This paper wants to address the question, why and how the term εỦαγγέλιον, originally a term for the early Christian proclamation, became the designation of a certain type of literature. Closely related problems have been discussed repeatedly in New Testament scholarship for several generations: (1) The origin of the term εỦαγγέλιον. (2) The consistency and uniformity of its meaning in its Christian usage. (3) The question of the literary genre of the writings which later became known as ‘gospels’. I shall comment on the second and third of these problems insofar as they concern the question addressed in this paper, but I shall leave aside the question of the background and origin of the term.

The question of ‘traces’ of history in the Fourth Gospel is not new. In 1968 Louis Martyn published his History and Theology in the Fourth Gospel. His thesis, reduced to utter simplicity, was that the Gospel is a drama presented at two levels, one concerning Jesus and the other concerning the community of the evangelist in which the Jesus tradition had been shaped. Thus the Fourth Gospel is seen as a Jewish Christian composition shaped in the dialogue/conflict with the synagogue. More recently Raymond Brown has given us his own penetrating reconstruction of the history of the Johannine community. This is presented in four phases: from its beginning until the exclusion from the synagogue; the situation at the time the Gospel was written; internal division (Epistles); and the final disappearance of both groups in the second century, absorbed, either by the emerging great church or by Docetism, Gnosticism and Montanism.

One of the most troubling statements of the New Testament is to be found at Matt 27. 24–25, part of the special Matthean material of the Passion Narrative in the First Gospel:

A satisfactory solution to the twin problems of the internal literary structure of the proclamations to the seven churches in Rev 2–3, and the external literary form to which they have the closest generic relationship continues to challenge New Testament scholarship. It is of course theoretically possible to limit a literary analysis to the texts in Rev 2–3 based on intrinsic criteria alone. In practice, however, most analyses have been dialectical attempts to understand the intrinsic literary features of the seven proclamations in the light of the clues provided by one or another comparable literary form. This kind of contextual investigation is unavoidable for Rev 2–3 in view of the many repetitive and formulaic words and phrases which, in addition to denotative or designative meanings, have a variety of connotative or associative meanings requiring exploration and assessment. Some recent candidates include the revelatory letter, prophetic speech forms, the covenant formulary or one of the types of Greek oratory.

Recent analyses of the Prologue of John have to a large degree centred around two questions, (1) the question of poetic and prose forms of styles, and (2) the question of unity or disunity of thought, both within the Prologue itself and between the Prologue and the rest of the Gospel. Several scholars, such as R. Bultmann, E. Käsemann, R. Schnackenburg and R. E. Brown, have reached the conclusion that the Evangelist has used and partly reshaped and supplemented a hymn.1 This hyposthesis has drawn criticism from scholars who stress that this distinction between poetry and prose is impossible to maintain. Thus E. Haenchen and W. Eltester have characterized the style as hymnic prose.

The problems surrounding the integrity of II Corinthians vi. 14–vii. I are well known. In the first place, verses vi. 11–13 and vii. 2–4 flow together rather easily as a single piece of personal appeal. ‘My heart is opened wide toward you…In a like reciprocation, I speak as to children, you also open wide (your hearts toward me)…Make room for me.’ The parenesis of vi. 14–vii. I abruptly breaks this flow of thought. Moreover, vi. 14–vii. I is a self-contained unit, which begins with a concrete prohibition supported by five balanced rhetorical questions, which in turn is supported by a catena of Old Testament passages, and concludes with a general parenesis. Nothing within this passage seems even remotely related, either in language or concept, to the personal appeal within which it is embedded.

Historical reconstructions concerning Philemon consistently illustrate an overwhelming tendency to see Paul as operating with the most innocuous and transparent of motives. In contrast, my (mildly playful) reading of Philemon posits a Paul engaged in power negotiations with his addressee. Though Philemon acts as Paul's would-be patron, Paul resists the gesture and opts instead to assign Philemon a carefully proscribed role vis-à-vis himself. Paul relies on rhetorical techniques of tact to coerce Philemon to adopt this role ‘voluntarily’. Onesimus emerges, then, as a pawn in a negotiation for power and status in the community.

The Bodmer miscellaneous codex contains not only P72 (Jude, 1–2 Peter), but eight other biblical and Christian writings as well. Three independent sections (I–II–III) of the codex have been identified, and a different sequence from the traditional is suggested as original. There are strong connections between sections I and III and they probably followed in sequence. The most significant connection is P72, copied by one single scribe who displays both a liturgical and a theological tendency. This scribe may have been the final collector of the codex, a miscellany of an apologetic character, bearing the marks of incipient orthodoxy.

The question of interpolations in the Pauline letters continues to provoke debate. Recent years have seen numerous attempts to identify particular passages as non-Pauline and occasional arguments for extensive interpolating throughout the letters. Nevertheless, as Victor Paul Furnish has pointed out, ‘no general scholarly agreement’ has emerged ‘on the probability, or even the plausibility, of any of these hypotheses about … interpolations’. A major problem is the fact that most of the discussion has focused directly upon individual passages, with little or no systematic attention to such preliminary matters as the burden of proof in the identification of interpolations or specific techniques or criteria that might aid in identifying interpolations. Although the burden-of-proof question and the question of criteria are clearly related, and both are crucial, it is possible to separate them for purposes of discussion, and it can even be argued that the former question is, at least logically, prior to the latter. Thus, the purpose of this paper is to raise only the burden-of-proof question; that of criteria must be reserved for treatment in a different context.

It may in the end be true that the Son of man problem is insoluble. The ultimate question, why Jesus spoke about himself as the Son of man, is inextricably intertwined with the problem of his self-consciousness. We can never know for sure what he meant by this self-designation till we are also able to tell how he looked upon himself, how he interpreted his own fate and destiny. On the other hand it is impossible to answer the latter question as long as we do not know the implications of the name he gave himself.

1) In the exegetical discussion the word ‘temple-criticism’ is capable of several meanings. Generally speaking it is used to characterize critical statements in the New Testament concerning the Jerusalem temple. It is for example applied to sayings which express the view that the Jewish temple has been superseded by the coming of Jesus (Matt 12.6; John 2.19). Further, the word can signify a critical attitude towards the temple, when it is in a state of abuse (Mark 11.17; Matt 21.12). It also stands for a supposed criticism of the temple, taken as a static entirety and contrasted with the mobile tabernacle (Hebrews and Acts 7). Finally it is used to label certain New Testament statements and conceptions, understood as proclaiming a fundamental rejection of the temple, a rejection in principle of the temple as such (Acts 7.46–7). In discussing our theme we have to take all these aspects into consideration.

The most significant recent contribution to the understanding of Matt 6. 22–23 (= Luke 11. 34–36: Q) comes from Hans Dieter Betz. In his article on ‘Matthew vi.22f. and ancient Greek theories of Vision’ Betz claims to find in the pre-Socratics, in Plato, and in Philo the clues by which the enigmatic logion about the eye as the lamp of the body can best be elucidated. He directs attention to the following texts in particular: (1) Plato, Timaeus 45B–46A. In discussing the creation of the human body by the gods, Plato speaks of the ‘light-bearing eyes’(φωσφόραμματα), and he asserts that, within the human eye, there is a type of fire, a fire which does not burn but is, as Bury translates, ‘mild’. When we see, this fire, which is both ‘pure’ (είλıκρωές) and ‘within us’ (έντòς ὴμῶν), flows through the eyes and out into the world, where it meets the light of day. Now since like is attracted to like, the light of the eyes coalesces with the light of day, forming one stream of substance. And then, to quote Plato, ‘This substance, having all become similar in its properties because of its similar nature, distributes the motions of every object it touches, or whereby it is touched, throughout all the body, even unto the soul, and brings about the sensation which we term seeing.’ In fine, we see because we have within us a light that streams forth through our eyes.

The case against Q depends logically on the plausibility of Luke's direct use of Matthew. Goodacre's carefully argued book contends (a) that none of the objections to the Mark-without-Q hypothesis is valid; (b) that given certain assumptions about Luke's aesthetic preferences, it is plausible that he systematically reordered the ‘Q’ material from Matthew; (c) that Luke's rearrangement of Matthew shows as much intelligence and purposefulness as Matthew's; and (d) that certain features of the ‘Q’ in Luke 3–7 betray the influence of Matthean redaction. Careful scrutiny of these arguments shows that (a) is only partially true; that Goodacre's assumptions about Lukan aesthetics (b) are open to serious objection; and that while (c) is true, Goodacre's argument in (d) ultimately cuts against his case against Q.

The theme is one that could easily be allowed to develop into a history of the apostolic age. I hope to keep it within reasonable bounds by approaching it in the main from one angle only. Like most of the great figures of the past, Paul is known to us both as a historical and as a legendary figure, and it is my intention in this paper to consider in a small way not only how the real Paul and the legendary Paul illuminate each other, but also how, between them, they cast a measure of light upon an obscure period.

Hebrews 1.5-14 has proved difficult to integrate within the author's larger literary project. More recent scholarship has emphasized rightly that the catena centers upon the Son of God's royal enthronement, but the question as to why the author should begin his argument this way has yet to be answered. In this essay I argue that the event which the catena describes, namely the Son's enthronement to the heavenly world, is critical for the entire logic of the author's argument regarding how humanity's salvation is accomplished. The likelihood of this conclusion is bolstered by the rarely recognized inclusio between 1.5-14 and 12.18-29. Finally, I briefly examine four texts which suggest that the author envisions the Son's narrative, particularly his entrance into God's heavenly realm as described in 1.5-14, as a soteriological necessity, and pattern, for humanity.

The purpose of this note is to discuss the christological title ‘King of kings and Lord of lords’ in Rev 17. 14. Most commentators have generally understood the title to have its broad background in intertestamental Judaism and the Old Testament. The title is also attested in Babylonian and Egyptian tradition, but such an influence is unlikely here since John usually limits his sphere of reference to the Old Testament and its related literature and traditions. Among the possible above-mentioned references in Judaism and the Old Testament, 1 En 9. 4 bears closest resemblance to Rev 17. 14. The 1 En reference could be in mind, not only because of its similarity of wording, but also because its context concerns eschatological judgment (i.e. of the fallen Watchers), as does that of Rev 17.

The two-dot-plus-bar ‘distigme-obelos’ symbols in Vaticanus signal added text. Five characteristic features distinguish their obeloi from paragraphoi. Like scribe B's LXX obeloi, all eight distigme-obelos symbols mark the location of added text. A gap at the exact location of a widely recognised, multi-word addition follows every distigme-obelos except one with distinctive downward dipping strokes. The Vaticanus Gospels are so early that they have virtually no high stops, a feature older than even 75. Consequently, they contain none of these additions, but the Vaticanus epistles have high stops throughout and contain their one distigme-obelos-marked addition, 1 Cor 14.34–5. Contemporaneous LXX G has corresponding distigmai.

Rhoda, the slave maid (παιδισκη) in Acts 12.13–16, has been seen as a classic example of a touch of realism that lends authenticity to Luke's narrative: the vivid and precise detail of her flighty joy presents such a candid snapshot of her individuality and eccentric Christian faith that it could only come from a historical source, perhaps the eyewitness reminiscence of Rhoda herself. While less willing than earlier commentators to accept the description in its final form as factual, more recent scholars still perpetuate the goal of discerning the historical core behind the account and continue to read it as a piece of realistic drama. Many, to be sure, have detected in the scene the presence of other elements, such as comedy and extraordinary suspense, but this idea is downplayed or subordinated as further evidence of realism; a few discount the idea as a modern reading. Nonetheless, a consensus emerges: Rhoda's dramatic function in the narrative is to heighten realism. Some scholars then discover a further theological theme of liberation: Rhoda's genuine, assertive behaviour to speak her mind ‘breaks down’ the oppressive hierarchy between master and slave – revealing Luke's so-called subversion of slavery as a social institution – and the subsequent vindication of Rhoda's speech as trustworthy authenticates and uplifts the Christian witness of women (cf. Gal 3.28).