Modern research dealing with the radical fringe of the Reformation has by-passed the problem of that Italian evangelical movement which is usually assumed to have been connected with northern “Anabaptism.” Students of “Anabaptist” history, however, while they have sought to clarify the distinctions within the movement as well as the features common to its component parts, have laid the groundwork for a reconsideration of the precise position of the Italian radicals. One approach to the problem might focus attention on the question of the relationship of Italian reformers to the “Anabaptist” movement in general. However, it has become increasingly obvious that the term “Anabaptism” was applied to a great variety of individuals and groups which had in common little more than their condemnation of infant baptism. As new criteria have been set up for separating the parts of this confusing mixture, there stand out most prominently at the center of the “Anabaptist” movement certain sects which modern German scholars call the “Taufer,” viz., the Swiss Brethren, the Hutterite Brethren, and the Mennonites; and we shall follow their usage here. The Täufer differed from the Protestant state churches principally in their conception of the nature of the church and, in their stress on discipleship. The latter emphasis implies man's ability to lead a life patterned after the life of Christ, while their conception of the church as a closed community of voluntary believers underlay their insistence upon the need for adult baptism. This insistence, which carried with it a denial of the efficacy of infant baptism, was the point in their teachings that aroused the opposition of contemporaries, signifying, as it did, their non-conformity to established practices and institutions.

From time to time during the later colonial period individuals or groups in America sought and received advice and political assistance from certain influential friends in England. Who these “friends at Court” were and what their actual relationship was to the colonists and to the British Government has remained obscure. Part of the answer is to be found in the Minutes of the Protestant Dissenting Deputies now deposited in the Library of the City of London at Guildhall. These manuscript volumes contain not only a record of all the colonial matters discussed by the Deputies, they also reveal a hitherto unrecognized influence in the growth of religious liberty in America.

Urbanization was the child of the industrial revolution. Born in the previous century, urban life rapidly matured in the nineteenth. The growth of industrial centers such as Glasgow placed an unbearable strain on the existing parochial system as people who had been reared in rural ways were thrust into urban situations alien to rural interests. One observer described the movement of the population from country to town as “a flood which swept away all the old relations of urban and rural districts.” The result of this social upheaval was twofold: a widespread attitude of religious disinterest and the appearance of social vices on a large scale. To the staid but wary religious community, urbanization appeared to be the basis of irreligion and moral decadence.

In a letter from Cyprian, bishop of Carthage in the middle of the third century, written while he was in hiding during the Decian persecution to the imprisoned confessors in Carthage, there is mention of two crowns, two colors and two flowers. The letter can be dated to the middle of April 250. Cyprian wanted to console those in prison that they would not be failures if they failed to be martyred. Those who were not martyred could receive equal renown through their confession as those who were martyred. As much as martyrdom was highly prized among African Christians, Cyprian wanted to assure the imprisoned confessors that it was not the only way to please God. In the past (ante), in a time undoubtedly before persecution, one could be clad in white for good works, just as now one could be clad in crimson for martyrdom. For those who were not going to die a martyr's death and win the crimson crown for suffering or the flower of warfare, Cyprian seemed to say that the confession of their faith could now be counted as a good work for which the reward was the white crown or the flower of peace.

Richard Greenham, rector from 1570 to 1591 at Dry Dayton Church outside of Cambridge, England, once preached a sermon based on I Thessalonians 5:19 (“Quench not the spirit”). Not one to let the brevity of a biblical text limit his own exegesis, Greenham offered up a sermon of nearly seven thousand words that likely took the better part of an hour to deliver. At the heart of Greenham's message was the proposition, “Whether that man which hath once tasted of the spirite may loose it, and have it quenched in him.” Greenham was a leading light among “the godly,” a group of mostly Cambridge- and Oxford-educated Protestant clergy who, working within the boundaries of the institutional Church, sustained a significant evangelical effort in England during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. These reformers embraced with some fervor a theology grounded in the veracity of election and reprobation, and worked to instill a like enthusiasm in the general population. In particular, the godly's message focused on how an individual might identify the marks of divine election and gain assurance of salvation.

Henry Hammond (1605–60), the learned and practical English priest who during the Interregnum did as much as any man and a good deal more than most to reinforce and renew the ideational underpinnings of his Church, is a familiar figure in seventeenth-century Anglican studies. Historians speak of his captaincy of a circle of Anglican divines. One names him the “oracle of the High Church party”; another sees him as the principal transformer of Anglicanism. The Independent John Owen likened him to a clerical Atlas bearing on his shoulders “the whole weight of the episcopal cause.” The scholars just quoted call Hammond a “Laudian” but are uneasy with the label and loath to defend it. He appears in their work as an exemplary High Churchman standing for de jure episcopacy, Prayer-Book piety, the Eucharist, and royal headship of the Church. His intransigent Churchmanship contrasts in some degree with his character and temperament. He comes down to us as “the spokesman of those who would make no concession,” yet Richard Baxter, who thought him “the fons et origo of the prelatical bigotry of his day, wrote that he “took the death of Dr. Hammond … for a very great loss; for his piety and wisdom would sure have hindered much of the violence” of the Restoration.

Christian freedom was a major concern for Calvin from the very beginning of his theological career. The very long sixth and final chapter of the first edition of the Institutes is devoted to this question. He opens the chapter by calling this freedom “a matter of prime necessity; … without a knowledge of it consciences dare undertake almost nothing without faltering, often hesitate and draw back, constantly waver and are afraid … unless this freedom be grasped, neither Christ nor gospel truth is rightly known.” From this first edition till the last Calvin continues to talk at length about three aspects of Christian freedom: freedom of the conscience and freedom from the law because of justification by grace alone; freedom of the liberated Christian to obey God's will voluntarily and not out of necessity; and freedom in outward things which are “indifferent,” that is, in themselves neither necessary nor forbidden. For much of this understanding Calvin is deeply indebted to Luther and Melanchthon.

During World War I, American political, military, and religious leaders sought to foster the view that protestants, Catholics, and Jews were equal stakeholders in society. Crucial in shaping the embrace of this “tri-faith” ideal were leading members of all three traditions, who used their connections to the federal government to ensure that many facets of national life reflected this new conception of the nation's religious character. The military chaplaincy put these ideals into practice, and interfaith activity became commonplace in the army. Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish chaplains worked closely together, and provided pastoral care or offered religious rites to wounded and dying soldiers from different faith traditions. This article examines how the wartime break from political and social normality, the desire to project a particular image of the nation abroad, and Americans' firsthand encounter with religion in Europe all contributed to idealizations of the inclusive nature of American civil religion during World War I. Yet, as this essay demonstrates, the transitional nature of wartime culture and the strong role of the federal government in fostering these values prevented this outlook from firmly taking root. The experience did, however, provide a critical precedent for subsequent idealizations of a protestant-Catholic-Jewish nation.

For more than fifty years the Weber thesis, which attributed to Calvinism a decisive influence in the development of modern capitalism, has been vigorously debated. In his celebrated essay, The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Calvinism (1904), Max Weber had suggested that Calvinism contributed to the rise of capitalism in various ways—by relaxing the restraints which hitherto had largely served to impede its growth; by fostering the economic virtues of diligence, frugality, honesty, prudence, and sobriety; and, most of all, by providing a psychological fillip to the development of the “spirit” of capitalism, “the temper of single-minded concentration upon pecuniary gain.” The controversy precipitated by the publication of Weber's essay engendered considerable heat that often served to obscure the points at issue, but over the years the continuing discussion has served to remove many of the issues from the area of debate and to narrow the focus of the central issue that remains.

From November 1, 1395, until August 25, 1396, Ermine de Reims, a peasant widow from Northern France, was systematically beaten and tortured by the devil almost every night. This is at least what the woman told her confessor, Jean le Graveur. This story takes place only thirty years before the formal beginning of the witchcraft repression in the Continent. For that reason I have opted to explore in this article a historical problem that lies at the very heart of the strange case of Ermine: the image of the devil on the eve of the great European witch-hunt. In particular, Jean le Graveur's narration can provide new evidence for assessing the continuities and ruptures between radical demonology and the previous theological conceptions of the devil. The overlap we find in Jean's manuscript between different traditions, contributes to demonstrate that the image of the devil that prevails in times of the early modern witchcraft persecution was not necessarily built in opposition to previous demonological paradigms. The new science of demons that began to emerge during the thirteenth century merely remarked certain traits of the devil of the Fathers, and therefore the differences between both mythologies arose from the decision of emphasizing different components of the very same demonological complex. The Satan of scholasticism, then, was not only an enhanced, revised and expanded version of the Augustinian devil, but the true consummation of the Patristic model, its fullest expression: one that would begin to emerge only at the end of time, on the eve of the Second Coming of Christ.

Historians have neglected a seventeenth-century hero whose actions and words laid the groundwork for America's democratic diversity and religious toleration—at least that is the theme of a best-selling history of the Dutch colony of New Netherland, the predecessor of New York. This courageous but forgotten lawyer, Adriaen van der Donck, went out from Holland in 1641 as a young man to serve as “schout” (chief judicial officer, both sheriff and prosecutor) of Rensselaerwyck, then moved to New Amsterdam where he eventually became the spokesman of colonists irked by the arbitrary highhandedness of the Director General, Petrus Stuyvesant. Van der Donck is now proclaimed to have ensured that Dutch religious toleration became the basic assumption and pattern that evolved into modern American religious pluralism. The great popularity of this recent revelation ensures that thousands of people, from general readers to professional historians whose specialty lies elsewhere, now believe that religious toleration in America originated in New Amsterdam/ New York, where Dutch customs of toleration contrasted with the theocratic tendencies of English colonies. Is this claim true? In my opinion—no. Should historians pay attention to journalistic jingoism? Perhaps—because unexamined assumptions affect topics treated more seriously. What, then, can be said about the fabled Dutch tradition of toleration and its contribution to the discussion of religious freedom in America in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries?

Medieval Christians were fascinated by the character of the Samaritan woman, whose story is presented in the fourth chapter of the Gospel of John. Numerous legends celebrating her life history recounted in imaginative detail the heroic deeds of this convert to Christ. The Bible itself, of course, gives no information about her following her encounter with Jesus, nor does it even mention her name. But medieval hagiographers named her Photina and recounted her brave witness to the gospel, leading to her ultimate martyrdom. One legend reports that she converted the daughter of Nero and was martyred in Rome. Another places her in Carthage, where she preached the gospel and died in prison. Although ancient and medieval commentaries on the fourth Gospel do not commemorate these extracanonical accomplishments, they portray the Samaritan woman's personality and discipleship in equally flattering ways. Not only does she beautifully model the sinner's conversion to Christ, but she also demonstrates admirable zeal in bearing witness to Christ among her fellow Samaritans. On the basis of her testimony, a host of the citizens of Sychar come to faith in Christ, a feat matched by none of Jesus' disciples in the pages of the Gospels.

It has by and large been characteristic of the current resurgence of Anabaptist studies to understand the Anabaptist movement as an integral part of the Reformation. Thus the two terms presently used to designate the framework of the radical dissent of the 16th century— Roland H. Bainton's now classic “Left Wing” and, more recently, George H. Williams' “Radical Reformation”—suggest a positive relationship with the mainstream Reformation. There is widespread consensus among scholars, particularly in America, that Anabaptism concurred with the Reformation on the major points of Protestant doctrine and dissented merely on secondary issues, such as baptism, the church, or political authority, around which centered indeed most of the theological polemics between the Anabaptists and the Reformers.

The rise of the liberal spirit in seventeenth-century England is generally equated with the development of Locke's philosophy and the rationalism of English churchmen such as Tillotson, Stillingfleet, and Sharpe. In tracing the emergence of this movement historians of thought have given adequate attention to such factors as the Cambridge Platonists, the earlier Latitudinarians, the impact of Newtonian science, and the general social, political, and economic conditions of the day. One factor has been overlooked. There were certain emphases or characteristics in the mystical element of Puritanism which also appeared later in the rise of the liberal spirit on the English scene. The usual treatment of this phase of the Puritan movement is to grant its fruitfulness in the economic and political spheres, but to consider it a peculiar aberration which is insignificant for subsequent developments in religious thought except for its issue in Quakerism.

Shortly after the turn of the century Ernst Troeltsch joined Max Weber in examining the history of religious organizations from the point of view of the newly evolving discipline of sociology. Of the contributions Troeltsch made in his monumental study, The Social Teaching of the Christian Churches, the one which has proved most stimulating when applied to American church history was his differentiation of sect-type from church-type religious organization. In 1929, H. Richard Niebuhr in his Social Sources of Denoniinationalisrn elaborated Troeltsch's ideas, especially as they related to American developments, suggesting that in the American environment the denomination occupied a midway position between church and sect. While Troeltsch hints at the tendency of the sect to acquire churchly characteristics in time, Niebuhr spells out the steps in the process of transformation from sect to denomination which he sees as following inevitably, arguing that each generation's sects must become denominations in the next generation. These in turn leave behind a new group of disinherited whose needs are unmet and from which spring the next sect movement.

What follows is a bibliography that is long on titles and short on adjectives; it seemed out of place for one commentator to try to discuss the pluses and minuses of so many books, not all of which he had seen; reviews of which he could not possibly all have remembered or trusted; most of which he could not have had time or occasion yet to read. Nevertheless, this endeavor should be helpful in locating and classifying hundreds of books.

Education is fundamental to any society. In its broadest sense it includes not merely curriculum and educational theory but all of the pressures that help to shape peoples' minds. Education, both formal and informal, is the vehicle through which society transmits its values, its “dreams”, and its worldview to its youth. Precolonial southern Nigerian societies had created educational systems that promoted their own values and moral standards as the guiding principles for their children. The function of such education, in addition to occupational preparation in agriculture, crafts, and religion, was the inculcation of a sense of communal responsibility. Christian missionaries who came in the nineteenth century brought with them European culture and traditions. These traditions were propagated and concretized in the mission schools which were tolerated by the British colonial government. But the colonial government frequently reexamined its views concerning the objectives of the mission schools. During the nationalist period (1945–1960) the nature of politics, particularly in southeastern Nigeria, led to further reevaluation of the basic role of missions in secular education. Then the military officers came to power in 1966. They shared the perspective that the idea of the elimination of mission schools within the Nigerian educational system again should be given serious consideration.

Among the many fruits of the evangelical piety within British Protestantism was the movement of renewal which crystallized around the end of the 1820s into the sect usually known as the Plymouth Brethren (or Christian Brethren as they now prefer). Brethren have “remained fairly small numerically… but [with] a theological influence much larger than [their] membership would indicate.” It is hard to say exactly when the group first appeared; its period of gestation lasted several years. At the outset “the founders … had no programme, manifesto or creed.” The sect originated among a group of earnest seekers centered first in Dublin and later in Plymouth, where at the beginning of the 1830s they began to take on the form of an organized movement. It soon had followers throughout the British Isles, and a few adherents were gathered in France, Germany, and Switzerland. Though eventually the Brethren became a predominantly lower middle-class body, the leaders of the first stage of the movement were drawn almost exclusively from the upper ranks of society: Anglican clergymen, Oxford dons, lawyers, doctors, sons of country families or wealthy merchants, and even a future peer of the realm. They were then all young men in their twenties or early thirties, nearly all of them well educated and several of them excellent classical or biblical scholars.

The Americanist crisis in the last decade of the nineteenth century climaxed the attempt of a group of liberal prelates and their associates to adapt Roman Catholicism to democratic institutions and values. Almost twenty years ago Robert Cross put this complex movement within the context of a growing American Catholic liberalism in the postbellum period. The full dimensions of that liberalism are still coming into focus as archival materials and unpublished sources become more available to the historian. The recent discovery of a remarkable association of New York priests shows another facet of the Americanist controversy that better enables us to appreciate the peculiar lines that the episcopal struggle assumed.

You readers of Church History and of other series devoted to the historiography of Christianity will have smelled audacity in my title. I am not blind to the plenitude of reports concerning persons who, in their many places and times, took themselves, and thus may be taken, as Christians. Discrete information about past Christianity abounds. But few and far between are overall histories of this religion, even in its western manifestation. And the separate episodes can hardly be made to fit into a whole story until we fashion the pieces according to some consistent historical interpretation.