Von Reimarus zu Wrede was the original title of Albert Schweitzer’s book in 1906. In the translation made by William Montgomery and published in 1910, the title was freely rendered as The Quest of the Historical Jesus, and thus an important phrase in New Testament scholarship arrived. The original title indicated the author’s desire to outline the development of thought on the Gospels since the work of H. S. Reimarus (1694-1768), published in 1778, which he saw as a first attempt to present Jesus as an historical person freed from all dogmatic preoccupations, to the work ofWilhelm Wrede (1859-1906) of 1901, which was concerned with the presentation of Jesus’ ideal, the Messiasgeheimnis as the principal theme of the Gospels, freed this time from all historical preoccupations. For Wrede the preaching of Jesus was far more central to the Gospel than any attempt to portray an historical person, and Schweitzer saw the development of this point of view as the beginning of a new era. This indeed it was, and Schweitzer’s own thought, epitomized in the brilliant title coined by his translator, suggested that the Quest had come to an end: Schweitzer’s quest was leading him to see the whole meaning of the Gospel in the eschatology of Christ’s message, that is, in his preaching to mankind of the coming end of all things, and the consequent need for mankind to prepare for a spiritual renewal. For Schweitzer, the Master’s preaching looked forward to a fulfilment that never came, but nevertheless the significance of his preaching for me and for every one of his followers makes it the greatest teaching ever given to mankind. Schweitzer presented Jesus as the great idealist and it is essential to see Schweitzer’s teaching on the background of his own personality, for his understanding of Christ’s message led his own generous spirit to throw up everything to become a medical missionary in Africa. For Wrede the whole secret of the Gospel lay in Jesus’ messianic ideal; for Schweitzer not only was this so, but the preaching of Jesus emerges as the dominant factor, with an effect on the lives of all Christians.

Having recently encountered the scorched and blackened ‘Assemblages’ of the American artist John Latham there, I nowadays approach the Bear Lane Gallery, in Oxford, with a certain caution. One can never be quite sure what is going to happen next. This month‘s exhibition, Modern Art and the Church, sounded like another challenge. On the earlier occasion, a few people were, I believe, rather indignant when they discovered what Mr Latham had been up to, with all that old gas-piping and burned secondhand books. But no one had to be carried out kicking and screaming as once they might have been. By now most of us have made our peace with Modern Art and the Modern Artist. But when one puts Modern Art and the Church together in the same room, one becomes aware how uneasy their alliance has always appeared. The problem is to see why this should be so. It is not that there is anything in the present exhibition which would upset one. One almost wishes there were. But problem there is, and it is made all the more difficult by the fact that nearly all the exhibits are meant to be seen in quite another context, as parts of a larger complex of architecture, or as things used and worn. It is not, however, just that stained glass is best judged when seen in the situation for which it was designed rather than when displayed under artificial light, even when this is done as effectively as it is in the depths of the Bear Lane. Most people are capable of makmg the required imaginative adjustment and allowing for the necessary restrictions imposed by a gallery. No. The sense of confusion has, I always feel where this matter is concerned, a deeper source and one more difficult to get at. It may perhaps be worthwhile attempting to say something about it, if this review is to be more than a mere elaboration of the catalogue, a list of ‘what I liked and what I didn't like’.

Professor A. W. Lawrence has complained that the Speigel-Lean film which has his brother for its hero is false to the spirit, and certainly to the text, of Seven Pillars of Wisdom. It has to be admitted that Mr Robert Bolt’s admirable script has little in it of the Doughty-and-Authorized-Version grandeurs, and inevitably some foreshortening of the epic was necessary to make the film at all. As it is, you are imprisoned for four hours, and, however voluntary a captive you may be, enough in this context must mean a good deal less than a detailed recapitulation of the book.

The narrative is simple, confined almost entirely to the desert campaigns that led to the capture of Aqaba and the entry into Damascus. There is mercifully little attempt to use Lawrence as the peg for an interpretation of abnormal psychology. His illegitimacy is referred to (by himself), and the humiliation of his treatment at Deraa is indicated (though with much less sadistic detail than the book itself supplies). In effect we are shown a resolute, romantic Englishman who has a deep love and understanding of the Arabs and who is convinced that he can win them unity in their common revolt against the Turks. The film is an account of how this happened, and how in the end Lawrence’s hopes were betrayed by the politicians and by the Arabs’ failure to preserve into peace the resolve they had known in battle.

In a curious way we know little more about Lawrence in the end than we did in the beginning. Peter O’Toole’s much praised performance preserves an odd reticence, not only of word and gesture (which the character of Lawrence requires) but of understanding.

Reading from right to left, a circle links with the base of a triangle, which in turn touches a rectangle. This is Sengai’s universe, abstract and symbolic. ‘The circle represents the infinite’, writes Suzuki in the catalogue, ‘and the infinite is the basis of all beings. But the infinite in itself is formless. We humans endowed with sense and intellect demand tangible forms. Hence a triangle. The triangle is the beginning of all forms. Out of it comes the square (the triangle doubled). This doubling process goes on infinitely and we have the multitudinosity of things which the Chinese philosopher calls “the ten thousand things” - that is, the universe.’

This exhibit, number 6, was the one reproduced on the posters, and the one judiciously placed to be the first seen as we entered the exhibition, still marvelling that we had to pay only a shilling for the superbly presented catalogue that contains a reproduction of each one of the eighty exhibits, together with Suzuki’s comments. Here indeed are ten thousand things, and each a world of its own. This was an exhibition quite unlike any other, needing to be pondered over, communicated with. One needed absolute silence, and it was best to be alone. The ‘fleeting world’, as Sengai paints and models it, is as significantly crystallised in the brush stroke and the moulding as it would appear to be in the flying calligraphy of the accompanying poems. A chummy old harlot offers him a gift of rather special pickles, and Tai-ki smashes his lute as an excuse for not playing at court to entertain a king. A crippled beggar is observed, and Hotei, the patron of children, gesticulates with a perpendicular arm after the manner of Edward Lear or awakes from a nightmare looking like someone from Thurber. A group of old men demonstrate how ‘indispensable are a hood on the head, wrappers, a stick and spectacles ... a hot water bottle, a heating stone, a chamber pot and a back scratcher’. Then there are the gods and devils, pantomime figures full of animation, and a bodhisattva full of reflection and enlightenment. An orchid, a spray of plum blossom, a cluster of bamboos driven by the wind. Two exquisite evocations of Fuji, sailing boats on a fan, and a meditating frog which is no more a caricature than any of the grotesque and humourous human figures. Sengai brings out the character of everything he sees and loves.

Peace on earth—the passionate longing of mankind everywhere. Peace is a word which is on everyone’s lips, and the desire for it in everyone’s heart— statesman and layman alike. The achievement of total and universal disarmament, the biggest step on the road to peace, is, as President Kennedy said only last year, no longer a pipe-dream of a few idealists: it is a stark matter of whether mankind is to survive on this earth or not.

Women, by their very nature, have always had the privilege and responsibility of feeding and nurturing the human family—hers the joy of bringing children into the world and hers the main responsibility for them till they are of an age to fend for themselves. She has a unique opportunity of moulding these children into the kind of beings with the kind of outlook she desires. Her power for good or evil is enormous. It is therefore of the utmost importance that women should be fully alive to the problems of the world in which these children have to live. Nowadays in the complicated state in which the human family lives, each nation and indeed each individual so interdependent on other nations and individuals, relying as everyone does on at least some of the produce of other countries for their very existence, women have a very special duty to extend their sphere of influence and their activities from their own immediate family to the family of the whole world. These are at least some of the reasons why women have a special interest in the achievement of a true and lasting peace, more than ever necessary today when the effects of artificially induced radiation, e.g. by the explosion of atomic weapons, are exceedingly grave, not only to the living, but also to the unborn, maybe for generations to come.