Modern theology has grown accustomed to thinking of itself as surrounded by resources. Libraries, databases, critical editions, specialised commentaries, digital tools, original languages, systematised traditions. All of this is valuable and, when properly used, legitimate. Yet this abundance has produced a quiet illusion: that theology essentially depends on what surrounds it. That without books there is no thought. That without academic access there is no responsible theology. That without bibliographical support there is no confessable truth.
The question posed here is deliberately uncomfortable: is it possible to do theology when one has nothing at hand? No books, no articles, no library, no notes, no citable authorities. Only the believer, his faith, his memory, his reason, and his God.
Far from being a romantic or anti-intellectual exercise, this question touches the very nerve of what Christian theology is and has always been.
Theology does not begin in the library
Historically, theology precedes books. Christianity did not begin as a literary or academic project, but as an event received, interpreted, and confessed. Jesus did not write. The apostles preached before they wrote. The Church believed before it systematised. Theology arose as a reflective response to the action of God in history, not as the result of privileged access to intellectual resources.
For long periods of Christian history, the vast majority of believers had no direct access to written texts. And yet the faith was transmitted, defended, deepened, and lived with remarkable doctrinal clarity. This was not a historical deficiency, but a confirmation that theology does not essentially depend on material supports, but on fidelity to the content received.
To do theology with nothing at hand is, in this sense, to recover an original condition. Not as nostalgia, but as purification.
Scripture as an indwelling Word
To say that theology is done “without books” does not mean doing theology without Scripture. It means something more demanding: doing theology when Scripture can no longer be consulted, but only remembered, internalised, and obeyed.
This presupposes a very different relationship with the Bible from a merely instrumental one. Scripture is not simply a text consulted to confirm arguments, but a Word that has formed the believer’s mind, language, and judgement. When the Bible has been read, heard, memorised, and prayed over for years, it ceases to be an external object and becomes an interior presence.
In this context, theology does not arise from the search for verses, but from faithful discernment of what has already been received. It is not improvisation, but spiritual responsibility. The question is no longer “Where does it say this?”, but “Is this coherent with the God whom Scripture has made known to me?”.
The rule of faith as an inner grammar
When there are no books, theology rests upon a basic doctrinal grammar learned prior to any specialisation. God is one and triune. Jesus Christ is Lord. Salvation is by grace. Scripture is normative. Glory belongs to God. These affirmations do not require critical apparatus in order to function as criteria of discernment.
The Christian tradition called this the “rule of faith”. Not as an exhaustive summary, but as an interior structure that orients thought. It functions in a way similar to the grammar of a language: one rarely thinks explicitly about it, yet without it coherent speech is impossible.
Doing theology with nothing at hand forces reliance on this inner grammar. It compels the recognition that orthodoxy is not merely something cited, but something inhabited.
Christian experience as a place of testing
Deprived of books, the theologian can no longer hide behind inherited formulations. Theology is forced to confront real life: suffering, doubt, guilt, hope, perseverance, death. This does not turn experience into a doctrinal norm, but it does make it a place of testing.
A theology that cannot be thought through in prison, in illness, in exile, in poverty, or under persecution is a fragile theology. Theology done “with nothing at hand” is not more subjective, but more honest. It asks whether what it confesses can sustain faith when external supports disappear.
Here it becomes clear whether theology is confession or merely discourse.
Reason as an enduring gift
Even when everything else is absent, reason remains. Human beings remain capable of thinking, distinguishing, evaluating, arguing, and recognising incoherence. To do theology without books is not to renounce reason, but to exercise it without prostheses.
This has a disciplining effect. It forces greater clarity of thought, greater precision of formulation, and guards against excessive dependence on external authorities. One cannot cite, but one can reason. One cannot appeal to bibliography, but one can appeal to the internal coherence of the Gospel.
Reason, understood in this way, does not compete with faith. It serves it.
The Church as living memory
No one does theology from nothing. Even without books, the believer thinks within a community that has formed him. The remembered liturgy, the learned creeds, the hymns sung, the prayers repeated, the sermons heard, all of this constitutes an ecclesial memory that continues to operate even when material access to it is gone.
Theology “with nothing at hand” exposes a forgotten truth: the Church is not merely an institution that produces texts, but a community that transmits a form of faith. Tradition lives not only in documents, but in people.
The stripped purpose of theology
When resources are removed, theology is exposed to its final question: for what purpose? No longer for publication, debate, or the construction of prestige. Theology returns to its primary function: to confess God faithfully, to sustain faith in the midst of trial, to discern truth in darkness, to remain in Christ when there are no visible guarantees.
To do theology with nothing at hand is, ultimately, an act of faith. It is to affirm that God does not depend on our libraries in order to reveal himself, nor does the truth of the Gospel depend on our tools in order to endure.
Conclusion
This exercise does not despise study, written tradition, or academic formation. On the contrary, it honours them by recalling that their purpose is not to replace living faith, but to serve it. A theology that cannot survive without books is a theology that has forgotten its foundation.
To do theology with nothing at hand is not the permanent ideal, but it is a necessary test. A test that reveals what we have truly internalised and what we have merely learned to cite.
“For we can do nothing against the truth, but only for the truth.”
2 Corinthians 13:8
