In the Reformation the phrase “The Word of God” was mighty and prevailed. It was pronounced with assurance and heard with acceptance. To use it was to invoke in one's behalf a divine utterance of incontestible authority, that was documented of old in the canonical scriptures but now freshly reverenced and understood after long centuries of disregard. The Reformation was, or at any rate aimed to be, a reform of the visible church by applying to it the superior authority of the Word of God, so that the Word may be said to be the panoply of the Reformation, its all-sufficient armor and resource. This appears from Luther's early writings through Calvin's whole work, and that of Protestant writers to a much later era, and is a familiar note in our day.

Atheists were even rarer and more obscure in seventeenth-century England than communists are in the modern United States. The scarcity of atheists, however, rather enhanced than restricted the term as an expression of loathsomeness and evil beyond accurate description. Those who seemed obviously wrong-headed on matters of the most serious import, and who were yet exasperatingly hard to prove wrong, must be in the power of some unnatural evil. Thus Thomas Hobbes was denounced as an atheist; and the accusation was as honest and almost as irrational as the accusation heard recently in many parts of the Southeast that the NAACP is communistic.

Scholars of the Middle Ages have established that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, there was an intellectual shift in the Christian polemic against Islam. Whereas in earlier centuries heresiologists defined Islam as pagan, in the high Middle Ages the prevailing opinion emerged that it was instead a heresy. Medieval writers, who drew upon a rich theological tradition dating to the patristic era, sustained and expanded this new perspective. Many of the patristic theological refutations against heretics proved once again useful as groups such as the Waldensians, Albigensians, and others made serious challenges against the dominant orthodoxy. Even though Islam had already been a formidable presence in the Mediterranean—especially since the conquest of the Iberian Peninsula in the early eighth century—in the high Middle Ages the continued expansion of Islam, including its defeat of the Crusaders, was perceived to be an increased threat to Christendom. A corollary development was the greater interest in Islam—mainly to discredit or refute it—by some leading western Christian theologians. One thing is certain: medieval writers were intent on demonstrating the heretical nature of Islamic doctrines and the perversity of Islamic morality. Medieval polemicists, however, resorted to a standard theological weapon to assault Islam, typology. Through typology medieval writers were capable of constructing alleged historical and doctrinal links between Muhammad and two of the most notorious “types” of heresy from early Christianity: Simon Magus and Nicolas of Antioch.

Until the appearance of Rudolf Sohm's Kirchenrecht in 1892 and of Karl Rieker's study, Die rechtliche Stellung der evangelischen Kirche Deutschlands in ihrer geschichtlichen Entwicklung bis zur Gegenwart in 1893, the opinion prevailed among scholars by and large that the historic development in the relationship of the church in Germany to the state was contrary to the ideal of the Reformer. This ideal was held to be an autonomous congregational church based upon evangelical principles, an interpretation which had received the support of Aemil Richter's authority in Die Geschichte der cvangelischen Kirciwnverfassung in Deutschland, 1851. Since then, Reformation students have divided on this question. Luther wrote of the Notbischöfe: “I wish to leave the jurists … to settle this disputation … I will write as a theologian and a heretic,” and thereby he left a legacy of controversy both to jurists and historians. With equal truth Luther could write, “The other articles … I commend to the lawyers, for it is not my business as an evangelist to decide and judge in these matters. I shall instruct and teach consciences what pertains to divine and Christian matters,” and still maintain, “that since the time of the apostles the secular sword and authority has never been so clearly described and grandly lauded as by me, which even my enemies must acknowledge.” He was involved by circumstances in social and political questions which were not per se his concern as a theologian. Several factors complicate an analysis of Luther's theory of church and state, the immediacy of the medieval inheritance, conceptual differences of terminology from current usage, the complexity of the transitional historical situation, and Luther's characteristic way of addressing himself to a problem without relating his plan of action to his total theory. In fact, Dieckhoff says that as the pertinent quotations lie side by side, it is impossible to harmonize them. Such pessimism, however, is unwarranted, for Luther was never pathologically dialectical and his position can be satisfactorily understood if viewed in relation to his central orientation. Luther's political theory involved, of course, many facets, the question of Imperial power, papal theory, war, toleration, the Turkish question, feudal loyalties, and others. A study of the Notbischöfe problem is central, however, for an understanding of his ecclesiology and the much debated church-state question.

When in the spring of 1817 the thirty-seven-year-old Scottish minister, Thomas Chalmers, descended upon London, the world's greatest metropolis was transfixed. The four benefit sermons that Chalmers preached between 14 May and 25 May produced electrifying results. “All the world wild about Dr. Chalmers,” wrote William Wilberforce in his diary. At the sermon for the Hibernian Society, which distributed Bibles to the Irish poor, Viscount Castlereagh, moving British spirit at the Congress of Vienna, and the future prime minister George Canning were visibly moved. For his final appearance the throng was so intense that Chalmers, arriving shortly before he was to preach, could neither get into the church nor, at first, convince the crowd that he was the preacher, so far did his nondescript appearance fall short of his grand reputation. When friends inside finally recognized Chalmers, they secured his entrance by having him walk on a plank through an open window up to the pulpit itself.

It seems paradoxical that the event which has divided our reckoning of time into years B.C. and A.D. should itself seem largely undatable. The birth of Christ is variously assigned to the years ranging from 7 to 2 B.C. The terminus ad quem must certainly be the death of Herod the Great, since the king was very much alive during the visit of the Magi in the Christmas story. According to Josephus, Herod died soon after an eclipse of the moon and not long before a Passover. Emil Schürer's chronology of Herod's reign from the accounts of Josephus, which has long been standard, identifies this as the lunar eclipse which took place on the night of March 12/13, 4 B.C., and which would have been visible in Judea. It also occurred one month before the Passover that year. On this basis, the birth of Jesus could not have been later than the spring of 4 B.C., and most likely took place in the winter of 5/4 B.C.

Fray Diego de Landa's harsh inquisition against the Maya Indians of Yucatán has generated passionate controversy for over four centuries. This essay reexamines documentary sources related to the case in order to better understand both the event and Landa's interpretation of his own actions. The evidence suggests that Landa's reading of and response to the Mayan apostasies were shaped by the millenarian ideas of Spanish Franciscanism. Within this millenarian context, a richer and more consistent account of Landa's character and actions becomes possible.

“Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night: God said, Let Newton be!—and all was light,” according to Alexander Pope. Other British subjects were not so sure. In recent years, historians have begun to take more seriously the persons who opposed Newton on either philosophical, scientific or theological grounds. Rival systems of natural philosophy were already in the field, including the scholastic, the alchemical, and especially the Cartesian. Newton had learned a great deal from Descartes, but he also set out to correct the errors in his system. Many Cartesians, at least in the period shortly after 1687, were not convinced by Newton's arguments. His methodology was suspect as well. The mathematics that Newton had invented was hard to follow and the role that it played in his system was unfamiliar. Political antipathies sometimes led to the rejection of Newtonianism. But the crux of the problem was theological. Newton's natural philosophy, as stated in his Principia Mathematica, seemed to undermine the traditional doctrines of the Christian religion.

It seems to me that much can be learned by comparative studies of the histories of the several European countries, and that this is particularly true of their political histories during the sixteenth century. A stimulating start in this direction was made by H. G. Koenigsberger in an article in The Journal of Modern History, titled “The Organization of Revolutionary Parties in France and the Netherlands during the Sixteenth Century.” I would like to propose a further exploration of some of the interesting leads presented by Mr. Koenigsberger. For the present, however, I shall avoid attempting to survey the whole field he opens up for us. I shall limit myself to a study of the revolutionary Calvinist parties, and devote most of my attention to the period of their formation.

“Romanism and Evolution. Remarkable Advance. No Special Creation.” “Father Zahm on the Six Days of Creation.” “Father Zahm on Inspiration.” “Father Zahm Honored with a Private Audience by His Holiness.”1 During the final decade of the nineteenth century religious periodicals and secular newspapers alike chronicled the growing fascination of the American Catholic community with the public debate over the latest theories regarding the evolution of species. One figure in particular, John Augustine Zahm, a Holy Cross priest and professor of chemistry and physics in the University of Notre Dame, captured many of the headlines and captivated Catholic audiences with his sophisticated, clear expositions of the various theories in the post-Darwinian controversies and with his repeated assurances that the idea of evolution, properly understood, posed no obstacle to the faith of the individual Catholic.

In English history, 1688 is best remembered as the year of the Glorious Revolution. But that same year also witnessed the death of John Bunyan (1628–1688), the Nonconformist Bedford minister widely known as the author of The Pilgrim's Progress (1678; part two, 1684) and a preacher capable of drawing 3,000 persons to Sunday sermons in London. In subsequent centuries his fame increased, and, partly through translations into numerous languages, his story of Christian's pilgrimage became known in nearly every region of the world. In our own time his life and work have drawn the attention of many scholars from several fields, and the publication in modern editions of all of his sixty printed works has been undertaken. In 1988 the tercentenary of his death has been observed by a variety of activities including scholarly conferences and publications.

Over the past few years a spate of books and articles have forced scholars to reject the idea that the Anglican church was created as a compromise between Queen Elizabeth, who would have preferred to return to Henrician Catholicism, and radical Protestants, who wished to create in England a godly society modeled on the Swiss Reformation. This historiographic revolution has been led by historians who have challenged J. E. Neale's tale of a Puritan opposition party which was born in 1559 and bedeviled the queen for her entire reign. Demonstrating that the queen achieved the religious settlement she desired in 1559, they have forced us to question anew Elizabeth's attitude toward her church and to challenge some of the assumptions upon which ecclesiastical historians, following Neale, have built their histories of the Elizabethan church.

In the 1860s Walt Whitman described New York as a “city of spires and masts” with “the flags of all nations … duly lowered at sunset.” To this celebrator or urban life New York was a “city of the world! For all races are here; all the lands of the earth make contributions here.” The cosmopolitan character of New York was especially reflected in the city's Roman Catholic community. In the words of John Hughes, the Roman Catholic Archbishop of New York at mid-century, his “people were composed of representatives from almost all nations.” There were Italian and French Catholics, German and Irish Catholics as well as white and black American-born Catholics. And if one looked long enough, he would come across Catholic merchants from Spain and Catholic chefs from Switzerland. But within this polyglot community the two most significant ethnic groups in ante-bellum New York were the Irish and German immigrants.

In this essay, I reconsider early Christian conversion through the writings of Epiphanius of Salamis (d. 404 C.E.). Far from the notion of conversion as an interior movement of soul (familiar from Augustine, A.D. Nock, and William James), Epiphanius shows us a variety of conversions—from lay to clergy, from orthodox to heretic, and from Jew to Christian—in the social and cultural context of empire. Epiphanius can help us reconsider late-ancient conversion not as the internal reorientation to a “new life,” but instead the exteriorized management of status and difference. As Epiphanius crafts conversion as the site of masterful intervention, he also conjures the failure of control, the blurring of boundaries, and collapse of frontiers that haunts the imperial Christian imagination.

A dark picture of tyranny and prelatical persecution endured by Scottish Presbyterians under Charles II and James II was created by Robert Wodrow in his History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland published in 1721. This image became deeply embedded in the national consciousness much to the despair of apologists of rovalist and episcopalian causes. “That which we have from Wodrow”, Mark Napier complained bitterly, “is a caluminous tissue of monstrous fables. It has poisoned the History of Scotland to an extent that is now, perhaps, irremediable.” But those who wish to revise Wodrow's interpretation of the period cannot do so simply by dismissing his work as fabulous.

The article reviews recent and current developments in research on the origins of Christmas, which has traditionally crystallized around two competing approaches, known as the "History of Religions Theory" and the "Calculation Theory." This essay shall look at the history of these approaches and discuss their rationale and limitations, before turning to the challenges that have been brought against them by the recent work of Steven Hijmans and Hans Förster. It will be argued that their studies reveal the need for a more nuanced approach to the history of Christmas, which retains the aspect of inter-religious influence, but also pays some overdue attention to the importance of chronological thought in early Christian scholarship.

It is generally acknowledged that Gibbon's Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire ranks as one of the supreme masterpieces of historical writing. Yet surprisingly enough, more than a third of his entire narrative, that portion dealing with the later Roman or Byzantine Empire, has been badly neglected by historiographers. Now Gibbon as a Byzantinist must needs be an ecclesiastical historian as well, given the nature of Byzantine civilization with its close identification of the religious and the political. But here again, though sharp controversy has for long raged over Gibbon's judgment of early Christianity, especially its responsibility for the fall of the Roman Empire in the West, his treatment of medieval Greek Christianity has been almost ignored by critics, except for sporadic, general remarks by Bury, Dawson, Giarrizzo—remarks which have added little to the traditionally accepted view that Gibbon was contemptuous of Byzantine civilization.

The name “John Calvin” and the movement associated with him, Calvinism, serve as rhetorical negatives in the popular language of American culture. In a society often regarded as the most ahistorical in the Western world—an important American proclaimed that “history is bunk”—the name of Calvin, the sixteenth-century Protestant reformer who worked mostly in Geneva, is common enough coinage to show up in a variety of contexts. One can read newspaper stories on baseball, and Calvin is there. Or one can look at a popular book on the drug Prozac and there read about “pharmacological Calvinism.” A moving analysis of the AIDS crisis in the New York Times mentions Calvin. All of the references carry negative connotations of fatalism, guilt, and so on. The word “Calvin” seems to be shorthand for a range of negative thoughts and feelings in the American cultural consciousness.

Traditional nineteenth-century views of the relationship between science and Christianity have seen the two in a mortal conflict from which science emerged victorious over an obscurantist theology which sought to dominate the thinking of the new scientific class. Andrew Dickson White's A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom (1896) represented a high point in such battlefield historiography. Recent writers have found the relationship to be more complex and less militaristic as a result of examining more closely the context in which the alleged battles took place. This paper will examine the case of English evangelist John Wesley (1703–1791), long a scapegoat of the warfare model. Wesley was often tarred with antiintellectualism during his lifetime and, in the ensuing two centuries, this argument has focused on his attitudes toward natural science. The effect has been to cast a leading religious figure of eighteenth-century England in the antiscience mold.

Theologically and ecclesiologically James I of England was a “Gentleman of Wide Swallow.” Although he did not possess the type of skepticism that later emerged in post-Restoration latitudinarianism, he did endorse as orthodox only those essential doctrines which Christians had agreed upon in the early centuries of the church, which were grounded in the “expresse word of God” and given their most basic formulation in the creeds. The king viewed himself as an irenic monarch, one who could bring peace to Christendom by promoting an accommodation to these essentials and compromise between conflicting parties. This was an ecumenical approach to religion for his day, and he believed he could help disagreeing Christians “meet in the middest which is the center and perfection of all things.”