and Beautiful
The Church is wounded, weary, often wayward—and still, she is the Bride. I do not idealize her, but neither do I abandon her. My theological work is often an attempt to listen for the voice of the Spirit amidst her faltering speech through the ages. That voice is heard most often in the study and proclamation of Holy Scripture.
5. Historical Honesty and Intellectual Rigor
I hold that truth can bear scrutiny. I have no interest in apologetics or dogma masquerading as history. A theologian must be unafraid to examine the record, find facts, acknowledge failure, and yet still speak of grace. The past is not always comfortable—but it is always instructive.
6. A Sacramental Imagination
I believe the world is charged with the grandeur of God, and theology must be alert to the sacramental—those signs and moments where grace interrupts the ordinary. Scripture, music, icon, gesture, bread, wine—all speak if we have ears to hear.
7. Ecumenism as Necessity, Not Luxury
The fragmented Body of Christ must grieve its divisions and strive for unity. My own path has crossed confessions—Evangelical, Lutheran, Anglican, Roman Catholic, Orthodox—and each has given me something real and valuable. The search for unity is not optional; it is intrinsic to the Gospel.
8. The Local Church as Embodied Theology
Theology is not merely written or taught—it is lived in parishes, where saints are shaped not by perfection but by persistence. The local church, however humble, is the space where Word and Sacrament meet real life. It is here that theology wears flesh again—among the elderly, the children, and the broken who still believe. My work is shaped not only by texts and traditions, but by the parish community that prays, repents, serves, and hopes.
9. The Demands of Justice
I believe theology must not only interpret the world but also help to transform it. The Gospel insists on justice for the oppressed, dignity for the marginalized, and mercy for the poor as proof of our fidelity to Christ. To confess Christ is to hear His voice in the cries of the hungry, the incarcerated, the refugee, and the exploited. The Church’s credibility depends not upon power but upon its proximity to suffering.
10. The Voices of the Martyrs
I am deeply moved by the witness of those who have suffered for the faith—across centuries and across continents. Their prayers, their silence, their songs and suffering—these shape my theology more than many texts. They remind me that authentic theology is not a matter of abstract ideas, but is, in truth, a reality that must cost something.
11. The Vocation of Writing
For me, theology is written slowly, with attention to tone as well as truth. I am not interested in polemic or performance. I write to clarify, to call, and very occasionally to comfort. The written word must carry the weight of the Word made flesh.
12. The Hope of Final Things
Ultimately, theology gestures toward what is not yet seen. I believe in the resurrection of the dead. I believe in the New Creation. I believe that history bends toward reconciliation, not mere resolution— that God may be all in all. I believe that our theology, however fragmentary, should help us to live—and to die—in that hope.
Duane W.H. Arnold, PhD
Duane,
That is very well done…I’ll be thinking of additions while I suffer at the Oregon DMV…
Michael,
Many thanks… Lots of editing went into this one!
4 still bothers me. I admit, I wish it could all be done without the church. It has become, and was a vile place, full of damaged and hurting souls, but subject themselves nonetheless because it is a mandate. Its abuses are well chronicled, its history full of blood.
The Church is broken because of the Church.
I have considered finding a “church” again. It would be a first in over a decade. I will have the hardest time trusting it. The selection and screening process may well not be worth the effort.
Just speaking out loud. I’m frustrated.
Reuben,
That’s honest—and I hear it. “The Church is broken because of the Church.” You’re not wrong. The wounds we carry aren’t just inherited from history; they’re often fresh, inflicted by institutions and leaders who should have been healers. Abuse, exclusion, arrogance, power games cloaked in piety—none of that can be dismissed, nor should it be.
And yet… the Church remains a paradox. A broken thing through which grace still somehow flows. A place full of contradictions: it houses both the crucifiers and the crucified. It holds both the bloodied record of empire and the blood of martyrs who resisted it. It can feel vile—because people are vile—but also redemptive, because people are being redeemed.
You say, “I wish it could all be done without the Church.” I’ve wished that too. But then I remember: even Jesus didn’t bypass community. He gathered the doubters, the zealots, the betrayers, and called that his Church-in-the-making. And somehow, despite all of us, we’re still being called together—not because it’s safe, or clean, or even good by our standards—but because it’s necessary. Not as mandate alone, but as mystery.
You’re not alone in feeling this tension. The Church has always been most honest when it admits its own complicity and still throws itself on mercy. And maybe that’s the whole point: not that we redeem the Church, but that we let God redeem us through it—even when we limp and rage on the way.
Thanks Duane, well put together. I’m not sure we are in full agreement, but we don’t have to be. I’m learning—again—what it is like to live in the tension of the church that I have many issues with, yet also recognize they are a part of my faith. I carry a Benedictine rosary in my pocket, in part, to remind me of the communion of the saints and that I have not developed enough in my spiritual formation to be able to go the way of a hermit. The Rule of Benedict is very clear to me about that tension—many thanks to Joan Chittister.
pstrmike
That’s beautifully said—and deeply resonant. That kind of spiritual honesty, the willingness to live in the tension rather than escape it, is itself a sign of real formation. There’s something profoundly Benedictine in what you’ve expressed: the recognition that community isn’t easy, or always edifying, but that it’s necessary. Even holy.
Carrying that Benedictine rosary is more than habit—it’s a small, embodied liturgy. A reminder that faith isn’t just about personal conviction but shared memory. That we’re tethered not only to Christ but to one another, even when that bond chafes. And yes, the Rule makes that clear: we’re shaped in the community, not outside of it. As Chittister reminds us, the monastery—and by extension, the Church—is not a sanctuary from brokenness, but a laboratory of grace amid it.
I hold to the tenets of ‘The Apostle’s Creed’ as non-negotiable parameters up front and on the table.
The rest of the stuff?
I pick and choose according to the dictates of my conscience.
For example, I reject the doctrine of PSA (penal substitutionary atonement).
Muff
Fair enough—but here’s the rub for all of us: while this approach might feel honest and liberating, it also walks a fine line between faithfulness and self-curation. Holding the Apostles’ Creed as non-negotiable is commendable—it roots you in the heart of Christian orthodoxy. But when you say “the rest of the stuff? I pick and choose…”, the question becomes for you, and for all of us: by what standard? Just a thought…
Theology is simply the study of God…and should be the number one interest of us all. In these troubling times we need to know god as best as we can…truly know him, not simply use His name to affirm our prejudices.
We all should be able to fill out a similar confession…or at least the questions we’re pursuing as form a confession.
The trouble with the Apostles’ Creed only approach isn’t with the creed so much … as the gymnastics that happen on the proverbial conservative and liberal sides about what to eject from our task of interpreting scripture along the way based on unexamined surmises in the “now”.
Someone like Wayne Grudem would reject the descent clause as impossible to accept hecause “He descended into Hell” couldn’t be. Now there’s whole books on whether the descent entails “that” or not but it’s an example of how even people who would otherwise say they stick to the creed(s) reject some element in practice.
Someone like Schleiermacher jettisoned the devil and demons and the entirety of the Fall because, well, hey, none of THAT is in the creeds either.
Overall theologians and historians of theology can make cases that both Grudem and Schleiermacher’s views are wrong.
WTH
Exactly. The issue isn’t the Creed—it’s how both conservatives and liberals can use it as a minimalist shield or a maximalist weapon, depending on the moment. When we say “I hold to the Apostles’ Creed,” that’s a starting point—but it’s not an excuse to bypass the hard, disciplined work of interpretation, theological reflection, and engagement with the living tradition.
The danger is in the gymnastics, as you put it—the contortions made to defend a position that may owe more to our cultural moment than to careful reading or deep listening. On the right, that can look like inflating secondary doctrines to dogmatic status, demanding allegiance to positions the Creed never names. On the left, it can look like using the Creed as a minimalist firewall—affirming just enough to stay in the room, while quietly gutting the theological depth that gives it meaning.
In both cases, what’s often lacking is exactly what you name: an examined hermeneutic. Too often, people claim to “stand on Scripture” or “follow conscience” while never interrogating the assumptions, systems, or social location that shape their interpretations. But the Creed was never meant to be a free pass. It’s a summary of the faith, not a substitute for wrestling with its implications.
If anything, the Creed demands that we do the interpretive work—and do it communally, historically, and humbly. Otherwise, it becomes a convenient banner we wave rather than a truth we inhabit.