A small book appeared in Geneva in 1629 under the title, Confessio Fidei Reverendissimi Domini Cyrilli, Patriarchae Constantinopolitani. French, English, and German translations circulated during the same year. Two years later a Greek edition of the same book turned up in Constantinople under a more elaborate title,—“Eastern Confession of the Christian Faith. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. For the benefit of those asking and inquiring about the faith and the religion of the Greeks, i. e. of the Eastern Church, as to how they think of their Orthodox faith, Cyril, Patriarch of Constantinople, publishes in the name of all the Christians this brief Confession as a testimony to God and to men, in a clear conscience and without any reservations.” Below this were the words, “I, Cyril, Patriarch of Constantinople, wrote it in my own hand. Given in Constantinople, in the month of January, 1631.”

The years surrounding the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) witnessed a historiographical revolution that transformed the study of medieval Christianity. One might say that both a new Vatican ecclesiology and the new religious history sprang from the same conceptual root. Even as the Council articulated a definition of the Catholic Church as the people of God rather than simply a hierarchical institution, a number of important scholars were rediscovering the religious history of the Christian people. Shifting their focus away from the traditional monastic treatises on the contemplative life, scholars argued that all believers, and not just clerical specialists in the sacred, had a spiritual life that constituted a proper object for historical study. This new understanding of the history of Christian spirituality rapidly proved enormously fecund, opening as it did novel and exciting prospects for the study of popular religion.

In early January of 1749 John Wesley canceled a previously scheduled trip to Rotterdam in order to write a seventy-nine-page open letter to the Reverend Dr. Conyers Middleton on the subject of miracles in the early, post-apostolic church. The letter is one of Wesley's longest original writings, but it has never been studied critically. In it, Wesley's relationship to intellectual currents of his age become particularly clear, both because of the subject with which it is concerned (God's intervention in history) and because of the interlocutor to whom it is addressed (Conyers Middleton of Cambridge University).

The church historian Socrates Scholasticus tells a story about an encounter during the Council of Nicaea between the emperor Constantine and the schismatic bishop Acesius. On learning that Acesius's dispute had nothing to do with the Creed or the date of Easter—the two major issues under debate at that Council—Constantine asked, “For what reason then do you separate yourself from communion with the rest of the Church?” Acesius replied that his sect objected to the relative leniency with which other Christians had treated those who had cracked under the empire-wide persecutions of the third century. He then “referred to the rigidness of that austere canon which declares, that it is not right that persons who after baptism have committed a sin, which the sacred Scriptures denominate ‘a sin unto death’ be considered worthy of participation in the sacraments.” Whereupon, Socrates continues, the emperor said to him, “Place a ladder, Acesius, and climb alone into heaven.”

Americans pondering cultural relationships to Europe have always rather enjoyed quoting that splendidly splenetic outburst of rhetorical questions that the Reverend Sydney Smith posed in 1820 in the Edinburgh Review: “In the four quarters of the globe, who reads an American book? or goes to an American play? or looks at an American picture or statue? What does the world yet owe to American physicians or surgeons?” As Smith's catalogue continues, it becomes Job-like; or rather, by no accident, like God's questions to poor Job. Where were the Americans, Smith thunders, when we British laid the foundations of modern culture? “Where are their Foxes, their Burkes, their Sheridans?… What new substances have their chemists discovered? What new constellations have been discovered by [their] telescopes?”

On 7 May 1437, in a ritual both sad and absurd, the Council of Basel broke apart in discord and disorder. Two factions in the cathedral session that morning, each “simultaneously reading its decree, shouting its Placet and singing its Te Deum,” divided the house on the issue of selecting a site for unification talks with the Church of Constantinople. The council that claimed the authority to rule Christianity in concordantia catholica (in universal harmony), the council that proclaimed its primacy over the pope, demonstrated its incapacity to put its claims into practice. Nicholas of Cusa, a prominent figure in the conciliarists' camp and author of the 1433 treatise Concordantia catholica, the declaration by which the council intended to reassert its supremacy over the papacy, was on the side of the minority that morning. On this occasion the learned conciliarist found himself in the unusual position of supporting Pope Eugenius IV. What had caused his change of mind, or heart, or, at least, position? Had Cusa indeed changed, or beneath this apparent conversion was he constant in his convictions?

The sixth-century Gallic episcopacy contained within its ranks three distinct groups of men. The first group comprised those who had come to the episcopacy from a monastic background; the tradition of the monk-bishop, nurtured in the fifth century by the monastery of Lérins, was still strong, particularly in southern Gaul. The second group consisted of men who, although celibate, were not monks. The third group was composed of married clerics who at the time of ordination had taken a vow of sexual continence. Since source material for this period is comparatively scanty and many bishops are little more than names to us, we have no means by which to establish the proportion of men in the Gallic episcopacy who fit in this third category.1 The most we can say is that the married bishop was a familiar figure in the Merovingian church.

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 unmarried 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.

As England's public upheavals of the mid-seventeenth century were turning ominous, the antinomian preacher Tobias Crisp set his own stamp upon tempestuous times. Christ Alone Exalted comprises a series of sermons that Crisp delivered, “in or neare London,” in the early 1640s. The collection oozes discontent. Excrescences theological and devotional, Crisp had decided, needed to be removed, for they were imperiling vulnerable souls. Christian truths were now contending with “brethren” too smitten by the “righteousnesse of the Law” to stand in any but an adversarial relationship with “the free grace of God which is by faith.” Crisp offered a reparative blade. He repaired by cutting and thrusting, and in so doing sought to make amends for a host of puritan horrors. And for all the quietism that informed his alternative covenantal vision, Crisp did not operate softly. He had targets in his sights; he would dislodge from its place of security in the hearts and minds of the brethren a world of religious thought and action. The seethingly indignant responses of his critics testify to the bang with which Crisp had arrived. Crisp delivered a combustible mix of acrid polemic and nonconforming theology. He let it be known that an overly legalized soteriology had precipitated a pandemic of religious troubles; a desiccated, formulaic piety was smothering the spiritual life out of the gospel message. In short, Crisp was issuing a vigorous challenge to the legitimacy of a pietistic tradition that was overly elaborated and destructive of souls.

Seven years ago the Irish people celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Monday Rebellion: the “Blood Sacrifice” that inspired the Anglo-Irish War leading to the Treaty, the Free State and finally the Republic. During the festivities, politicians paid homage to the memory of Padraig Pearse, James Connolly and their colleagues in the Volunteer and Citizen Armies; towns and villages erected monuments to men who died for Irish freedom; professional and amateur historians produced volumes of description and analyses of the brave deeds of Easter Week; bands played and singers sang patriotic airs; and someone blew up Nelson's Pillar in O'Connell Street.A prominent politician, a hero of 1916, allegedly described the last event in newspaper headline style as ‘noted British admiral leaves Dublin by air.’ The 1916 commemoration was more than a hymn to the past; it was also a tribute to the values and successes of physical force nationalism. Ireland in 1966 seemed a model of productive revolution: a stable community with viable democratic institutions and an expanding economy; an example for other countries emancipated from the scourge of imperialism. This was the consensus of a confident nation.

Philip Schaff's America, newly translated from the German, appeared on these shores 133 years ago. Although that fact belies the title (and pushes the beginning of the American Society of Church History a third of a century into the future), I suspect that in 1888 Schaff would have concurred with much that he had thought as a younger scholar. He claimed, though, that he would not live in California “for any price,” and I have speculated about whether by 1888 he had changed his mind. The question is more than personal, for perhaps the most pungent metaphor in Schaff's America is his “Phenixgrave” figure for the land. “America,” he wrote, “is the grave of all European nationalities; but a Phenix grave, from which they shall rise to new life and new activity.” Beyond that he thought that America seemed “destined to be the Phenix grave not only of all European nationalities … but also of all European churches and sects, of Protestantism and Romanism.”

“… non estimemus fabulam illam quasi veram, quam quidam dicunt, quod instabit seculum bonum, in quo nullus erit malorum, et quod nihil paciantur, sed gaudio ineffabili sint prediti.” (From a Taborite commentary on Apocalypse, c. 1425.)

In the years following John Hus' martyrdom the movement he had led developed from a Prague University reform movement into a national reformation. Ideas that had formerly existed as topics for discussion among university intellectuals were established as actual religious practice among large groups of people, of all estates and with widely varying interests and viewpoints. As each such group entered the national movement it necessarily contributed its own viewpoint, with the result that every extension of the reform involved almost as many difficulties for the Hussites as for the Catholics. Of course there had always been differences among the university masters themselves, the inevitable conservative-radical dichotomy based ultimately on differences of spiritual temperament that exist within any group. But far more significant was the social polarization that took form as the concept of reform held by the upper estates was opposed by programs deriving from the point of view of artisans, peasants, and “the poor.”

In America the category ‘bible’ enjoys a privileged cultural position. That fact was brought home to me anecdotally several years ago when I received a telephone call forwarded through a departmental secretary. The woman on the other end of the line expressed frustration because she did not know what to do with a worn-out Bible. She asked if there was a proper way to handle the situation: should she bury it, or burn it? She was genuinely perplexed. Of one thing alone was she certain: she could not throw the Bible into a garbage can. As it turned out, I was of little help. I knew no liturgy for disposing of old Bibles, nor any special protocol for handling them. But I also do not remember ever throwing one away. I am accustomed to seeing old Bibles in attics or on shelves of used-book stores. The telephone call underscored in a practical way the special aura that surrounds the ‘bible’ in America.

Many scholars have observed that during the first half of the nineteenth century American philosophy, science, and education were dominated by Scottish Realism, or the philosophy of “Common Sense.” Its first significant influence has been traced to John Witherspoon, an Edinburgh-trained minister who became president of the College of New Jersey in 1769. Thereafter, especially after 1800, Realist texts were introduced gradually into American colleges, and by the I 820s generally had replaced the older texts. Through use in numerous American colleges, the works of Thomas Reid, Dugald Stewart, George Campbell, James Beattie, William Hamilton, and others exercised a pervasive influence.

Jean-Alphonse Turrettini (1671–1737) was the last of the line of theology professors from his family at the Academy of Geneva, following his grandfather Benedict (1588–1631) and his father François (1623–1687), the famed Reformed scholastic theologian. Jean-Alphonse started his theological career as the pastor of the Italian congregation in Geneva in 1693; he was then named professor of church history at the Academy in 1697 and then rector in 1701 and finally professor of theology in 1705. Although his father was one of the principal architects of the Helvetic Formula Consensus (1675), Jean-Alphonse led the movement toward eliminating such credal religion through the abrogation of the Formula in 1706.

The Syriac term qeiama, “covenant,”1 with its derivations benai qeiama, “the sons of the covenant,” and benat qeiama, “the daughters of the covenant,”2 not only marks the idiosyncracy of primitive Syrian Christianity but it also mirrors a development which parallels the whole process of transformation in ancient Syrian Christianity. Originally the term qeiama designated the whole church comprised of ascetically oriented Christians.3.Standing face to face with this singular concept of church and the peculiar profile of primitive Syrian Christianity, we must be reminded that the first Christian impulses in the lands of the Euphrates and Tigris did not come from Hellenistic Christianity via Antioch but from Palestinian Jewish Christianity.4 Therefore the earliest traditions implanted here reveal the Palestinian Aramaean influence not only in the contacts which these Christian Jews had with the Palestinian Jewish Christians5 but also in the use of the ancient Palestinian Targum as the first biblical texts translated into Syriac6 and in the fundamentally ascetic orientation of the Christian Kerygma7 which echoes the Palestinian ascetic trends.8 These archaic conditions, which understood the qeiama as the whole

To its leaders the Oxford Movement was “the Romance of the nineteenth century” while to its opponents it was nothing less than “disloyalty to Christ and His Truth.” Then, as now, the chief difficulty lay in delineating various characteristics, and this is especially the case with the Anglo-Catholic or “Ritualist” clergy by the end of the Victorian era. The following will be an attempt to place the phenomenon of Anglo-Catholicism, or Ritualism, into its proper historical context while examining more closely its role within the Oxford Movement and especially its tradition of the “slum priest.”

Christianity boldly asserted that the eternal Logos had been manifested in the personal history of Jesus called Christ. Once this claim began to receive wide acceptance, the older ways of philosophizing characteristic of the classical ages were shaken. On the one hand, Christians affirmed positively that God had drawn nigh, disclosing himself in history to those who believed. On the other hand, they held that, apart from reliance upon this divine disclosure, the efforts of scientific reason to apprehend God were pitifully inadequate and perverse.