“It is true,” conceded the Russian Minister of Education on 17 March 1841, those “fanatics” who held fast to the Talmud “were not mistaken” in ascribing a missionary impulse to his project of enlightening Russia's Jewish population. The Jews’ anxieties were understandable, Count Sergei Uvarov admitted, “for is not the religion of Christ the purest symbol of grazhdanstvennost’ [civil society]?” Since conquering Polish-Lithuanian lands in 1795, the Russian government had been unable to establish a consistent policy for integrating its Jewish population into the social and political fabric of the Empire. Most notably, it restricted Jews to living in what was called the Pale of Settlement, a geographic region that includes lands in present day Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Moldova, Belarus, and Lithuania. The Jews of the Empire were highly observant, spoke their own languages, and occupied specific economic roles. Buoyed by the reformist initiatives that had begun to take hold in Jewish populations based in western European countries, Uvarov hoped to begin a similar process among Russia's Jews.

Few texts in the Pauline corpus have been subjected to such extensive and varied comparative analysis as 2 Cor 10–13. Since Hans Windisch's influential designation of the passage as a Narrenrede (“fool's speech”), wherein Paul apes the boastful fool (ὁ ἀλαζών) of the Greek mime, exegetes have assembled a remarkable array of additional comparanda: the peristasis or hardship catalogues of Cynic and Stoic philosophers; Augustus's Res gestae; apologies epistolary, forensic, and Socratic; conventions for periautologia (self-praise) as attested by Quintilian and Plutarch and as demonstrated by Demosthenes; conventions for synkrisis (comparison) as preserved in the Progymnasmata. Despite the diversity of the evidence adduced, methodologically these studies have much in common. In general, their explanatory mode is formal and genealogical—that is, they elucidate the characteristics of Paul's boasting by identifying and describing the literary or rhetorical forms to which he is indebted.

In De Abrahamo, Philo exegetes selected episodes from the biblical Abraham cycle. These include the account of Sarah's death recorded in Gen 23. Interpreting this narrative literally, Philo expands it by introducing an encomium to the matriarch (Abr. 245–254). This exemplifies her virtuous character by illustrating how she sought an offspring for Abraham through her servant Hagar (see Gen 16).

During Augustine's life, government authorities were generally friendly to the Christianity he came to adopt and defend. His correspondence mentions one imperial magistrate in Africa, Virius Nicomachus Flavianus, a pagan vicar of Africa who seemed partial to Donatist Christians whom Augustine considered secessionists. Otherwise, from the 390s to 430, assorted proconsuls, vicars, and tribunes sent from the imperial chancery and asked to maintain order in North Africa were willing to enforce government edicts against Donatists and pagans. To an extent, Augustine endorsed enforcement. He was troubled by punitive measures that looked excessive to him, yet scholars generally agree with Peter Burnell that Augustine unambiguously approved punitive judgments as an “unavoidable” necessity. But Burnell and others seem to make too much of it: Augustine's position on punishment supposedly indicates that he posited “an essential continuity” (rather than emphasized the contrast) between “any given state” and the celestial or “eschatological” city of God.

In the first edition of his now fabled Golden Bough, James George Frazer began with the tale of an unnamed priest-king waiting for his slayer and successor in the sacred grove at Nemi. “A candidate for the priesthood could only succeed to office by slaying the priest,” wrote the armchair anthropologist, “and having slain him he held office till he was himself slain by a stronger or a craftier.” Scholars of the Hebrew Bible have often cast their own history in these terms: if the established August Dillmann or Franz Delitzsch fell to a trailblazing Julius Wellhausen, Wellhausen himself succumbed to a pathfinding Hermann Gunkel. For the period after “the triumph of Wellhausen”—to use language from John Rogerson's classic history—the scope then usually narrows, with Wellhausen and Gunkel forming legendary foils. Which of them, exactly, has rightful claim to the crown or represents the true hierarch of the Hebrew Bible muse depends upon the narrator's own disposition. Indeed, experts in biblical studies have long juxtaposed the two as intellectual opposites. In the process, they appear, ofttimes, as almost mythic figures, largely bereft of context—historical milieu otherwise being a crucial component of biblical scholarship for well over a century.

Many years before the death of Lutgard of Aywières (1182–1246), a thirteenth-century Cistercian nun renowned for her asceticism and visionary insight, Thomas of Cantimpré (ca. 1200–ca. 1270) approached a group of nuns and lay brothers to arrange for the disposal of her relics should she die during his absence. Thomas—a Dominican preacher and theologian who penned a hagiography of Lutgard in addition to several other holy women of the mid-thirteenth century Low Countries—wanted her hand as “a sacred memorial” (sacram memoriam). The abbess Hadewijch agreed to his request. Repeating a medieval misogynistic commonplace, Thomas then wrote that “since it is women's nature to be unable to keep secrets. . . the nuns told Lutgard how I had ordered her hand to be cut off.”

Alexander Campbell (1788–1866), a controversialist and prolific writer, often addressed his theological opponents with an acid-tipped pen. Early in his career, few topics received as much attention as regeneration, conversion, and the role of the Holy Spirit. Campbell and his coreligionists on the frontier were hardly the only theologians who focused on these doctrines during the first half of the nineteenth century. Campbell's early polemics make it clear that he had substantially modified or rejected many of the major tenets of the Presbyterianism of his youth regarding these topics. His early writings find his literary resources arrayed against such doctrines as human inability and metaphysical regeneration that his Reformed opponents held. Campbell's biographer even tells us that Campbell's views of regeneration and conversion shifted. In this paper, I argue that one of the major factors driving Campbell's rejection of these widely held Reformed doctrines was his appropriation of the thought of John Locke and Scottish Common Sense Philosophy (SCSP). More specifically, I argue that Alexander Campbell's understanding of testimony, firmly rooted in the thought of Locke and SCSP, was the sine qua non of his conception of regeneration, conversion, and the work of the Holy Spirit.

In The Theological Project of Modernism, Kevin Hector of theUniversity of Chicago Divinity School offers a nuanced and timely defense ofwhat he sees as an unjustifiably maligned tradition in modern Christiantheology. He focuses on what is commonly labeled the liberal or revisionisttradition, centered in its early stages on figures such as Immanuel Kant,Friedrich Schleiermacher, G. W. F. Hegel, Albrecht Ritschl, Ernst Troeltsch,and, more recently, Paul Tillich. By carefully reconstructing key arguments fromthese thinkers, Hector shows not only how this trajectory hangs together as atradition, but also how its animating impulse differs from what many criticshave assumed. Hector's central claim is that this tradition isfundamentally concerned with a distinctive problem, namely, how to relatereligious faith to a sense of one's life as one's own—or,put differently, how one's faith can be self-expressive. Hector labelsthis the problem of “mineness,” or the problem of “howpersons could identify with their lives or experience them as‘mine,’ especially given their vulnerability to tragedy,injustice, luck, guilt, and other ‘oppositions’” (viii).Hector argues that for his chosen thinkers in this tradition, faith—morespecifically, faith in a God who is able to reconcile suchoppositions—plays a crucial role in resolving this problem.

Gloria Anzaldúa's understanding of suffering is inextricably connected to subjectivity and spirituality. Tracing her rethinking of stories/histories involving the violent dismemberment of female religious figures, specifically Teresa of Ávila and Coyolxauhqui, I show how Anzaldúa's critical engagement and creative reimagining of these stories/histories led her to develop a conception of fragmentation and wholeness that resists dualistic epistemologies. For Anzaldúa, suffering emerges from dualism and the violence inherent in processes of categorization, especially as they function in identity formations. “Self,” Anzaldúa argues, cannot be neatly organized or fully understood; it is always in process. Writing, as an act of “spiritual activism,” mirrors this process of becoming because it demands critically and creatively analyzing the stories/histories that inform our understandings of self and others–of nos/otras. Writing becomes a spiritual and shamanic act capable of inviting personal and political transformation. Through her writings, I argue, Anzaldúa acts as poet-shaman, calling us toward a spirituality of transformation and inspiring visions of what it might mean to live together in nonhierarchical multiplicity.