Inspiration: Its Nature and Extent — Reading Notes

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Authors: Hoare, Edward, 1812-1894 Digital Source: Project Gutenberg Gutenberg Release Year: 2016 First Publication Year: Not confirmed

Key Word: Bible -- Inspiration Target Reader: Readers of public-domain and historical texts

Book Edition: Project Gutenberg digital edition Book Language: en

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Words 12,119

Reading time 53 min

Text sections 2

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Source: Project Gutenberg record #52151

Edward Hoare's 1877 theological treatise examines biblical inspiration through a structural analogy between the incarnate Word and the written word, arguing for a plenary, infallible inspiration that nonetheless accommodates human elements.

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he clearly regarded them as Scripture when he wrote his second epistle. He saw some difficulties in them, but that did not affect his opinion of their admitted inspiration, when he said (2 Pet. iii. 15, 16), ‘Even as our beloved brother Paul also, according to the wisdom given unto him, hath written unto you; as also in all his epistles, speaking in them of these things; in which are some things hard to be understood, which they that are unlearned and unstable wrest, as they do also the other scriptures, unto their own destruction.’

New Testament therefore, as well as Old, was included in the declaration, ‘All scripture is given by inspiration of God;’ and the conclusion to which I am irresistibly brought is, that we have no right to pick and choose amongst the various portions of the word of God. I believe the whole to be arranged as a whole for the accomplishment of God’s great purpose, that the whole is included in ‘the Scriptures,’ and that the parts are so interwoven one with another, and so beautifully fitted into each other by God’s divine hand, that there will be found ultimately to be no intermediate path between receiving the whole as the word of God, or sweeping away the whole, and launching forth on a sea of scepticism, without a Bible, without a Saviour, and, as the last step, without a God.

I need scarcely say that many persons, and some of them most excellent men, have entertained the idea of a graduated scale of inspiration, and hence the great importance of the question. Is it equal throughout? Or is it variable?

In attempting an answer to this question, it is essential that we observe the wide distinction between the authorship and the subject-matter of the book, for, if not, we shall soon get into confusion.

Now Christian brethren must not be startled by my stating that in the subject-matter there are the widest possible distinctions. It appears indeed to consist of three distinct classes of subjects, or rather three distinct kinds of matter.

In the first place, there are direct communications, communicated from heaven without the use of the mind of man. Of this class are the ten commandments, the words, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased,’ and the discourses of our Lord. Such words were not given by inspiration, for they did not pass through the medium of the human mind, but came direct from heaven. In them there was no inspiration, but communication.

There is a second large class of passages which were given by inspiration. The human mind was employed as the medium for conveying God’s will and purpose. This was the case with the prophets, the Psalms, and other similar passages. Here was inspiration, and the words so uttered were divine words, though given through the human medium, and not in direct communication.

But there is a third large class of passages in which there is neither inspiration nor communication. There are various sayings and doings of uninspired men, good actions and bad actions, good words and bad words, interspersed with miracles and other wonders of God’s hand. Now no one supposes that all these persons spoke by inspiration, and it is utterly unfair to quote such passages as inconsistent with the inspiration of Scripture, for no one asserts that they are inspired. It is utterly unfair, for example, of Mr. Coleridge to quote the language of Job’s friends, and to attack the inspiration of the book by the assertion that it is impossible to believe them to be inspired. Of course it is, for, if we believed them to be inspired, we should be flying in the face of the inspired book itself which records the divine communication, ‘Ye have not spoken of me the thing that is right’ (Job, xlii. 7.) We do not claim inspiration for those words, but for the authorship of the book which declares that the speakers spoke those words, and that in doing so they were wrong.

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Edward Hoare opens his 1877 treatise by drawing a sharp boundary between the capacities of human intellect and the need for divine revelation. He insists that science and philosophy cannot penetrate the 'unseen kingdom' of God, salvation, or eternal life, and that without an inspired Scripture, humanity would remain in 'utter ignorance' of these matters. This framing sets up a rigorous argument: the Bible must be a trustworthy communication from God, or else all Christian hope collapses.

Hoare's method is not to prove inspiration but to examine its nature and extent. He proceeds by analogy, comparing the union of divine and human in Christ to the union of divine and human in Scripture. This structural parallel governs the entire work, which moves from the divine element to the human element, then to their combination, and finally to difficulties raised against the doctrine.

The Divine Element and the Limits of Reason

Hoare devotes the first major section to establishing the necessity of a divine origin for Scripture. He argues that human reason, while capable of 'astonishing achievement,' cannot cross into the realm of the unseen. The language is emphatic: there is a 'limit beyond which it has no power to pass.' This boundary is not merely theoretical but existential—without revelation, we would be 'in utter ignorance of the plan which God has arranged for its safety.'

Hoare does not attempt to prove inspiration from external evidence; instead, he asserts that the Bible's value depends on its being a direct communication from God. He writes that if the Bible fails, 'our whole hope fails with it.' This section establishes the stakes: the entire Christian faith rests on the reliability of Scripture as a divine message. Hoare's tone is urgent, almost pastoral, as he insists that no human science can substitute for God's own word.

The Human Element: Not a Mere Machine

Having established the divine necessity, Hoare turns to the human dimension. He explicitly rejects what he calls the 'mechanical theory' of inspiration, in which writers were merely 'pens, machines, or copyists.' Instead, he argues that the human authors retained their individual minds and characters. This is not a weakness but a strength: the variety of style and perspective among biblical writers is 'one of the chief beauties of the book.'

Hoare's analogy is the incarnation: just as Christ's divinity did not destroy his humanity, so the divine inspiration of Scripture does not erase the human element. He insists that the Bible is 'so completely human' that it speaks directly to the human heart. This section is notable for its balanced tone—Hoare acknowledges that some see the human variety as a difficulty, but he reframes it as an asset. The human element makes Scripture 'exactly adapted to the human heart’s requirements.'

The Combination: Perfect Divinity and Perfect Humanity

In the third section, Hoare synthesizes his two preceding arguments. He presents the combination of divine and human in Scripture as a parallel to the hypostatic union in Christ. Just as the Godhead and manhood coexist in the person of Jesus without confusion or diminution, so the Bible is 'so divine that it is infallibly true, and yet so human that it is full of the workings of the human intellect and human heart.'

Hoare's language becomes almost liturgical as he thanks God for a Bible that is 'so perfect, so divine, so authoritative, so infallible' while also being 'heart-touching.' He does not attempt to explain how this union works; instead, he appeals to mystery, quoting 1 Timothy 3:16: 'Without controversy, great is the mystery of godliness.' The section functions as a theological climax, where Hoare's structural analogy reaches its fullest expression. He presents the combination not as a problem to be solved but as a gift to be received with gratitude.

Difficulties: Science, Style, and Candor

Hoare concludes by addressing objections, demonstrating a willingness to engage with challenges rather than ignore them. He identifies two main difficulties: the variety of human styles among biblical writers, and the apparent conflict between Scripture and modern science. On the first, he reiterates his earlier argument that variety is a beauty, not a problem, provided one rejects the mechanical theory.

On the second, Hoare makes a sharp distinction: the Bible is not a 'scientific treatise' and should not be judged by scientific standards. He argues that God used language 'such as men understood at the time the book was written,' and that expecting Scripture to anticipate future discoveries is unreasonable. This section is notable for its restraint—Hoare does not claim that science and Scripture are in harmony, but simply that they operate in different spheres. He concludes by reaffirming his commitment to 'plenary, and infallible inspiration' while acknowledging that difficulties remain, a stance he calls 'Christian candour.'

Hoare's treatise is a tightly structured argument that moves from necessity to analogy to application. Readers should note that he does not engage with textual criticism or historical evidence; his method is entirely theological and analogical. The work is best approached as a specimen of 19th-century Anglican apologetics, where the incarnation serves as the master key for understanding Scripture. Hoare's prose is direct and pastoral, aimed at reassuring believers rather than convincing skeptics. Those interested in the history of biblical interpretation will find here a clear statement of the plenary view, articulated with a candor that acknowledges but does not resolve its inherent tensions.

I have often thought, in my quieter hours, how Hoare’s careful study of the written word’s divine-human weave finds a patient echo in Our Day In the Light of Prophecy — Inside the Classic. Both wait upon the same unfolding. One dissects the ink; the other, the hour. Together, they whisper of a patience I have come to admire, like two old friends sharing a single, steady lamp.