The early Roman Empire provides little evidence for the personal religious feelings of its inhabitants; only a few texts reflect what we would call individual testimony of personal religious experience. The works of second-century authors which in fact display such religious feelings often offend modern sensibilities. Commentators have described Aelius Aristides' Orationes sacrae, the letters of Ignatius of Antioch, and the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius as neurotic or pathological. In a recent book, for example, Charles A. Behr introduced a discussion of Aristides with the deprecatory comment: “peculiar and unpleasant though his personality may seem to us today.” The same offense, moreover, is ascribed to all three men, namely, an inordinate fixation on bodily pain and suffering. Interpreting these authors' textual emphasis on pain as merely a reflection of the pathology of aberrant individuals of the early empire is an unfair simplification of the texts. Such a reading prevents the recognition that their emphasis on pain and suffering reflects a widespread cultural concern of the period that used representations of bodily pain and suffering to construct a new subjectivity of the human person.

It is normal for scholars to read a text of the Second Temple period with an eye to the particular historical circumstances and ideology that it seems to embody. For this was a period of rapid historical changes and sharp ideological conflicts, and by paying attention to reflections of history and ideology in a text, one can often better understand its meaning and situate it chronologically with greater accuracy. And so, scholars regularly ask: What can be deduced on the basis of this text about the precise period in which its author lived? What is there in the content of this text that can tell us something about its author's beliefs?

In 177 CE Christians in Lugdunum and Vienna in Gaul were persecuted, and some were martyred. The survivors sent a letter by Irenaeus to the churches in Asia and Phrygia describing what happened. Among other things, they complained that they were excluded from the baths (βαλανεῖα). Later in his Adversus haereses (ca. 190 CE) Irenaeus referred to a story he claimed stemmed from Polycarp of Smyrna, who died ca. 156 CE, about John the disciple going to the public baths (βαλανεῖον) in Ephesus where he saw Cerinthus. Tertullian of Carthage in his Apologeticum (197 CE) claimed that the Christians were no different from other people: they went to the forum, the food market, and the baths (balneia). These three passages, among the earliest references to Roman baths by Christians, suggest no ethical reservations about going to the baths. An interesting question arises: Were there women in these baths?

In a recent essay, Nicole Loraux identified a pattern of scholarly dependence on the origins of a particular deity for the interpretation of how human beings at various, specific times and places related to and used that figure to meet the needs of their lives. Shifting social and political conditions, such as the development and modification of the Athenian polis, led to changes in people's religious needs and are reflected by modifications, sometimes radical, in the conceptualization and worship of their gods. Loraux discussed the problems that this scholarly perspective brought to the study of goddesses in particular, where focus on the origins of many goddesses in a hypothesized worship of a Great Goddess of fertility can obscure our understanding of the ways in which these figures met the needs of individuals and cities at specific points in antiquity.

Christian anti-Jewish polemics have a long and rich history, stretching all the way back to the early stages of the new faith community. Anti-Jewish treatises dot the history of Christian literature from the third century onward. By contrast, Jews seem to have been much less concerned with combatting Christianity. It has been widely noted that the earliest Jewish compositions devoted to anti-Christian polemics stem from the twelfth century. While the twelfth-century provenance of the earliest Jewish anti-Christian tracts has long been recognized, little attention has been focused on the significance of this dating. The fact that sometime toward the end of the twelfth century, perhaps in the 1160s or 1170s, two anti-Christian works, the forerunners of a substantial body of Jewish anti-Christian polemical-apologetic works, were composed almost simultaneously begs interpetation. What changes gave rise to a new Jewish sensitivity, to a need to present Jewish readers with formulation and rebuttal of Christian claims? The answer clearly lies in the enhanced agressiveness of western Christendom toward the Jews, as well as other non-Christians, a development that has been recognized and discussed extensively in modern scholarly literature. In the face of an increasingly aggressive Christendom, Jewish intellectual and spiritual leadership had to reassure the Jewish flock of the rectitude of the Jewish vision and the nullity of the Christian faith. This is precisely what the first two anti-Christian treatises, the Milhamot ha-Shem of Jacob ben Reuven and the Sefer ha-Berit of Joseph Kimhi, undertook to achieve. Given the pioneering nature of these works, it is striking that insufficient scholarly attention has been accorded to these two efforts. They surely have much to tell both of perceived Christian thrusts and of meaningful Jewish rebuttal of these challenges.

In a final section of his Alēthēs Logos Celsus singles out his opponents' vaunted monotheism for special attack. The Christians' refusal to worship the traditional δαίμονες (“divinities”) and ἥρωες (“heroes”) is irrational. God alone is the source of direction in the universe, and if God has delegated his authority to subordinates who perfectly reflect his will, they are deserving of veneration. When the Christians respond with Jesus' dictum about the impossibility of serving more than one lord (Matt 6:24 // Luke 16:13), to Celsus's mind this is merely the projection of their own rebellious and antisocial spirit onto the person of God (Origen Cels. 7.68; 8.2). Celsus continues (8.11), taking up a charge that he has leveled against the Christians before (5.61; 6.42, 52): the assertion that only one being is named κύριος (“lord”) introduces faction into the divine economy; God as “master” forms one party, and another, whether Satan or an inferior god, revolts against him and opposes his will. Celsus concludes with the assertion (8.12, 14) that if the Christians really did worship no other god but one, they would perhaps have a tenable argument against the others. But in fact they lavish an excessive cult on Jesus; they do not consider it discordant with their monotheism or a violation of Jesus' dictum if they serve God's servant as well. If Christians were taught that Jesus is not God's special son and that God is the only one deserving of true worship, they would not listen because Jesus is the actual focus of their cult. When they call Jesus Son of God, they are not paying supreme reverence to God but conferring a supreme exaltation upon Jesus.

I say, then, that it was Orpheus and Homer and Hesiod who gave the genealogies and the names to those who are called gods. … And as for statuary (εἰκόνες), it did not exist until the plastic arts and painting and sculpture were invented, nor had it even been conceived.

These arts came in later with Saurias the Samian, Krato the Sikyonian, Kleanthes the Corinthian, and a Corinthian girl. Line drawing (σκιαγραφία) was discovered by Saurias, who sketched a horse in the sun; and painting (γραφική) by Krato, who traced the outline (σκιά) of a man and a woman in oils on a white background. Relief sculpture (κοροπλαθική) was discovered by the girl (she traced the outline [σκιά] of her lover on a wall while he was asleep). Her father was so delighted by the resemblance that, since he worked in ceramics, he engraved the impression and fleshed it out with clay. That figure (τύπος) is still preserved in Corinth. After them Daidalos, Theodoros, and Smilis invented sculpture and the plastic arts.

In the last twenty years, Joachim Jeremias's interpretation of the word abba has become a focus of theologies that attempt to base themselves on the Jesus of history. In the face of feminist critiques of the use of “father” for God, Robert Hamerton-Kelly reiterated Jeremias's case for Jesus' supposedly unique usage of both abba and “father,” asserting its revelatory status and its freedom from and even opposition to patriarchy. Some feminist scholars have attempted to incorporate Hamerton-Kelly's description of Jesus' use of abba into feminist understandings of God, based on reconstructions of Jesus' teaching.

The influence of Agostino Valier on the theoretical formulations behind the Catholic Reformation and on its practical reforms is little known. There are reasons for this lack of recognition. Unlike Robert Bellarmine and Caesar Baronius, his illustrious contemporaries, he did not leave behind one or two great works on which the eyes of the Catholic and non-Catholic worlds were fixed. Unlike them, he was not in the center of major theological or historical controversies. From behind the scenes, he exerted a quiet, consistent influence on Catholic intellectual life and reforms over half a century. Much of his impact was the result of his personal contacts with his wide circle of friends, church leaders, and secular rulers of Europe, for whom individually he prepared short treatises concerning major issues confronting them. There were many such treatises. In 1719 Josephus Caminus listed one hundred twenty-eight such titles in his edition of Valier's book De cautione adhibenda in edendis libris which he published in Venice.

Let me begin with a personal note. Three experiences in my work on Luke-Acts will explain both the selection of the topics I shall discuss in this article and my view of the present situation in the study of Luke-Acts.

(1) After ten years of reading the recent studies of Luke-Acts and then working on the text itself, I made the observation that the general understanding of the theology of the Gospel of Luke on the basis of its redactional elements was rarely helpful in my effort of writing a commentary on this Gospel. Just as contributors to the more recent volumes of the Theological Dictionary to the New Testament no longer propose interpretations generally applicable to all three synoptic Gospels, the exegete working with a particular pericope can no longer be satisfied with generalizations about Lukan theology. Indeed, such general assumptions may actually be impediments rather than useful tools for the understanding of a particular text. This is not universally recognized because the attention of scholars has been held by another problem, namely, the substitution of a diachronic redactional interpretation of the Gospels by a synchronic literary interpretation. The underlying dilemma is, of course, the old question of the connection between exegesis and biblical theology. A promising solution might be to immerse oneself into a single relevant text, as Odette Mainville has done in her recent dissertation on Acts 2:33, and to obtain universality through the understanding of particularity—in other words, to follow Kierkegaard rather than Hegel.

Historians, including biblical critics, are not known for exposing themselves to the same kind of historical criticism that they apply to everything and everyone else. The historical situation of contemporary exegetes and their social conditions usually remain uninvestigated and thus—from a historical-critical and socio-historical perspective—unquestioned. The various hermeneutical inquiries that different forms of liberation theology have recently developed provide a beginning for such a necessary self-study. They need, however, to be expanded.

In this article I shall argue that Friedrich Schleiermacher found the self that Immanuel Kant lost. Two steps are necessary to support this argument. First, I shall demonstrate that Kant knew that he had lost the self. Second, I shall demonstrate that Schleiermacher knew that he had found the self that Kant had lost. I am aware that these two demonstrations will not actually prove that Schleiermacher did find the self that Kant lost. I believe, however, that if we understand why Kant thought that he had lost the self and if we understand the way in which Schleiermacher believed that he retrieved this self, we shall be better off. We shall have discovered a way to reach beyond the limits of our own mental constructs and affirm the unity and integrity of life itself.

In the past decade a number of influential theologians have claimed, based on the analogy of modern science, that Christian theology is or should be public discourse, a public discipline which is addressed to all people and which uses criteria acceptable to all. This claim is usually contrasted with a view in which theology is understood as private, subjective, authoritarian, based on faith or a special revelation, and limited to a particular community. In this essay I shall explore in particular David Tracy's claim that theology should be public discourse, point out some difficulties with regard to this claim, and make an alternative proposal.

It would be difficult to find a philosopher who has suffered more injustices at the hands of his commentators (friends and foes alike) than Immanuel Kant. This is particularly true when it comes to the many anecdotes that commentators are, for some reason, quite fond of reciting about Kant. The problem is that such tales are often used surreptitiously to twist Kant's own explicit claims about what he was attempting to accomplish, so that when his writings are read with these stories in mind, misunderstanding is almost inevitable. As an example, it is only necessary to think of the tale of the old ladies of Königsberg who became so familiar with Kant's rigid schedule that they used to set their clocks by his daily comings and goings. This may or may not be true; the point is that unless this anecdote is recounted with a certain skepticism, it is likely to encourage a prejudice whereby the reader of Kant assumes at the beginning that Kant's writings are filled with the unreasonably rigid and formalistic ravings of someone out of touch with the unpredictable passions that punctuate the life of an ordinary person. In other words, such stories are in danger of creating an image of Kant that may have little or no justification in the text. One could cite other examples, such as the story of how Kant used to lead the procession of university professors up to the cathedral each Sunday, only to desert it at the door, or Bertrand Russell's quip that Kant's response to being “awakened” by Hume was merely to invent a transcendental “soporific” to help him fall asleep again.

Can the sacred texts of non-Christian religious traditions be revelatory for Christians in a fashion that is more than vague and merely theoretical? This question is central within the larger project of understanding the significance of the various world religions for Christians, and the effort to answer it must proceed according to three specific tasks.

First, it is necessary to describe the ways in which the Christian tradition predisposes and constrains Christian believers on the issue of whether non-Christian texts can be revelatory words of God for non-Christians, for Christians, or for both. The formulation of this description requires reflection on the Christian tradition and its sources: Christian ideas of revelation, scripture, the Word of God, and possible words of God.

With the growth of Arminianism in the post-Awakening period, a decisive move away from Puritan orthodoxy occurred in New England. In this article I shall map the contours of this movement, using as my guide a recent work of the political theorist, Judith Shklar. In her book Ordinary Vices, Shklar describes the rise of Enlightenment thought in the West as primarily a shift in value structures. As a result of this shift from the moral universe defined by the seven deadly sins to one defined by the “ordinary vices,” traditional political, moral, and religious systems were viewed from a new perspective. From this perspective it was possible to perceive in these systems a deeply entrenched cruelty. I shall argue that Shklar's analysis can be fruitfully applied to changing trends in religious thought that were wrought by the Enlightenment in America. Specifically, I shall argue that the rise of Arminianism and the general liberalization of Christianity in eighteenth-century New England were informed by a perception, created by the influx of Enlightenment values into the colonies, of the systemic cruelty of the body of doctrine traditionally maintained by orthodox Puritan divines.

In traditional Judeo-Christian mythology, chaos and cosmos are seen as antagonistic forces that have been vying for supremacy throughout time. According to this worldview, chaos describes the amorphous state of emptiness in which all forms are confounded in a universal confusion without structure or hierarchy. Geographically it is situated in the unexplored wilderness that surrounds and encroaches upon the ordered domain. Chaos is the realm of darkness and barrenness, symbolized either as a deep, boundless, watery abyss (Sheol) or a fiery pit in the bowels of the earth (Hell). Chaos has several incarnations: at times it is presented as a dragon or water monster who joins in primordial combat with a cultural hero; in other cases it is personified as the devil. When historicized, it is represented by Israel's enemies, such as the Egyptians in the Red Sea episode of Exodus 15. Not only primeval disorder, but all disruptive forces that periodically threaten the world are manifestations of chaos: hurricane, flood, fire, earthquake, famine, war, crime, and death. It cannot be forever annihilated, but only suppressed for a limited time. The victories of order remain more or less precarious; at best, chaos can be held at bay, forced to retreat to the marginal areas that surround the world of light.

Charles Chauncy (1705–1787), for more than sixty years the pastor of the influential First (“Old Brick”) Church in Boston, was a leading participant in many of the greatest controversies of his century. Best known for his opposition both to Jonathan Edwards and to what he regarded as the emotional excesses of the Great Awakening, he is also well remembered for his vigorous protest against Anglican efforts to establish bishops in America. He became such an ardent champion of the colonists in their struggle for a free and independent nation that above all others he deserves the title “theologian of the American Revolution.”

Sometime in the early summer of 1782, Moses Mendelssohn received word that a pamphlet, entitled Das Forschen nach Licht und Recht (The Searching for Light and Right) and signed only as “S***,” was being prepared for publication. Enunciating the concerns of an Enlightenment-minded Christian writer, this pamphlet explicitly challenged Mendelssohn to clarify two issues of public interest: his increasingly outspoken advocacy for the civil admission of Jews into Prussian society, and the future shape of Judaism within a modern tolerant state. For Mendelssohn, the impending publication of the pamphlet was disconcerting because it insisted on linking his personal religious integrity to the broader political debate over civil integration. Given that his political campaign on behalf of his coreligionists was predicated upon the removal of confessional considerations from the public realm, this particular linkage became a source of no small irritation. Mendelssohn, however, quickly determined that the challenge could not be left unanswered. Indeed, it was in response to this tract and its appended postscript that Mendelssohn penned Jerusalem, his most articulate and enduring statement on religious tolerance and political equality.

William Paley is best remembered for his formulation of the watch analogy in his classic Natural Theology (1802). What is less widely known is that in the same work, Paley, in response to Erasmus Darwin, anticipates the argument from perfection. The present discussion traces the argument from perfection tradition from its probable inception in Natural Theology through important moments in its subsequent history. The discussion will address its contemporary wide-ranging impact upon such thinkers as philosopher of religion Alvin Plantinga, as well as scholars standing outside the tradition, such as geneticist Richard Goldschmidt and paleontologist Stephen Jay Gould. The article concludes with a discussion of the theological significance of this research in terms of its impact upon the issue of the relationship between God and the world.