Within the last decade, the history of the often obscure efforts made to reach some modus vivendi between the Established Church and the Protestant Nonconformists after 1662 has attracted renewed scholarly attention.1 Recent works have stressed that during the generation dividing the Stuart Restoration from the “Glorious” Revolution, proposals for both comprehension and toleration were repeatedly mooted—sometimes in combination, and at other times in opposition to one another. But it was a scheme of limited toleration which was enacted by the “Convention” Parliament of 1689, while plans for comprehension were shelved by the Houses. Thereafter, as the late Dean of Winchester put it, “Comprehension…faded out of the realm of practical politics with the Non-juror schism and the consequent inaction of Convocation in 1689.”2

Since the eighteenth century, critics and historians have looked with embarrassment and horror at the belief in and persecution of witches in France, as well as in the rest of Europe, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The witchcraft crisis has seemed to be either an example of the evils of traditional religious bigotry or an odd aberration in the march of progress following the Renaissance. Those who defined and propagated the learned theories of witchcraft—its reality and dangers and the need for severe persecution of witches—have been depicted almost universally as oppressive, bigoted extremists. In recent years historians have dealt with witchcraft from new points of view and have provided valuable new information and interpretations, but they still have tended to confirm the traditional images of the writers of demonological tracts. They are horrified and repulsed by the demonologists, whom they see as spokesmen for a unified oppressive upper class.

Our knowledge of Melanchthon's thought on the role of godly magistrates in the church is surprisingly incomplete, despite the generally acknowledged importance of that thought. Most Reformation scholars are familiar with Melanchthon's argument that the Christian magistrate is, as custodian of both tables of the Law and as foremost member of the church, the incumbent of an office established for the sake of the church and thus burdened with responsibility for the establishment and maintenance of true religion. Most know too that this argument became the standard Lutheran justification for what is called the cura religionis of the magistrate. Few, however, are aware that it took Melanchthon a good decade to arrive at that doctrine, that he spent a further decade or so refining and developing it, and that during all that time there was an intimate connection between the content of his thought and the course of public events. The reason for this gap in our knowledge is that the history of the development of Melanchthon's thought on the religious duties of secular rulers has not yet been written.

John Wesley, leader of the Methodist movement in England, was a significant figure to the unenfranchised lower class of English society. His movement roused popular spiritual and religious fervor among groups not reached by the bulk of the Anglican clergy, and he was in a position to observe and communicate with the English people in a way few others were. Many Anglicans had initially feared the Methodists as secret Jesuits or supporters of a Stuart restoration, but much of the violent opposition had declined by the 1760s. Still, little would be needed to revive action opposition to Methodist activities. It is in this connection that Wesley's activities in the era of the American Revolution should be viewed1

The Diggers who broke the turf on St. George's Hill Sunday morning, April 1, 1649, have an importance far larger than the number of people involved would suggest, for their action was the first effort to bring into being a socialist Utopia. Their bold combination of theoretical and practical communism baffled their contemporaries, and historians ever since have failed to see them in the totality of their meaning.*** Were they simply hungry men, agrarian revolutionaries filing one more protest against economic and social injustice? Or were they religiously inspired men who used the most dramatic means at their disposal to portray the sinfulness of man and the possibility of redemption? The ambiguity of the Digger experiment has lent color to both explanations.

The confused and tumultuous circumstances surrounding the election to the papacy of Urban VI, its corollaries, the subsequent defection of thirteen of the cardinals, their election of a rival pontiff, and the ensuing years of dismal division within the Church—these form the general background to this tract, which is a product, therefore, of the immense outburst of polemical writing occasioned by the onset, in 1378, of the Great Schism. The more immediate circumstances surrounding it are the failure by 1403 of the French withdrawal of obedience from the Avignonese pope to produce a settlement of the Schism, the breakdown of all subsequent negotiations between the rival pontiffs, and finally the convocation, by dissident cardinals from both camps, of a general council which was to meet at Pisa in March, 1409.

During the early nineteenth century Americans developed a new consciousness of children and of childhood as a stage of life. While it may be hyperbolic to term this event the “discovery of the child,” it seems clear that nineteenth-century Americans saw children and adolescents in very different ways than did their ancestors. Adults began to recognize the characteristics of childhood which separated children from themselves and to perceive that psychological and emotional changes accompanied the physical experience of puberty. Thus the nineteenth century saw the beginning of attempts to understand children on their own terms and to elaborate a theory of that stage later termed “adolescence.”

The persecution instituted by the emperor Valerian (AD. 253–260) long has presented modern scholars with several important problems. One of the most pressing questions concerns the reasons behind Valerian's sudden shift in religious policy in 257. Prior to that time the church was largely undisturbed, but the years 257–258 witnessed a series of increasingly severe imperial edicts directed against Christianity. What prompted this sudden reversal of imperial religious policy in 257? Moreover, given the change in the official position, what was the nature of this revised religious policy? The overall picture that emerges out of an attempt to answer these questions indicates that the primary motives behind this persecution were, in fact, religious. Further, the government's religious outlook also encompassed certain related social aims. In order to deal with these issues effectively, however, one first must compare Valerian's religious policy to those of his predecessors from 249 to 253.

Surveying the short history of pentecostalism in 1925, Frank Bartelman—a consummate “insider historian”—reckoned that although the Azusa Street revival had become “full grown” in Los Angeles, California, it was “rocked in the cradle of little Wales.” In pentecostal historiography much ink has been spilled connecting the causal dots of precedence. From whence did the movement come? Los Angeles? India? Topeka, Kansas? Historians of pentecostalism are cognizant of the 1904–05 Welsh revival; they readily acknowledged that it in some way influenced the Apostolic Faith Mission in Los Angeles. My goal here is not necessarily to argue one way or another but rather to resurrect from the dustbin of history a significant event that deserves its own due. This is a story, argues historian Rhodri Hayward, that “has been largely forgotten.”

What happened to the social gospel impulse after World War I? Recent historians have demonstrated that many reformers did not bid farewell to reform in the 1920s.1 In the case of Protestant social liberalism, however, the precise relationship between postwar social action and the prewar social gospel movement requires further clarification. Was the former merely a continuation of the latter? Such a question is currently difficult to answer since few major studies of the social gospel bridge both historical periods. Indeed, the death or retirement by 1918 of so many early leaders of the social gospel movement, particularly Washington Gladden, Josiah Strong, and Walter Rauschenbusch, leaves the impression that an era had come to a close.

Patriots at the beginning of the American Revolution were conscious of participating in a tradition of liberty derived from their Puritan forefathers. Not only did they refer back to the crossing of the sea by their ancestors who “bravely threw themselves upon the bosom of the ocean, determined to find a place in which they might enjoy their freedom, or perish in the glorious attempt,” but they also spoke of themselves as “the descendants of Oliver Cromwell's army,” “the descendants of Cromwell's elect.” Benjamin Rush thought of himself as being a son of liberty genetically when he wrote, “I am the great grandson of an officer John Rush who fell fighting against King Charles 1st under Oliver Cromwell.”2

A fresh study of early catechetical procedures, and an explanation of the instructions and techniques used in adult baptism in the early Church, are always welcome. Comparatively speaking, little has been done on the subject. This article makes no pretension of being a detailed study of the subject, but is only a partial treatment of it, with special emphasis upon the contributions of St. Augustine. Occasionally, references are drawn from Church canons and other early Church writings on the catechetical practice of the time.

In the Christian world during the late fourth through the sixth centuries various strains of monastic life developed, from extreme eremitic isolation to the communal discipline of the cenobia. These different types of monastic life continued to evolve through the Middle Ages. Though most specialists are aware of the multiplicity of patterns of monastic life which are found within both the Latin and the Byzantine spheres, they have been less concerned with what informs these traditional patterns.1This paper attempts to isolate some differences in modes of monastic life in the eastern empire during the Komnenian period and then to explain those differences in terms of the founders' distinct conceptions of salvation.2 The analysis compares two founders—John II Komnenos and Neophytos—and the monastic life led in their respective institutions—the Pantocrator monastery in Constantinople and the Enkleistra in the provincial milieu of Byzantine Cyprus. These two monasteries have been selected not only because they represent extreme examples of their types, but also because rich artistic and literary documentation survives from both.

Historians have shown a reluctance to discuss a basic issue of the Al Smith campaign of 1928: the relationship between the Church and the State.

Paul of Samosata, who succeeded Demetrianus as bishop of Antioch in 260 C. E., faced heresy charges early in his career and formal interrogations in 264 and 268 at synods in Antioch. The second of these condemned him. This study seeks to reinterpret the Christological position of the faction opposing Paul and to analyze its implications for the later development of eastern Christian thought. Of course, the bishops and presbyters who met at Antioch in the 260s to discuss the morals and doctrines of Paul did not represent a unified doctrinal position. Gathered from various regions, they revealed a diversity of motives and concerns. Even the label “Origenists,” often used to characterize the group, is misleading. Although many of the attending prelates followed Origen and his school, there is no record of conscious appeal to the writings of the Alexandrian master.

For American Protestants who were sensitive to the profound social disruptions associated with rapid industrialization and urbanization in the late nineteenth century, the twin discoveries of the “alienation” of the working class from Protestant churches and of a rising and vibrant socialist movement caused much consternation and anxious soul-searching. Socialism offered not only a radical critique of American political and economic institutions; it also offered the zeal, symbols, and sense of participation in a world-transforming cause often associated with Christianity itself. The religious alienation of the working class and the appeal of socialism were often causally linked in the minds of socially-conscious Protestant leaders.

More than eighty years ago the celebrated church historian Philip Schaff correctly observed that the Czech Brethren “surpass all churches in the number of their confessions of faith.”1 Undoubtedly he too, like any other student of the Unitas Fratrum, was astonished at the number of confessional statements which the Brethren wrote and published within the span of less than two hundred years. While discounting separate printings and translations into Latin, German, and Polish, one still has to take into consideration seventeen documents which must be classified as official apologies or confessions of faith. However, if anyone wished to include all such documents, the number would reach almost forty. This, admittedly, is a difficult task, as in several instances it is not easy to determine which ones of these were directly authorized by the spiritual leadership of the Unitas Fratrum, or at least met with its silent approval.2

This essay focuses attention on certain aspects of the religious forces which powerfully shaped the small colleges which dominated American higher education prior to the Civil War. Religion, and more specifically evangelical Protestantism, has long been recognized as an important factor influencing the early history of these colleges. But the precise connections between evangelicalism and higher education during those years have not been studied very systematically recently, especially in the light of a new historiography concerning the ante-bellum college which has been developing during the past decade. This article begins with a brief sketch of the new historiography and tries to suggest some of the interpretive strengths and weaknesses of the recent writings. Then follows a description of the “agency” systems developed by certain Midwestern schools to aid in fund raising—a specific point of linkage between the general religious community and the colleges this community helped to found. This latter section seeks to redress in a limited way the interpretive imperfections of the recent historiography and to suggest something of the nature of the special relationships which existed between the small colleges of the Midwest and the evangelical Protestant churches during the middle decades of the nineteenth century.