According to the town criers of liberal American journalism, readers must wake up and do something. Hide your children—there is a movement afoot among conservative Christians to take over our country and give America a theocratic makeover. A slew of magazine articles and books—with apocalyptic titles such as American Theocracy and The Baptizing of America: The Religious Right's Plans for the Rest of Us1— announced conservative Christians' backward views on social and political issues, insidious webs of government influence, and intentions to return America to its supposedly Christian roots. Most of these authors devoted at least a few pages to an obscure religious movement and a man with a curious name: Christian reconstructionism and R. J. Rushdoony.

While the social and intellectual basis of voluntary martyrdom is fiercely debated, scholarship on Christian martyrdom has unanimously distinguished between “martyrdom” and “voluntary martyrdom” as separate phenomena, practices, and categories from the second century onward. Yet there is a startling dearth of evidence for the existence of the category of the “voluntary martyr” prior to the writings of Clement of Alexandria. This paper has two interrelated aims: to review the evidence for the category of the voluntary martyr in ancient martyrological discourse and to trace the emergence of the category of the voluntary martyr in modern scholarship on martyrdom. It will argue both that the category began to emerge only in the third century in the context of efforts to justify flight from persecution, and also that the assumption of Clement's taxonomy of approaches to martyrdom by scholars is rooted in modern constructions of the natural.

In Saducismus Triumphatus: Or, Full and Plain Evidence Concerning Witches and Apparitions (1681), Joseph Glanvill marveled at those so possessed by the devil that they became his mouthpiece: “For Ventriloquy, or speaking from the bottom of the Belly, 'tis a thing I think as strange and difficult to be conceived as any thing in Witchcraft, nor can it, I believe, be performed in any distinctness of articulate sounds, without such assistance of the Spirits, that spoke out of the Daemoniacks.” By the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, ventriloquism, loosened from the confines of theological debates over demonology, had become a salient category in rationalistic discussions of religion and had taken center stage as a form of enlightened entertainment. This expanded construction of ventriloquy provided a tangible way of thinking about revealed religion as rooted in illusion—that, indeed, various wonders of the devout ear such as divine calls, the voices of demonic possession, prophecy, mystical locutions, oracles, and even the sounds of shamanic spirits had their origins in vocal deceptions that empiricists could pinpoint and magicians could demonstrate. The new ventriloquism, in its sober appraisal of all sectarian enthusiasm and religious credulity, made suspect the very claim that God could speak to or through the human. In performative practice, the ventriloquist's art shifted the focus of learned attention from the divine struggle over the soul to the protean malleability of personal identity, the fears and attractions of imposture, and the sheer pleasures of amusement.

This article examines medieval liturgical artifacts that survived the English Reformation by being converted to alternative religious and secular purposes. Exploiting both textual and material evidence, it explores how sacred objects were adapted and altered for a range of domestic and ecclesiastical uses, together with the underlying theological assumptions about adiaphora or “things indifferent” that legitimized such acts of “recycling.” These are situated on a continuum with iconoclasm and approached as dynamic and cyclic processes that offer insight into how Protestantism reconfigured traditions of commemoration and patterns of remembrance. Simultaneously, it recognizes their role in resisting religious change and in preserving tangible traces of the Catholic past, showing how converted objects served to perpetuate and complicate social and cultural memory. The final section investigates the ambiguous longer-term legacies of this reform strategy by probing the significance of growing concerns about the sin of ‘sacrilege’ committed by those who had profaned holy things.

In the spring of 1376, Catherine, the uneducated daughter of a Sienese dyer, a simple lay Tertiary, traveled to Avignon in southern France. She wanted to speak directly with Pope Gregory XI about organizing a crusade, reforming the Catholic church, ending his war with Florence, and moving his court back to Rome. Her reputation for holiness and her orthodoxy gave her a hearing with the pope, and so her words had a measure of influence on him. Gregory did move to Rome in the fall of 1376, and he paid for her trip back to Italy. In 1377 he allowed her to lead a mission in the Sienese countryside: he wanted her presence there to help save souls and perhaps stimulate interest in a crusade. In 1378 he sent her to Florence as a peacemaker for the war between the Tuscan cities and the papacy. In late 1378 Gregory's successor Urban VI asked her to come to Rome to support his claim to the papacy against the schismatic Pope Clement VII. Finally in 1380, Catherine died in Rome, exhausted by all these endeavors.

The first generations of black Christians in Southern Africa went through a painful process of critical examination and experiment as they struggled to assimilate new economic, social, and religious values. These values were presented to them mainly by white missionaries and were based largely on European models. It was as part of this dialectical process that an independent black churches movement—quickly labeled by friends and foes the “Ethiopian Movement”—had emerged at the end of the nineteenth century. The independent black churches spread and multiplied rapidly in South Africa. By 1919 there were seventy-six recognized sects; however, there were many more which were not officially recognized. A black newspaper reported in 1921 that there were “at least one thousand natives within the municipal boundary of Johannesburg who call themselves ministers, but who are unattached to any recognised chuch, and who live on the offerings of their respective flocks.” Although many members of these churches were active politically, the most pervasive influence of the movement was on the ideology of African nationalism, as the role of the church became a recurring theme in debates on the development of an African national identity.

During and after the Reformation, one of the most pressing issues for Protestants was to locate an appropriate answer to a disarmingly simple Catholic question: where was your church before Luther? Catholic propagandists hoped to undermine the legitimacy of Protestantism by contrasting its evident novelty against the relative antiquity of Roman Catholicism. Implicit in the charge of novelty was the accusation that Protestantism represented only a counterfeit religion. The Reformed religion was considered to be but an invention of iniquitous religious charlatans who—in league with monarchs and aristocrats—were exploiting religious credulity for material and sexual ends. Under cover of religion, they were advancing their own political power, plundering the wealth of the church and turning their backs upon the moral code of Christianity. Catholic apologists usually designated Luther and Calvin as Manichean heretics—from the thirdcentury dualist heresy of Manes.

Looking back at the events that led up to the Azusa Street revival in Los Angeles, California, the foremost revival of the century in terms of global impact, eyewitness Frank Bartleman announced that the “revival was rocked in the cradle of little Wales … ‘brought up’ in India” and then became “full grown” in Los Angeles, California. To the Pentecostal “saints,” as they commonly called themselves in America, the appearance of “Pentecostal” phenomena (for example, visions, dreams, prophecy, glossolalia, and other charismatic gifts) in India confirmed that what the Old Testament prophet Joel had foretold about the “latter rain” outpouring of the Holy Spirit in the end times (Joel 2: 28–29) was being fulfilled simultaneously in other parts of the world. As one songwriter put it, “The latter rain has come, / Upon the parched ground … The whole wide world around.”

Historians of English Puritanism concede that by the 1650s the revolution of the saints had run its course. The political activism of the Presbyterians, Independents, and radical sects during the war gave way in the Interregnum period to more private concerns of personal and collective piety. The pattern of changing popular mood in an unstable political environment is clear enough, but the social meanings of religion as devotional practice are more obscure. Lost in the historical analysis is the realization that piety is an expressive form of communication in the politics of social life. In times of militant controversy the public role of piety is more obviously ideological, and devotional literature achieves publicity in the sense of promoting sectarian reformation. From this perspective, I shall focus on Henry Jessey's The Exceeding Riches of Grace Advanced (London, 1647) and will place it in the context of the art of dying (ars moriendi) tradition and of factional pluralism in civil war London. The story of Sarah Wight's illness and conversion experience attempted to unify religious and political divisions in a crucial revolutionary year. Within a traditional framework of devotional literature, Jessey communicated a political message. Sarah Wight herself was not a passive recipient of ministerial advice, but an influential teacher of radical theology. In fact, it was the customary form of the artes moriendi tradition that allowed her conversion to become an occasion for lay preaching.

“Again am I commencing another manuscript,” wrote Rachel Stearns in October of 1836, a “brief record of the most interesting events of my life, of the Lord's dealings with me, and of my own feelings and conduct. Faithful monitors in future years to warn me against departing from my God, by a detail of past sufferings in consequence of wandering; to encourage me to trust in God, by a recollection of the many deliverances I have experienced. Very joyful has been my path sometimes, at others very sad, but in sadness or in joy the Lord has never forsaken me.”

The past two decades have seen an efflorescence of works exploring cultural anti-Catholicism in a variety of national contexts. But so far, historians have engaged in little comparative analysis. This article is a first step, examining recent historical literature on modern British and American anti-Catholicism, in order to trace the similarities and distinctiveness of the turn-of-the-century German case. Historians are most likely to be acquainted with American nativism, the German Kulturkampf, continental anticlericalism, and the problems of Catholic Emancipation and the Irish Question in Britain. Many of the themes and functions of anti-Catholic discourse in the West transcended national and temporal boundaries. In each case, the conceptualization of a Catholic ‘other’ is a testament to the tenacity of confessionalism in an age formerly characterized as one of inexorable secularization. Contemporary observers often agreed that religious culture—like history, race, ethnicity, geography, and local custom—played a role in the self-evident distinctiveness of peoples and nations, in their political forms, economic performance, and intellectual and artistic contributions. We will see how confessionalism remained a lens through which intellectuals and ordinary citizens, whether attached or estranged from religious commitments, viewed political, economic, and cultural change.

Pentecostalism originated in the body as much as the spirit. The “full gospel” it proclaimed promised renewed health along with saved souls, and its embryonic ethos prized the human embodiment of divine initiative. Glossolalia and other ecstatic manifestations authenticated God's presence and power, reflecting the reality of the Holy Spirit within believers. But the materiality of the culture that gave rise to Pentecostalism received its fullest expression in “divine healing.” Suffering men and women yearned for the restoration of their broken bodies, and their faith provided it.

In one of our earliest descriptions of meditation on the crucifix, Aelred of Rievaulx (d.1166) described the body on the cross, pierced by the soldier's lance, as food and urged the female recluses for whom he wrote not only to contemplate it but also to eat it in gladness: “Hasten, linger not, eat the honeycomb with your honey, drink your wine with your milk. The blood is changed into wine to inebriate you, the water into milk to nourish you.” Marsha Dutton, who has written so movingly of Cistercian piety, speaks of this as a eucharistic interpretation of the literal, physical reality of the crucifixion and points to the parallel with Berengar of Tours' oath at the synod of Rome in 1079: “The bread and wine which are placed on the altar … are changed substantially into the true and proper vivifying body and blood of Jesus Christ our Lord and after the consecration there are the true body of Christ which was born of the virgin … and the true blood of Christ which flowed from his side … in their real nature and true substance.”

On a December evening in 1869, with memories of civil war still fresh in their minds, a large audience gathered in the great hall of Cooper Union in New York City to hear about another conflict, still taking its toll—“with battles fiercer, with sieges more persistent, with strategy more vigorous than in any of the comparatively petty warfares of Alexander, or Caesar, or Napoleon.” Although waged with pens rather than swords, and for minds rather than empires, this war, too had destroyed lives and reputations. The combatants? Science and Religion.

In his recent book, Mary through the Centuries, Jaroslav Pelikan notes that “one of the most profound and persistent roles of the Virgin Mary in history has been her function as a bridge builder to other traditions, other cultures, and other religions.” This is particularly true of the late ancient Near East, where Mary's significance frequently reached across various cultural and religious boundaries. But it is equally true that Mary often served to define boundaries between traditions, cultures, and religions. As Klaus Schreiner explains in his similarly recent book, Maria: Jungfrau, Mutter, Herrsherin, “Brücken, die Juden und Christen miteinander hätten verbinden können, schlug Maria im Mittelalter nicht… Maria trennte, grenzte aus.” In the rather substantial chapter that follows, Schreiner presents perhaps the best overview of Mary's role as a focus of Jewish/Christian conflict in late antiquity and the Middle Ages. Scholars have long recognized the role played by the Virgin and her cult in the exclusion of Jews from Christian society during the Western Middle Ages, Marian piety being, along with eucharistic devotion, the most anti-Jewish aspect of medieval piety. Throughout the medieval period, and likewise continuing into the Renaissance and Reformation, the Virgin Mary figured prominently in Christian anti-Jewish literature, where the (alleged) Jewish disparagement of Virgin Mary “weighed heavier than thefts of the host, ritual murders, and … ell poisoning.”

In 1566 when the Puritan ministers John Gough and John Philpot were suspended from their pulpits and banished from London for their refusal to wear the white outer robe, or surplice, marking their special holiness as priests of the church, a crowd of more than two hundred women gathered at London Bridge to cheer them on as they left the city. As Gough and Philpot crossed the bridge, the women pressed bags of food and bottles of drink on them, all the while “animating them most earnestly to stand fast in the same their doctrine.” That same year, when John Bartlett was also ordered to step down from his pulpit in London for refusing to wear the surplice, sixty women assembled at the home of his bishop to protest the suspension. Such demonstrations of women's support for Puritan ministers were not isolated events. As the historian of Elizabethan Puritanism Patrick Collinson asserted, “it was the women of London who occupied the front line in defence of their preachers, and with a sense of emotional engagement hardly exceeded by the suffragettes of three and a half centuries later.”

Every effort to deal with the history of ideas is beset by hazards. Semantic traps are strewn along the way of the inquirer; such words as democracy, liberty, justice, etc., point to different concepts or varying complexes of concepts as they are used in different periods of history and by different men. The unuttered and frequently unacknowledged presuppositions of those who employ them also vary; and since meaning largely depends on context the difficulties of understanding what is meant are increased by the difficulty of ascertaining what is at the back of the minds.

The Reformation was the first religious movement which had the aid of the printing press. It was the first intellectual movement in which the printing press had a popular effect. The importance of printing for the spread of the Reformation has long been recognized but there has been little detailed investigation of the interaction of the two great revolutionary developments.

Within their considerable rhetorical arsenal, perhaps the favorite accusations that sixteenth-century Calvinist Reformers lodged against the medieval church and the pious conduct of its followers were those of “superstition and idolatry.” Prominent leaders such as John Calvin and Theodore Beza, erudite theologians and celebrated preachers, local pastors and village elders alike stood ever ready to apply the designations to a variety of religious convictions and habits that they considered the incorrect belief and inappropriate behavior of the uninformed and vulgar. This Calvinist campaign against the superstitious and idolatrous went well beyond an attack on such unscriptural matters as belief in purgatory, veneration of images and relics, or invocation of the saints. It also manifested a deeply felt animosity toward papal Christianity—a hostility often expressed in dramatic and powerful language. One particularly intense example comes from the southern French town of Marsillargues during the early seventeenth century. When two men, who had converted to Calvinism, reverted to their earlier Catholicism several months later, the local Reformed church condemned them for having returned to their “vomit” and “slime.”