The ancient text known as the Testament of Abraham is preserved in Coptic in the same codex as two other works, the Testament of Isaac and the Testament of Jacob. These testaments were probably written in the late first or early second centuries CE by Jewish writers, although the manuscript of the Coptic codex containing them is dated to 962. These books were considered part of the “testament” literary genre, which featured a biblical hero imparting his last words of religious wisdom to his family gathered at his bedside. Scholars agree that the stylistic and theological differences among these three testaments indicate that they were not written by the same author. Yet a close reading reveals that the Testament of Isaac is dependent on the Testament of Abraham, and that the Testament of Jacob is dependent on the two earlier texts. Moreover, the Testament of Abraham and the Testament of Isaac share similarities that distinguish them from the Testament of Jacob: unlike the Testament of Jacob, the Testament of Abraham and the Testament of Isaac reflect a universalist worldview that depicts a God concerned for all humankind, not only for his chosen people. This God reigns over all people, and themes specific to the Christian and Jewish faiths are virtually absent. Later Christian and Jewish literature concerning the theme of divine judgment exhibits elements that may reflect an awareness of a written or oral tradition that appears in the Testament of Abraham and the Testament of Isaac. The images of judgment and punishment, especially those in the Testament of Abraham, appear in the second-century Apocalypse of Peter and the fourth-century Vision of Paul, which is also known as the Apocalypse of Paul. Likewise, midrashic traditions regarding Abraham and Moses are reminiscent of traditions found in these testaments, particularly the Testament of Abraham. The possibility that early Christian apocalyptic texts were aware of these testaments is grounded in the fact that scholars give these texts a common place of origin, Egypt. The provenance of the midrashic texts is more difficult to identify, but because they share literary elements and theological concerns with the Testament of Abraham and the Testament of Isaac, I suggest that the authors of these midrashic traditions had access to written or oral traditions prominent in these testaments. This paper will examine early Christian apocalyptic and early Jewish midrashic texts that modify some of the traditions prominent in these testaments in order to accommodate their nonuniversalist rabbinic or early Christian worldviews.

The childhood and teenage years, which we think of as crucial to the formation of the adult personality, go all but unnoticed in the canonical accounts of the life of Jesus. Only the Gospel of Luke includes a story about a twelve-year-old Jesus debating with religious experts in the Jerusalem temple and arguing with his parents. Synopses and commentaries sometimes refer to the episode as the “Finding of Jesus in the Temple” (Luke 2:41–52 NRSV), because it begins when his parents lose track of him. Mary and Joseph, having taken Jesus with them on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem for Passover, begin to make the journey back home to Nazareth. Jesus remains in Jerusalem, without his parents’ permission: “but his parents did not know it” (καὶ οὐκ ἔγνωσαν οἱ γονες [Luke 2:43]). Mary and Joseph search for and find their son “after three days” (2:46), safe and sound, in the great temple of Jerusalem. The boy sits among the elders, asking questions and amazing all with his “understanding” (σύνεσις [2:47]). “Child, why have you done this to us?” Mary reproaches Jesus, “See, your father and I have been worried [ὀδυνώμενοι] looking for you!” (2:48). “Why were you looking for me?” Jesus replies, “Did you not know [οὐκ ᾔδειτε] that I must concern myself with the things of my father?” (2:49). The back and forth confuses the parents: “But they did not understand what he said to them” (καὶ αὐτοὶ οὐ συνκαν τὸ ῥμα ὃ ἐλάλησεν αὐτος [Luke 2:50]).

The relationship between kabbalistic thought and ancient gnostic ideas has been debated by numerous scholars. Early on, Gershom Scholem argued that the rise of kabbalah represents the “reappearance, in the heart of Judaism, of the gnostic tradition.” In his wake, Isaiah Tishby has posited that the concept of the sĕfirot “emerge[d] and develop[ed] from a historico-literary contact with the remnants of Gnosticism, which were preserved over a period of many generations in certain Jewish circles, until they found their way to the early Kabbalists.” Joseph Dan, on the other hand, maintains that “historical connections” must not be confused with “phenomenological similarities.” There is no evidence for the existence of the former, in his opinion; all that may be claimed is a typological correspondence between gnostic ideas and medieval Jewish kabbalistic mysticism. Moshe Idel likewise claims that some early Jewish motifs penetrated gnostic texts at the same time they continued to flourish within Jewish circles until they finally found form in medieval kabbalah. Yehuda Liebes has adopted a corresponding view, although he makes fruitful exegetical use of the relationship and parallels between various gnostic and Jewish sources. The issue thus remains firmly on the academic agenda.

In this essay, I explore the conceptual and discursive ruminations of Epiphanius of Salamis as he struggles in his Panarion to survey and manage the ever-expanding heretical world. Instead of reading this heresiological treatise as an attestation of theological, ecclesiastical, and intellectual authority established through totalizing discourse, I approach it as an expression of ancient ethnographic writing and the ethnographic disposition, an authorial orientation toward the world that describes, regulates, and classifies peoples with both macroscopic and microscopic knowledge. Ethnography in the ancient world was a process of writing the world's people into texts, describing and classifying specific cultures and customs through the lens of the ethnographer's own culturally situated perspective. Frequently, the ethnographer used his text to elaborate his assumptions about the origins of human diversity. Customs and habits were explained as the products of larger macroscopic forces such as astrology, genealogy, climatology, universal history, and myth. In the process of translating the world into texts, ethnographic inquiry forced authors to confront their capacity to comprehend the world around them and ultimately to come to terms with the full scope of human diversity. I argue that reading the Panarion as a manifestation of Christian ethnography usefully foregrounds an intractable tension between knowledge (known knowns) and self-conscious ignorance (known unknowns) about the depths of human heterogeneity: ethnography is as much an illustration of incomprehension as it is a repository of erudition, mastery, and discovery.

The name of Friedrich II and his nearly half-century reign from 1740 to 1786 are virtually synonymous with the advent and advance of the Enlightenment in Prussia. In his famous 1784 answer to the question posed by the Berlinische Monatsschrift, “What is enlightenment?” Immanuel Kant asserted that enlightenment could be partially conceptualized as a temporal epoch, one whose salient characteristics, especially in regards to religion, were manifested in the personal opinions and public policies of his royal Prussian sovereign. “We do not live in an enlightened age, but in an age of enlightenment – the century of Friedrich.” In a similar spirit, a generation after Kant wrote, Friedrich Schleiermacher delivered a paean to Friedrich II's memory in a January 24, 1817 address to the Prussian Academy of Sciences on what would have been Friedrich II's one-hundred-and-fifth birthday. Schleiermacher heralded Friedrich II as “a friend of the muses,” who doubtlessly conversed with Plato in the afterlife, the legacy of whose domestic initiatives had been to transform Prussia into a more cultured society, while his “heroic” and “glorious” victories secured for the Prussian Army its vaunted reputation for military prowess. As the 29-year-old king himself wrote in a February 24, 1741 battlefield letter from the frontlines of the First Silesian War, “I love war for its glory, but if I were not a ruler, I would be nothing but a philosopher.”

In the twentieth century, historical circumstance in the form of the Holocaust led to theodicy's returning to the forefront of the philosophical agenda, particularly in Jewish thought. As a result, post-Holocaust theology is almost always an element of introductory courses on modern and contemporary Jewish philosophy, if not introductory courses on modern Judaism simpliciter. Many working in the field of Jewish philosophy, therefore, probably first encounter Emil Fackenheim (1916–2003), and the infamous turn of phrase that ensured his immortality in the realm of Jewish thought, early on in their studies. Fackenheim was one of the most influential post-Holocaust philosophical voices in what soon became a cacophony. This German-born philosopher's (and ordained Reform rabbi's) concept of the 614th commandment—not to grant Hitler a posthumous victory (in his own words “the only statement of mine that ever became famous”)—has captured the imagination of many a student and often made a lasting impression. Yet it seems that one of the concerns at the forefront of this new expansive monograph on Fackenheim's philosophy is that for the majority, this constitutes both their first and last exposure to his thought, leaving them with an extremely contracted view of his conceptual palate. The result, noted in the book's introduction, is that Fackenheim has never really been considered a Jewish philosopher worthy of mention in the same breath as Hermann Cohen, Franz Rosenzweig, or even latterly Emmanuel Levinas and Joseph Soloveitchik. In this volume, a case is presented for including him on that list.

A crisis of authority defines modernity. The crisis in the Christian West dates to the Reformation and the church-and-state conflicts based upon the question: whose Christianity? The crisis deepened during the Enlightenment as advances in science, reason, and technology changed the question: Christianity or not? By the 1960s, post-structuralism or postmodernity had posed the very question of authority and asserted competing authorities.