I think I should begin with an apology for my temerity in accepting your invitation to discuss the Dead Sea material as a whole. Such a discussion is certainly premature while the greater part of the material is still unpublished, and while certain basic studies of the documents have yet to be made, or, at least, made public. The question of the palaeographic dating of the manuscripts, for instance, which could have great consequences for the reconstruction of the history of the sect, must remain sub judice until we have the material fully before us.

Although the relationship between Rom 1.18–2.5 and Wisdom of Solomon 13–15 is variously interpreted, those who detect a level of textual engagement tend to agree that while Rom 2.1–5 critiques Wis 15.1–4, Rom 1.18–32 stands as a compressed yet theologically consistent restatement of Wis 13.1–14.31, 15.7–19. This paper challenges this virtual consensus by rereading Rom 1.18–32 in light of the rhetorical turn at Rom 2.1. The kerygmatic location of Paul's polemic, together with a series of alterations to the Hellenistic Jewish polemical tradition, suggest an interpretation of Rom 1.18–32 that runs directly counter to Wisdom of Solomon's rhetorical and theological purposes in chs. 13–15. Whereas Wisdom of Solomon's polemic functions to reinforce the anthropological distinction between Jew and Gentile on the basis of true and false worship, Paul reworks the aniconic tradition to establish the essential unity of humanity.

Extensive literature about the Temptations provides a collection of parallels from the history of religion, biblical material and a wide range of individual observations.

The current profusion of form critical studies of the Pauline letter received its impetus from the work of Paul Schubert on the thanksgiving section.1 Suggestions were made earlier, especially by Martin Dibelius,2 but they remained largely unheeded. Also Schubert's work did not receive an immediate response, but now work is fully under way.3

The question of the ‘opponents’ in 1 John has long been recognized as significant for the study of that ‘letter’. The great commentaries by Theodor Häring, R. Law and Rudolf Schnackenburg make the conflict with the ‘schismatics’ the key to their interpretations. Most recently Raymond E. Brown1 has presented a detailed account of the conflict in the context of the history of Johannine Christianity as the basis for his own commentary. I find myself in general agreement with the approach and position set out there. But I remain unconvinced on a number of important issues where I find that my views remain fundamentally unchanged,2 not through stubbornness I trust. These views will need further elaboration and defence in due course. Before doing this certain preliminary matters need to be dealt with.

This paper discusses Galilee–Jerusalem relations in the context of the ‘geography of restoration’ as this is represented in various Jewish writings of the Second Temple period. The literary and archaeological records for the Jewish presence in Galilee in the Hasmonean and Herodian periods are examined against this ideology of a greater Israel. Finally, the alleged opposition in early Christianity between Galilee and Jerusalem is judged to be poorly grounded when various NT documents are read within this larger horizon of meaning.

Everybody knows that the relation between Paul's beliefs and expectations about life beyond death and those of his contemporaries is obscure and hotly disputed. Everybody knows, too, about the debate over the origins of gnosticism and the extent to which Paul shared its dualism; and I am not so simple as to imagine that I can provide clarity and precision where great scholars, past and present, have confessed to bewilderment. In discussing Paul's attitude to the material world, all that I shall attempt is, after defining certain areas of the problem, to defend Paul's basic consistency on certain particular issues; and, in this connexion, to suggest an interpretation of certain parts of II Cor. v which, as I believe, throws light on his degree of consistency.

It is widely assumed that Mark's introduction consists of i. 1–13 and that these verses ‘introduce’ what Mark has to say. At the same time, there is little agreement about what it is that Mark wants to say. For example, Bultmann has contended that it was Mark's aim to combine the Hellenistic kerygma with the traditions about Jesus; at the same time, he agrees with Wrede that the ‘Messianic secret’ is designed to explain why faith arose only after Easter. More recently, Schille has held that Mark answers the question, How is one to grasp more precisely the nature of Jesus' work, since he not only suffered but appeared as Son of God? Eduard Schweizer, on the other hand, emphasizes Mark's interest in discipleship and the way of the cross as the meaning of the kerygma, and sees this as a polemic against a Gnosticism in which Jesus is in danger of becoming a mere symbol of the kerygma. T. A. Burkill claims that Mark is concerned with ‘the exposition of two central themes, namely, the secret fact of the messianic status of Jesus and the mysterious meaning of that fact’, the first controlling the first half, the second the latter half of the gospel. We need not present an exhaustive catalogue of suggested aims for Mark in order to make the point that unless Mark is haphazard, each of these alleged aims is probably reflected in the introduction—both in its scope and content. Yet almost never does the introduction figure in discussions of Mark' purpose. This same phenomenon doubtless lies behind the fact that there is relatively little discussion about what constitutes the introduction. It is the purpose of this article to analyse the introduction in the light of these two questions and their bearing on each other: the extent of the introduction and the intent of the author. This investigation is based squarely on what is obvious—that Mark assumed his contemporary readers (in contrast with modern scholars) did not have the whole of his work in mind when they began, and that therefore the opening paragraph was his opportunity to orient them to what he wanted to say and to how he wanted to say it.

‘If you do not understand this parable’, says Jesus to his disciples in St Mark's gospel, with reference to the parable of the sower, ‘how can you understand any of the parables?’ The saying is certainly not meant to indicate that this parable is the most easily understood of all that Jesus told. It indicates rather that the parable of the sower is fundamental; that it is concerned, in some way, with the innermost secret of Jesus' proclamation of the kingdom of God. That this is so is further indicated by the fact that the parable serves to introduce a section about Jesus' preaching in parables and that the conversation which ensues is concerned with two questions, the significance of Jesus' use of parables as a whole, and the meaning of this parable in particular. Such is the case in Mark; the extent to which Matthew and Luke are in agreement must be examined later.

‘New Testament studies’, as most of us learned the discipline, depends on some fundamental assumptions: that scientific history leads us toward objective, secure knowledge of the past; that careful method can unlock the real meaning of a stable text; that we have an audience who genuinely care what we say. Every one of these assumptions has become problematic. For the future, we must not give up on historical research, but we must think more urgently about what it means to write history well. In our role as teachers of Christian communities, we need to examine ways in which texts are used, rediscovering the formative uses in place of an almost exclusive stress by ‘biblical theology’ on the normative. Finally, acknowledging the demise of Christendom, we must seek to engage an ever larger circle of discussion partners, seeking to overcome our isolation within the academy and within a world that has grown rapidly more diverse even as it has become astonishingly smaller.

Recent scholarly study of the early Christian gatherings (or ‘churches’) has rightly emphasized their indebtedness to the household model of association. One only has to think of the use of the house as a place of meeting, the terminology of paternalism and brotherhood, the conversion of whole households, the praise accorded to the practice of hospitality and the endorsement given to contemporary marital and household ethics in the New Testament writings.

In NTS 62.3 (July 2016) David Horrell argued that certain passages in 1 Corinthians 7 and 1 Peter 3 showed ‘ethnicising’ traits among the early Christians. He set this result against an alleged trend in scholarship that would distinguish and disparage a closed ethnic Judaism in relation to a new spiritual-universal Christianity. The present authors’ work was proffered as representative of this trend, even though no evidence was cited for such a connection and their work moves in a very different direction. Leaving aside Horrell's interpretation of the New Testament passages for reasons of space, this article takes up the larger question of Judaean and Christ-movement identities by reconsidering the position of Ioudaioi and Christ-followers in the early Roman Empire. Using different but convergent (social-scientific and historical-philological) methods, we find that ethnos-language was everywhere applied to the Judaeans, that this reflected normalcy and exchange with the world, and that Judaeans thus met the criteria of an ethnic group. Early Christians had no such recognised place. Their voluntary associations largely rejected ethnos- and polis-commitment or identity. Neither Judaean openness to the world nor Christian alienation supports the position that Horrell attributes to us.

The role of the mother of Jesus is explored in view of ancient constructions of paternity especially as expressed in the Aristotelian theory of epigenesis. It concludes that beyond framing Jesus' life in the flesh, she is present under the cross as his kin in a group uniquely composed of family and friends together. As Jesus entrusts her and the beloved disciple to each other, a process is begun whereby a familia dei comes into being – in which the matter provided by the mother is superfluous. These children are begotten/born from above ‘not of blood(s) or of the will of flesh or of the will of man but of God’ – alone.

The genre of 1 Cor 13 remains a problem, despite nearly universal agreement on the structure of the chapter. Eleven different genres have been proposed.Yet, as D. A. Carson has noted, only two of those options, hymn and paraenesis, have attracted much scholarly backing.