In 1754, the Scottish minister John Gillies (1712–1796) published a collection of historical accounts concerning “remarkable periods of the success of the Gospel.” Its composer was a spider in a web of correspondents in Europe and North America who believed they were living in an extraordinary time of revival in Christianity. Collective conversions and signs of repentance and faith were reported from all parts of the world and placed in a large eschatological perspective. After the Protestant Reformation—the climax of church history since the New Testament—a great decline had set in comparable to the Middle Ages. The “Great Awakening” seemed to recapture the spirit of the first Pentecost and offered prospects for a further extension of God's Kingdom. By means of missionary work among the heathen peoples, the Gospel would reach the ends of earth. Finally, after the collective conversion of the Jews and a millennium of peace, the time would come for the Lord of the Church to appear on the clouds of heaven to gather the harvest of all times.

Speaking before the Commission d'étude sur les laics et l'Église (Commission Dumont) in 1970, Jean-Paul Gignac articulated the feelings of many when he stated that although the church had greatly furthered the survival of French Canadians, the men and women of his own generation had been “strangely traumatized” by Catholicism. At one level, their perplexity can be read as but the obvious response to the travails of Quebec Catholicism in the 1960s. For many decades prior to 1960, the Catholic Church had been successful in imposing on most of Quebec society what appeared to be a unanimity of social and cultural values. But after the mid-1960s, an increasingly evident decline of religious practice, the abandonment of the priesthood by many clergy, the indifference of young people to Roman Catholicism, marked the rapid erosion of the church's social and cultural authority. That erosion was marked in many ways: the deconfessionalization of many Catholic educational and social welfare institutions; the creation of a new pluralist society through state intervention; the rise of a secular “neonationalism“ baserd upon economics, language, and the power of the state instead of a common religious faith; and, at a popular level, the replacement of Christianity by the secular values of a mass-market, North American consumer society. Together these developments, termed the “Quiet Revolution” by historians, decisively marginalized the social and cultural role of Catholicism within Quebec society.

The nineteenth-century editor of Ermenrich of Ellwangen's (ca. 814–74) Vita Sualonis, Oswald Holder-Egger, dismissed the Carolingian hagiographer's sermon on the Anglo-Saxon hermit Sualo as historically unimportant because of its heavy reliance on oral traditions, its turgid prose style, and its clumsy Latin grammar. Holder-Egger found fault with the “ahistoricism” of Ermenrich's Vita—a scholarly stance no doubt influenced by the historicism of his day that privileged “the basic story as the primary object or goal of research.” For the late-nineteenth century, the recovery and reconstruction of an original source (an archetype or Urtext) from which all other derivative and secondary versions sprang was the ultimate task of historical inquiry. Such an Urtext, once unearthed, would then present the true, uncontaminated story of what had happened in the past, and the historian who successfully excavated an Urtype would assume the role of truth teller.

Current attitudes of religious organizations toward the civil rights movement prompt the raising of various historical questions. These concern, among others, the attitude of the churches toward the slave trade and the use of slave labor in the American colonies. Did the churches ignore slavery or did they object to it but were unable to change it because of vested economic interests? Were there any individual clergymen who raised particularly loud voices of protest against the use of slave labor and the buying and selling of human beings? Did the churches make any effort to convert the Negroes to Christianity? The examination of such questions with reference to a specific religious denomination, the Dutch Reformed Church, sheds light on this subject.

Several scholars, including Workman, Cragg, Dreyer, and now Henry Rack, have called attention to Wesley's endorsement of Locke's philosophy (within limits) and, more broadly, to the debt which he owed to empiricist psychology and theories of knowledge. Wesley read the Essay Concerning Human Understanding in 1725 during the interval between his commencement as a Bachelor of Arts and his election to a Fellowship at Lincoln College, Oxford. The book made a favorable impression which endured to the end of his life. During the decade of the eighties, for instance, Wesley published a series of extracts from the Essay, books I and II, in his Arminian Magazine (volumes 5–7, 1782–1784). He also praised The Procedure, Extent, and Limits of Human Understanding and Things Divine and Supernatural Conceived by Analogy with Things Natural and Divine, books written by Peter Browne (died 1735), an Irish bishop and philosopher whom Locke had influenced to a considerable degree. Indeed, at one juncture, Wesley expressed a preference for Browne over Locke. He wrote in his journal for 6 December 1756, “I began reading to our preachers the late Bishop of Cork's Treatise on Human Understanding, in most points far clearer and more judicious than Mr. Locke's, as well as designed to advance a better cause.”

The Ranter counter culture was a phenomenon of Puritan England. It was a movement among lower-class people numbering several thousands—we do not know exactly how many—widely distributed in London and rural England. In describing this phenomenon as a movement, however, one must be cautious since this was not a movement towards a goal: it was a movement of repulsion away from English society as represented by the Puritans. It implied a rejection of the Puritan Establishment—its ethics, its values, and its goals.

The problem of rendering to God what is God's is no less complex when Caesar is himself a Christian. Among the Anglo-Saxons, for example, “a Christian king is Christ's deputy among Christian people,” but both the royal role in religion and the offerings made to the divine were shaped by the Germanic heathenism which had embraced both. In the full flood of Christian monarchy in England, the ruler still participated in cosmic and earthly realms, a position presaged by that of his pagan ancestors but involving, inevitably, changing forms and problems. The king was still the head of the folk under divine auspices, and a separation of religion and royal function was as unthinkable as under paganism. The English ruler stood in a special relationship to the Divine King, and the doctrine of separation of powers between ruler and Church was as abhorrent to the latter, which had inundated the kingdoms on the tide of royal favor, as it was impracticable to the monarch. The ruler was expected to play a theological and eschatological role for his people. The view of the king as doctor of his folk—the tuba praedicationis, as Alcuin hailed Offa of Mercia—leading them to judgment, cast a religious aura about him which was to continue a ruler-cult in Christian terms.

In the present discussion within the Roman Catholic Church over the requirement of clerical celibacy, the arguments generally center on the ascetical value of the practice. Pope Paul VI speaks of celibacy as a “precious jewel” leading to a life of selflessness for the man who seeks to follow Jesus Christ in the priesthood. When priests themselves talk about the subject, it is often in terms of its symbolic value as a total commitment to the service of the Lord. It is further seen as a practical measure, following Saint Paul's view that the married state frees the ordained minister from the cares of personal family life so that he may devote himself entirely to the concerns of the whole Christian community.

Europeans who came to America from the sixteenth century on, came not to discover a new world but to re-create their own versions of Europe. Whether Spanish conquistador or Virginia planter, each hoped to make America and native Americans into the shape of idealized Europes and Europeans. Of all those who made such plans, it was the Society of Jesus that had sufficient authority and manpower to put its visions into practice. Jesuits who came to New France in the 1630s brought not only Christianity but a whole complex of European social and political values. To examine Jesuit “civilization planning” in New France is to see in microcosm a significant part of early European-Indian relations.

For the contemporary historian, whether male, gray-haired and ensconced in the ivory tower of an old-fashioned political or intellectual history, or female, young, and happily dismantling the tower by the seige-machine of social history, Carolingian society is a source of continuing wonderment. For those with a love of order and of the enjoyment of the fruits of their labor, Carolingian society especially in the years just preceding and following Louis the Pious's death in 840, mirrors all the anxieties of a committed band of representatives of high culture surrounded by the rising seas of low culture. For those riding the crests of the sea, Carolingian society speaks of the possibilities open in a society of little structure and much mobility to those of imagination, not tied to the past.

Historians identify many connections between human rights and religion, including the influence of religious organizations on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The Protestant ecumenical movement and American Protestantism played important roles in this regard. Historical analysis has so far taken insufficient account of another contemporaneous phenomenon important in terms both of religion and of rights—the British Empire. Its authorities typically offered a “fair field” to Christian missionaries irrespective of their nationality or denomination. They might also offer protection to religious minorities. In Egypt the situation was complicated. An Islamic country and a vital part of Britain's “informal” empire in the Middle East, Egypt was also an important area of missionary activity. To Egyptian government and British imperial representatives alike missionaries asserted their right and that of Christian converts to “religious liberty.” Focusing in part on Anglican mission in Egypt, this article examines the complex interplay of empire and Anglo-American ecumenism in missionary assertion of religious freedom. It also shows how imperialism and debates about “religious liberty” in Egypt and the Middle East influenced both “universal” and Egyptian national ideas about freedom of religion up to 1956.

Elisabeth of Spalbeek (fl. 1246–1304) was one of the mulieres religiosae who flourished in the Low Countries during the thirteenth century. Although she is known today almost exclusively for her stigmata and her performance of Christ's Passion, I will argue that she provides an exceptional example of the spiritual networking described by scholars such as John Coakley and Anneke Mulder-Bakker. As they have shown, medieval holy women—recluses and anchoresses included—functioned only within tightly woven spiritual networks that connected other mulieres religiosae, sympathetic clerics, and powerful nobles who provided economic and political support in return for the women's prayers and spiritual authority. No one has analyzed Elisabeth's network in this light in part because the chief source for her life—the text written by Abbot Philip of Clairvaux, who visited Elisabeth in 1266/7—omits the proper names of most people surrounding Elisabeth and fails to mention many of the people with whom she must have come in contact. In addition, major documents concerning Elisabeth have, until now, escaped any collective analysis, so we have been unable to place Elisabeth in any context. Through a painstaking review of all the pertinent documents, however, I have succeeded in uncovering Elisabeth's political and spiritual alliances, allowing me to study her in her milieu and to provide a detailed analysis of her possible secular and religious influence. I argue that she was actively engaged in building and extending her own network, and in my consideration of the evidence for this “politics of mysticism,” I offer a perspective on Elisabeth that has led me to reinterpret her role in the last recorded event of her life, the French court battle between Queen Marie of Brabant and the chamberlain Pierre de la Broce.

Scholarship on early-twentieth-century American Protestant modernism appears to have arrived at an impasse. Although scholars continue to explore the biographical contours of modernist individuals, and theologians still review the capacity of modernist theologies, the body of analytical scholarship on the “modernist impulse” has failed to keep apace with the glut of materials addressing its fraternal twin, fundamentalism. Published in 1976, William Hutchison's The Modernist Impulse in American Protestantism remains the last significant historical commentary on the cultural and intellectual dynamics of Protestant modernism. In that masterful exegesis, Hutchison supplied the classic definition of this impulse, arguing that despite the diversity of its participants and complexity of their thought, the modernist movement in America could be accurately summarized as a shared commitment to cultural adaptation, God's immanent role in human development, and a postmillennial progressivism. While this tripartite formulation still provides the authoritative elucidation of early-twentieth-century Protestant thought, a reappraisal of the modernist canon reveals that Christian liberals not only were invested in theological overhaul and intellectual malleability, but also persistently specified an elaborate methodological structure for belief. In works such as Minot Savage's Jesus and Modern Life (1898), Margaret Benson's The Venture of Rational Faith (1908), Douglas Clyde Macintosh's Theology as an Empirical Science (1919), J. Macbride Sterrett's Modernism in Religion (1922), and Henry Nelson Wieman's The Wrestle of Religion with Truth (1927), seminarians and ministers offered detailed descriptions of how Protestants should think in the modern era. These were not expansive tracts bent on exploring the fluid boundaries of faith in a plural culture; rather, these were precise, pointed exhortations on the virtue of scrupulous historical research, scriptural comparison, and relentless self-examination. Rather than continue to translate Protestant modernism as cultural acquiescence and enthusiastic historicism, this essay suggests that a recalibrated portrait of this movement is needed.

Nearly everything that is recorded about the early history of Alexandrian Christianity lies in the Church History of Eusebius. Many Alexandrian theological writings are preserved, but as might be expected they cast little light on historical events. Now the basic difficulty with Eusebius' work is that it has to be classified as “official history.” It therefore contains a judicious mixture of authentic record with a good deal of suppression of fact and occasional outright lies. He wrote it in defence of himself and his friends and their outlook toward the nascent imperial church establishment under God's messenger Constantine.

The great historian of the reign of Justinian (A. D. 527–565) was Procopius of Caesarea in Palestine. He wrote a history of the wars of Justinian, an account of the Emperor's building activities, and a slanderous Secret History, designed to be published after his own death, in which he made a vicious attack on Justinian and Theodora.

In November, 1549, at the beginning of the third session of King Edward VI's first parliament, legislation was introduced intending to facilitate the reformation of the ecclesiastical laws of England. In the House of Lords, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer and others submitted a bill “touching Ecclesiastical Jurisdiction” which would have given the bishops and their ordinaries the power to excommunicate and to imprison those who were in need of discipline in order to help tidy up what was regarded then to be an immoral and disorderly nation. This bill passed the House of Lords and was sent down to the House of Commons for consideration.

The historian Presniakov has characterized the first quarter of the nineteenth century, the reign of Alexander I, as “Russia at the crossroads” (Rossiia na rasput'i). No longer content with slavish imitation of Western Europe, Russia now began to develop a culture which would be admired and emulated by the West. Once beyond the fringe of European diplomacy, the Empire now moved to the center of that arena. Shaped by her national traditions, but involved increasingly in continent-wide trends, the Russia of Alexander I was confronted by a varied and complex set of problems, both domestic and foreign, which demanded resolution. The destruction of the Napoleonic threat, the assimilation of subject nationalities, the establishment of efficient techniques and procedures of government, the articulation and implementation of national policies in education and in economic life were among the countless tasks which faced Alexander I and his advisors. Educated Russians of the day heatedly debated the most effective means of solving the myriad dilemmas.

The treatise De area Noe morali by Hugh of St. Victor (d. 1141) contains a short but significant piece of literal exegesis concerning Noah's Ark. This seemingly slight example of Victorine exegesis is of considerable intrinsic merit for in it Hugh ventured to criticize an accepted exegetical “authority” and offered in its place his own interpretation of the passage. It is the purpose of this article to examine Hugh's criticism of the traditional exegesis and his positive contributions through the correlation of reason, auctoritas, and a fresh examination of the literal sense of Genesis VI.

John Calvin succeeds in stating his position on baptism in such a way that it becomes not only an integral part of his entire system of theological thought, but also an occasion for a very lucid exposition of the central themes characteristic of his theology. Calvin achieves this by carefully delineating the proper manner of approach to the discussion of the doctrine of baptism. Specifically, Calvin insists that the meaning of baptism cannot be genuinely understood if we take the external ceremonies as the point of departure for our discussion. Instead, it is of basic importance first and foremost to be concerned with the promises of God offered in baptism, never forgetting that these are the inward mysteries for whose sake the outward signs are present. Such an approach is possible and even necessary because of the relationship which exists between the word and the sacramental sign. The sacrament never exists autonomously; it is, as we shall soon discuss in more detail, rather like an appendix that is attached for the purpose of confirmation and ratification to an already clearly given divine word of promise.

Already famous for his best-selling books on Christian devotion and increasingly infamous for his attempts at a theological synthesis of Calvinist and Arminian perspectives on salvation—which (no surprise) pleased hardly anyone—Richard Baxter (1615–91) nearly succeeded in redefining English pastoral practice before the Restoration brought his experiment in pastor-led, parish-based reformation to a frustrating end. At the core of his efforts to bring reformation to Kidderminster lay his efforts to establish a parish-based system of church discipline that would preserve the integrity of the sacraments and thus rob separatists of one of their primary excuses for abandoning the parochial system. This article seeks to place Baxter's effort to develop a strategy for an effective church discipline in its historical context. In particular, I will first consider the precedents to the system which Richard Baxter developed for St. Mary's parish. Special attention will be given to Martin Bucer's Reformation-era prescription for reforming the discipline of the church and the intriguing possibility that Baxter's strategy was actually a recovery of Bucerian pastoral emphases. Second, I will trace the evolution of Baxter's own program for discipline. Finally, I will discuss the impact Baxter's discipline had on his wider goal of reformation, both in his parish and beyond.