It is almost a commonplace that the ideology and circumstances of the Carolingian empire made possible assertion by the Frankish episcopacy of an increasingly active role in the government of ninth-century Frankish Europe. Restoration of the ecclesiastical hierarchy begun in the mid-eighth century by Pepin the Short and completed under his son, the emperor Charles, resulted in the establishment of a class of able men whose common interests were closely bound up with preservation and extension of the imperial structure; in the reign of Charles' successors this group came to be involved more and more prominently in the workings of the empire, as events in the forty years following Charles' death necessitated rapid reinterpretation of that entity. In that process no member of the hierarchy played a more ubiquitous part than did Ebbo, archbishop of Reims from 816 until his deposition nineteen years later. Loyal to the principles of imperial rule while at the same time betrayer of the friendship and fealty owed his monarch, Ebbo was scholar, builder, missionary, high public official, rebel and outcast during a career inextricably bound up with the course and transmutations of the empire. In the range of his activities and influence almost a paradigm of those opportunities and tasks open to the Carolingian episcopate, his history is in no small measure that of the empire itself and of the church with which in the ninth century that empire was conceived to be coextensive, even identical. It is those two histories and their interrelations that form the subject of the present paper.

The question of the church's stand during the first three and a half centuries on Christians enlisting in the Roman army has received much attention since 1900. With slight overlapping, modern historians of the encounter of Christians with the Roman military fall into three basic groups: Roman Catholic, Protestant pacifist and “establishment” Protestant, primarily Lutheran.

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.

In a recent article I argued that the famous Cappadocian Fathers of the fourth century were by birth members of the eastern empire's municipal aristocracy, the so-called curial class. Libanius of Antioch, himself born of a curial family, indicates that this social class was characterized by three traditional values: civic patriotism, devotion to Greek paideia and a strong sense of the importance of family ties and tradition. The purpose of the present essay is to focus on the first and most important component of the threcfold “curial ideal” —that is, civic patriotism — and to investigate the extent to which this value of the social circles to which the Fathers belonged influenced their thought and action as clerics. Although Gregory of Nyssa, the youngest of the Cappadocian Fathers, was not at all immune to the influence of other curial values, our sources reveal little effect of civic patriotism upon his clerical activity. Therefore our study will concentrate on the older Cappadocians, Bishop Gregory the Elder of Nazianzus, his son Bishop Gregory of Nazianzus and Bishop Basil of Caesarea.

Very few ancient Christian writers have been as maligned by posterity as Tertullian has been. This is understandable, for Tertullian made little effort to endear himself to either his contemporaries or his future readers. His conversion to—many still say “lapse into”—Montanism was not calculated to make him popular with Catholic historians. His so-called legalism has become a favorite straw man for Protestant writers. The disappearance of both Montanism and the ancient African church destroyed the two logical communities where his name might have been venerated. In the sixteenth century a number of scholars became sufficiently interested in him to produce editions of his works; but although his rhetorical ability attracted some attention from the humanists, they found his manner and spirit too uncouth. Protestant rigorists who ought to have welcomed his stringency rejected him because of his emphasis on tradition. Catholic polemicists who could be expected to welcome such an emphasis ignored him because of his apparent denial of the authority of tradition in becomeing a Montanist. Rationalist scholars who ought to have enjoyed his wit and his unflinching logic were unable to sympathize with the seemingly illogical consequences of that logic. The result of these various biases has been a surprising agreement on a generally negative evaluation of Tertullian as a thinker and as a person.

Our attempts to piece together the mosaic of ideas and events during the late medieval period have been enriched in recent years by the increased attention given to the study of sermons. Sentence commentaries, summae and tracts are the bedrock for the study of medieval theology, but we also wish to know what was being preached.

“Lies always limp arid are easily caught. It is difficult for them to escape the verdict of a keen, quick intellect.”Thus wrote Petrarch to Emperor Charles IV regarding the authenticity of a document which purported to exempt ”Austria” from imperial jurisdiction. But even Petrarch with his “keen, quick intellect” might have had difficulty in detecting another besetting sin of his day—but by no means only of his day—plagiarism. For by its very nature plagiarism tends to remain silent whereas one lie, as Marc Bloch once observed, “drags in its train many others, summoned to lend it a semblance of mutual support.” A keen, quick intellect, then, though very helpful, may not always be enough to detect a plagiarism; a thorough familiarity with the sources and the secondary literature on the subject in question as well as a great deal of painstaking correlation may also be necessary once suspicion has been aroused. The investigator may also need a “little bit o' luck” as the song of My Fair Lady would have it. What follows has something to do with both lies and plagiarism. Considerably more important, it revolves around two pivotal interpretations of the sixteenth-century religious radical and social revolutionary, Thomas Müntzer, the erstwhile scapegoat of the Reformation era but since rehabilitated by Wilhelm Zimmermann and now the hero of the Marxist interpretation of the Reformation.

Those historical compositions designated as annals are exceedingly valuable sources for knowledge of the Carolingian period, none more so that the so-called Annales regni Francorum, covering an interval beginning with the death of Charles Martel and ending with the last untroubled year of Louis the Pious (741–829). For half a century (759–808) the chronicle of each year generally includes a note indicating the place where the ruler celebrated the feast of Nativity. Some years also include a reference to Easter. Thirty-seven times the allusion is to both Christmas and Easter (759–774, 777–779, 781–783, 788–792, 795–798, 800–802, 806–808); nine to Christmas only (775, 780, 784, 786, 793, 799, 803–805); four to Christmas and two Easters (776, 785, 787, 794); but none to Easter alone. The repetitive, formulaic way in which the references are introduced suggests the high festival character of celebration and observance.

Origen's fullest statement on the selection of church officers occurs in his Homily in Numbers 13.4. The following is a fairly literal translation of the passage:

At the end of his life he prayed to God that He would provide a leader for the people. What are you doing, O Moses? Are not Gersom and Eleazar your sons? Or if you distrust any one of these, are not the sons of your brother great and distinguished men? Why do you not pray to God for them so that He might appoint them leaders of the people? But the leaders in office of the churches should learn not to designate by testimony nor to deliver the leadership of the churches as an inheritance to those who are related to them by blood or are associated with them by fleshly closeness, but to submit to the choice of God and not to choose that one whom human affection commends but to grant entirely to the judgment of God the choice of a successor. Was not Moses able to choose a ruler for the people by a true judgment and to make choice by a correct and just sentence, to whom God had said, “Choose elders for the people, whom you know to be the elders,” and he chose such in whom immediately God's “spirit rested, and they all prophesied.” who therefore is able to choose a leader of the people unless Moses was able? But he did not do it, did not choose, did not dare it. Why did he not dare? That he would not leave to posterity an example of presumption. But listen to what he says, “Let the Lord, the God of spirits and all flesh, provide a man over this congregation, who shall go out and come in before them and who shall lead them forth and lead them back.” If therefore such a one as Moses gives not his judgment in choosing a leader of the people, in appointing a successor, what man would be he who dares to do so, whether of the people who are always accustomed to be moved by shouts for favor or perhaps excited for money, or of the priests themselves who will there be who would judge himself equal to this task, except only him to whom through prayers and petitions it is revealed by God? And just as God says to Moses, “Take to yourself Joshua the son of Nun, a man who has the spirit in him, and lay your hands upon him; and stand him before Eleazar the priest, and command him in the presence of the whole congregation and commission him from yourself before them; and give your honor to him that the children of Israel may hear him.” You hear obviously the ordination of a leader of the people clearly described, so that there is almost no need of exposition. Here there was held no acclamation of the people, no regard of kinship, no consideration of friendship.… The government of the people is delivered to him whom God chose.

Normative theological systems may be influenced by philosophical considerations but must be based upon Scriptural authority. While different Christian denominations place varying degrees of emphasis upon the primacy of the Bible, or suggest contrasting methods of interpretation, Scripture remains the criterion of the theological formulations. If one alters normative thinking, one must necessarily change the existing relationship with Scripture through reinterpretation of at least key passages relevant to those modifications. At a result, it is often possible, through an examination of an approach to the Bible, to determine the limits of a system's orthodoxy or heterodoxy.

One of the unsolved problems of the history of sixteenth-century thought is that of the relation between humanism and religion. A key figure here was Desiderius Erasmus. Unfortunately, although exhaustive studies have been devoted to Erasmus as a Renaissance figure, not enough is known of his place in the Reformation. Compared to research into other aspects of his work, his place as a theologian has been neglected. And while several scholars have attempted to trace his influence upon some of the Protestant reformers, scant attention has been paid to his impact upon the Wittenberg leaders, especially in regard to justification. It is generally known that Luther and Melanchthon made diligent use of the Greek New Testment published by Erasmus in 1516. But the accompanying Annotations, as well as the subsequent Paraphrases, have largely been overlooked in the Erasmus research, and their impression upon the theology of the Wittenberg reformation has scarcely been investigated. With the quadricentennial observance of the Formula of Concord close at hand, this kind of study seems especially appropriate.

Judged by any standard, Marsilius (Marsiglio, 1270–1343) of Padua represented one of the most strikingly innovative thinkers in the history of Christian thought. Because he was one of the pioneers in the struggle for an uncontested erastianism and because of his forthright condemnation of the papacy, it was inevitable that his epitaph would be shrouded in controversy. A movement that clearly evidenced a positive dependence on Marsilius' thought was the Henrician Reformation. Although many students of the Henrician Reformation (notably A.G. Dickens) have recognized the figure of Marsilius looming in the background, none have delineated the precise relationship of his thought to the English Reformation. Contrary to prevailing assumptions, Marsilius, not Machiavelli, Wycliff, Erasmus or Tyndale furnished the prevailing ideological framework within which the Henrician Reformation was justified.

Nineteenth-century denominational newspapers, relatively unavailable to historians until recently, constitute an important untapped source of information regarding public attitude toward national issues. Unlike the more commonly cited religious quarterlies and convention records, the weekly newspapers sought to provide their readers with regular news and comments about secular events. To be sure, articles on doctrine and evangelism seldom relinquished the prominence of page one. But news of the latest steamboat disaster, the new moldboard plow and last week's congressional proceedings were regularly mixed with local church items on pages three and four. And as the nation faced crises of significant proportion, editors often felt it their duty to offer their prescriptions in lengthy editorials on page two. Nowhere in the church apparatus was there a more obvious place for secular concerns to receive religious scrutiny. Widely circulated, welcoming reader response and edited by clergymen responsible to the denomination as a whole but particularly to the churchmen of their respective regions, the papers provide the best running account of religious response to troubles of the nation. For an age still steeped in the discourse and habit of churchly practice, they provide a perspective which historians can ill afford to neglect.

It has typically been said of the English Reformation that the doctrine of unconditional predestination (that is, predestination without foreknowledge of merit or repentance but soley as an act of God's will to redeem some of mankind as a manifestation of grace) was neither emphasized nor of central importance until the “Genevan” influence of the returning Marian exiles and the wide dissemination of Calvin's writings in England after the accession of Elizabeth. It is the purpose of this article to show that, (1) a soteriologically rooted doctrine of unconditional predestination of the type characteristic of the so-called “Rhineland Reformers” was central to key figures of the early English Reformation, was accepted and expressed by many other leaders and theological writers of the English Reformation prior to the accession of Mary and was upheld by important and influential continental divines resident in England; (2) the doctrine of predestination in the English Reformation had been developed to the point of reprobation and double predestination and frequently expressed as such before 1553; (3) while this predestinarian emphasis in English Protestant theology was to a large extent the result of the influence of the continental Reformation, it had been received prior to the return of the Genevan exiles and the pervasive influence of Calvin in Elizabethan England. Thus the Genevan influence reinforced and further refined English predestinarian theology. It might be added that Calvin's influence ought not to be considered an unusually harsh one with respect to predestination; not only does Calvin follow the general pattern of earlier Reformed theology, but also does Reformed theology in the later part of the sixteenth century tend toward a more rigid and scholastic version of the doctrine quite apart from Calvin, whose real influence could well operate in the opposite direction, as the recent study by Brian Armstrong shows.

Since the time of its promulgation in 1648, the Cambridge Platform has been considered one of seventeenth-century New England's most important documents. Its clerical authors regarded it as a vital instrument for maintaining Christ's commandments, and their assessment was correct. The Platform was the recognized standard for Massachusetts Bay's religion until the time of the American Revolution. Its validity was affirmed not only at the time of its creation but also by the Reforming Synod of 1679. The origins of the Cambridge Platform and the forces that brought about the synod of 1646–1648, where it was written, were many and deeply complicated. Foremost among the internal disagreements causing serious difficulties in the colony during the second decade of settlement were the controversies over ecclesiastical polity, church membership and eligibility for baptism. The situation in England, closely related to the disruptions in the colony, also became a vital factor in the writing of the Cambridge Platform.

There is little doubt that biblical literalism was a characteristic of the main stream of sixteenth-century Anabaptism. By biblical literalism is not meant a wooden, proof-texting, legalistic understanding of every word of the Bible, but a conviction that the plain meaning of scripture could be understood by any sincere Christian, and ought to be obeyed. The Protestant reformers Luther, Zwingli, Calvin and Bucer also made the Bible central to their reforming efforts. In a sense this might even be said about the intentions of the Council of Trent. Yet differing hermeneutics and socio-political presuppositions led to vastly different ecclesiastical results. Recent Reformation historiography, particularly in eastern Europe, rightly reminds us of the importance of the social and economic factors involved, but hermeneutics remains a vital part of the dynamic of that period, as of all church history, and must be central to contemporary efforts to overcome the legacy of ecclesiastical fragmentation which that area left us.

In January 1879 William Graham Sumner, Professor of Political and Social Science at Yale, assigned as a textbook the popular work by Herbert Spencer, The Study of Sociology. In a letter to the trustees in June 1880, the president of the college, Noah Porter, objected to the use of the volume. He suggested that Spencer's atheistic materialism would intellectually, morally and religiously harm immature students and bring notoriety to be the institution. Instead, of course, Noah Porter acquired the notoriety in this early and widely publicized case of academic freedom. William Graham Sumner was judged to be a bold and heroic spokesman for professional prerogatives, an uncompromising teacher of the new discipline of sociology. And Noah Porter served the sentence of historical disrepute that the supporters of Sumner passed on him.

King James VI and I had a taste for aphorisms, a circumstance which has occasionally misled the historians of his reign. James's deeply held and lifelong attachment to the doctrine of the divine right of kings is well known and unquestionable; so when, at the Hampton Court Conference, he said, “No bishop, no king”, it has perhaps been too readily assumed that his devotion to episcopacy as a system of church government was as unswerving and permanent as his belief in divine right. The king's admiration for the Church of England and its prelates, his threat at Hampton Court to harry the Puritans out of the land, his savage attack in Basilikon Doron on those “fiery spirited men in the ministry” who “fed themselves with the hope to become Tribuni plebis” but who were really “very pests in Church and Commonweal… breathing nothing but sedition and calumnies”—all this is so familiar as scarcely to require repeating. It is also well known that when he began to govern for himself in Scotland in the 1580s the position of the Scottish bishops was feeble. It continued to worsen for about a decade, as the king and his advisers found it desirable for political reasons to make concessions to the dominant presbyterian wing of the kirk, until the presbyterian historian David Calderwood could write of the year 1596, “The Kirk of Scotland was now come to her perfection.” Then, beginning in 1596, the tide began to run in the opposite direction.

The occasion of this article is the appearance of V. Norskov Olsen's John Foxe and the Elizabethan Church (Berkeley, San Francisco and London: University of California Press, 1973, xi + 264 pages, $11.50). Gleanings from numerous other volumes dealing with Foxe, and from editions of his works, will also be reflected in this treatment. Professor Olsen has closely studied Foxe both as an author and as a churchman moving in the ecclesiastical environment of the Tudor era. His book, however, offers neither a biography of Foxe nor an account of the Elizabethan church. Instead it sheds light on numerous incidents in which Foxe played some part in the history of the church, and clarifies his relation to Puritanism and the establishment. The most distinct impression left in the reader's mind is that of the personality of Foxe as Olsen sees him, namely, a man of widely varied interests and talents but of unified purpose, an irenic spirit amid contending forces, playing a minor role in public while laboriously engaged in the research and writing that brought him lasting fame and influence. One paragraph seems to cry out for repetition here:

A dark picture of tyranny and prelatical persecution endured by Scottish Presbyterians under Charles II and James II was created by Robert Wodrow in his History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland published in 1721. This image became deeply embedded in the national consciousness much to the despair of apologists of rovalist and episcopalian causes. “That which we have from Wodrow”, Mark Napier complained bitterly, “is a caluminous tissue of monstrous fables. It has poisoned the History of Scotland to an extent that is now, perhaps, irremediable.” But those who wish to revise Wodrow's interpretation of the period cannot do so simply by dismissing his work as fabulous.