The Third Reich's Kirchenkampf (church struggle) is sometimes mistakenly understood as referring to the Protestant churches' resistance to National Socialism. In fact, the term refers to an internal dispute between members of the Bekennende Kirche [Confessing Church (hereafter BK)] and members of the Deutsche Christen [German Christians (hereafter DC)] over control of the Protestant church. While not all members of the BK opposed Hitler's policies, the movement called for an autonomy of the church from National Socialist legal measures, particularly the racial laws, motivated both by theological and political considerations. The DC, by contrast, sought to introduce National Socialist policies and ideology into the church, especially Nazi racial laws, and modify church doctrine in accord with National Socialist ideology. Yet the antisemitism at the heart of the DC has been either ignored or marginalized by most historians. Indeed, some historians have incorrectly suggested that the DC underwent a dissolution at the end of 1933, from which it never recovered, or have presented the DC as a political creation of National Socialism, ignoring its theological roots.

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 Capitalism (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.

Only a few months after Calvin's death, August 1564 to be precise, Theodore Beza composed a preface for the posthumous French edition of Calvin's commentary on the book of Joshua: it took the form of a brief biography of the reformer. Describing the death of Calvin, Beza recalled the sadness that invaded Geneva on the announcement of the death of the prophet of God: “The following night, and the day after as well, there was much weeping in the city. For the body of the city mourned the prophet of the Lord, the poor flock of the Church wept the departure of its faithful shepherd, the school lamented the loss of its true doctor and master, and all in general wept for their true father and consoler, after God.”

The historical development of explicit forms of Christian mysticism can be sketched according to a model of gradually accumulating and interactive layers of tradition. The monastic ideal of flight from the world in order to lead a specialized life of penance and prayer, either as a hermit or within a community, formed the institutional context for most forms of Christian mysticism down to the end of the twelfth century. This monastic layer of mysticism was primarily biblical and liturgical in the sense that it sought God in and through personal appropriation of the mystical understanding of the Bible as cultivated within the liturgical life of the monastic community. Most monastic mystics were also “objective” in the sense that they rarely talked about their own experiences of God, but rather sought to express their understanding of mystical transformation through biblical exegesis and theoretical expositions of a mystagogical character (that is, expositions designed to lead readers into the mystery of the consciousness of God's presence)

Any discussion of the relationship between Pietism and nationalism must start from a consideration of the two major works in this field: Koppel S. Pinson's Pietism as a Factor in the Rise of German Nationalism, published in 1934, and Gerhard Kaiser's Pietismus und Patriotismus im literarischen Deutschland, published in 1961. Both studies are valuable and lasting contributions to the topic. After presenting the main thesis of both works I will comment on the premises and conclusions of both works and then focus on aspects not mentioned by Pinson and Kaiser, especially the impact of Protestant revivalism on German nationalism in the middle of the nineteenth century.

Why have secular outlooks made so little headway in the United States in the twentieth century? Why did the Congress of the United States impeach Bill Clinton in 1998? Why have so many medical doctors in the United States been intimidated into refusing to provide abortion services to women? Might the answers to these three questions be the same?

The literature popular among students at Paris in the 1260's included a series of poems lamenting the ascendant role in society of the new mendicant orders. The Dominicans are so shrewd, said one of these poems, that they control both Paris and Rome, they are both king and apostle. The blame for this state of affairs was being placed squarely on Louis IX. The king favors the mendicants, read a second poem, yet ill-treatrs his knights, as if the friars could do anything useful for the defense of his kingdom.

In the medieval theocratic societies of both the Byzantine East and the Latin West, where the influence of Christian precepts so strongly pervaded all aspects of life, it was inevitable that the institutions of church and state, of sacerdotium and regnum to use the traditional Latin terms, be closely tied to one another. But whereas in the West, at least after the investiture conflict of the eleventh century, the pope managed to exert a strong political influence over secular rulers, notably the Holy Roman Emperor, in the East, from the very foundation of Constantinople in the fourth century, the Byzantine emperor seemed clearly to dominate over his chief ecclesiastical official, the patriarch.

Homoousios is one of the most important words in the Christian theological vocabulary, since it was used at the Council of Nicaea to express the divine consubstantiality of the Son with the Father. However, long and complicated debates have not yet produced any significant agreement among scholars concerning its origin and meaning.

This essay highlights U.S. pentecostals' and charismatics' cultivation of more experiential forms of identification with Jews and with Israel that in turn played a crucial role in the global growth of Christian Zionism. Already at the turn of the twentieth century, key figures experimented with “Judeo-centric” forms of ritual and dress, merging eschatological concerns inherited from nineteenth-century Protestantism with British Israelite ideas equating Anglo-Saxons with the lost tribes of Israel. In subsequent decades these racial notions were pushed to the fringes of the pentecostal movement, but the intense sense of identification with Israel remained. Building on the emergent mythology in the midcentury U.S. of a shared “Judeo-Christian tradition,” adherents increasingly stressed their religious and cultural (as opposed to racial) connections with God's “chosen people.” And by the late twentieth century, the 1960s counterculture, a burgeoning emphasis on the therapeutic, and growing religious diversity all facilitated pentecostals' and charismatics' renewed experimentation with “exotic” Israel-themed rituals. Significantly, believers' appropriation of Jewish-based religious practices and identities transcended nationalistic categories, and reinforced post-American sensibilities in important respects. As such, U.S.-based evangelists and broadcast ministries were able to disseminate pentecostalized expressions of Christian Zionism well beyond North America, and help catalyze a transnational, global movement.

Everywhere the first impulse to social action is given as a rule by real interests, i.e., by political and economic interests. Ideal interests lend wings to these real interests, give them a spiritual meaning, and serve to justify them. Man does not live by bread alone. He wants to have a good conscience as he pursues his life-interests. And in pursuing them he develops his capacities to the highest extent only if he believes that in so doing he serves a higher rather than a purely egotistic purpose. Interests without such “spiritual wings” are lame; but on the other hand, ideas can win out in history only if and insofar as they are associated with real interest

“It may be that universal history is the history of the different intonations given a handful of metaphors.” Whatever relevance this gnomic saying of Jorge Luis Borges may have to universal history, it can serve as the motto for the following investigation of the relationship between mysticism and the Free Spirit heresy in the later Middle Ages. Scholars are accustomed to regard the socalled heresy of the Free Spirit as sui generis, an aberrant and scandalous religious deviation preached by nihilists, lechers, and megalomaniacs, but this interpretation is not borne out by the sources, as we will see in the story of a simile.

Over the last twenty-five years it has become common to speak of reformation in the plural instead of the singular. Historians isolate and write about the communal reformation, the urban reformation, the people's or the princes' reformations, and the national reformations of Europe. Some scholars doubt whether these different movements had enough in common to warrant speaking of the Reformation of the sixteenth century. A recent textbook, entitled The European Reformations, justifies its title with the following statement: “In more recent scholarship this ‘conventional sense’ of the Reformation [the traditional unified view] has given way to recognition that there was a plurality of Reformations which interacted with each other: Lutheran, Catholic, Reformed, and dissident movements.”1

It is now almost a century since a German theologian first discussed the life and work of Johan Eberlin von Günzburg, the Swabian folkpreacher who doffed his Franciscan habit to follow Luther. In the ensuing period, the published writings of this minor Reformation character have been submitted to microscopic analysis, pertaining to his theological, sociological, political and philological style by a variety of German scholars. So far, however, there has been no assessment of Johan Eberlin's significance against the background of Christian Humanism as it applied to the German Renaissance. With two recent exceptions there has been almost no reference to this fascinating figure in the Reformation literature available in the English language. I intend here to remedy this injustice and to throw some light on a personality of considerable historical interest by reviewing the internal evidence of his most important work—that part of his Fünfzehn Bundsgenossen (Fifteen Confederates) which comprises his utopia.

At the beginning of the fourth century the Roman aristocracy was, for the most part, pagan in its religious attitude. By the end of that century the aristocracy had undergone what Peter Brown has described as a “sea change”: its pagan values had become redefined within the context of Christianity. This “drift into respectable Christianity” was the result of the process of socialization in the households of the Roman senatorial class over several generations. Brown suggests that the fourth-century Christianization of the aristocracy was the achievement of those upper-class Roman women who, by continuing to practice their Christian religion in the households of their pagan husbands, established the syncretistic milieu which would influence the religious attitudes of the next generation. But the apparent calm of Brown's anonymous culture-bearers is disturbed by a small group of women whose religious extremism delineates them sharply from their peers. Rejecting wholly the society into which they were born, they fled the cloying Roman atmosphere for the harsh air of the desert. The “respectable Christianity” that Rome was adopting offered them no satisfaction.

In 1859 an influential theological quarterly asserted without fear of contradiction that postmillennialism was the “commonly received doctrine” among American Protestants; but by the early twentieth century, it had largely vanished, and Lewis Sperry Chafer, with only slight partisan exaggeration, could claim in 1936 that it was without “living voice”. In part, this change resulted from the defection of conservatives like Chafer to the expanding premillennial ranks, and several historians have told their story in detail. The disappearance of postmillennialism outside of premillennial quarters, however, has received scant attention. There—especially among the moderate to liberal Protestants with whom this article is chiefly concerned—the once dominant eschatology appears not to have suffered outright rejection but to have ebbed away. Although its remants endured as faith in progress, it gradually ceased to be a distinct biblically grounded eschatology.

Reflections on historiographical developments in the history of Christianity tend to be a rather dry matter. Though dry, however, such reflections are important, since historiographical emphases not only tell us where scholarship has been in the past, but also—since we are directed to look at the longe durée—why we are where we are. Historians tend to be, alas, a herd of independent minds, and there are vogues in scholarship no less than there are in haute couture. A generation ago, few historians used such terms as “discourse,” “construction,” “close reading,” “intertextuality” even as monographs—even splendid monographs—on a burgomaster's daughter would have issued only from the pen of a secondary school teacher in Germany.

The purpose of this paper is to continue and perhaps to further discussion of the basic assumptions that long have undergirded the various general interpretative survey histories of Christianity and religion in America.1 Attention to particular problems, issues, and regions and the struggle with new methods have made available fresh insights into the nature of religious history in the American context. These insights raise the question of whether another general survey history of Christianity or of religion in America can or ought to be written until the profession develops a more adequate interpretive framework built solidly on recent research.

In her controversial novel, No Graven Image (1966), former missionary and best-selling evangelical author Elisabeth Elliot described the visit of a zealous missions executive, Mr. Harvey, to observe her main character, missionary Margaret Sparhawk, working among the mountain Quichua Indians in Ecuador. Harvey, a pompous sort, arrived with two cameras slung around his neck and spent most of his visit snapping photographs. When Margaret suggested it was time to leave the home of Pedro, her Quichua language informant, Harvey demurred, not yet finished with his picture taking.