This article seeks to offer a theological account of gratitude from a Protestant perspective by arguing that the Christian life is one marked by a covenant of grace and gratitude in which the creature's response of gratitude to divine grace is a participating in that grace, and, as such, is a full recognition of the ways of grace which flow from the divine life to creation. The first section of this article examines this theme in relation to creation from nothing. The second establishes God's electing will as the foundation of God's willing to be for another in creation. The third section examines justification by grace as the soteriological form of God's gracious turning towards the creature in divine mercy. The fourth section sketches the forms of gratitude that one might find in the Christian life as these are brought together in the sacraments of baptism and the eucharist.

In his oft-cited article, ‘God Was Accommodating Himself to Human Capacity’, Ford Lewis Battles makes the following claim:

It may be that we have succumbed to the temptation of putting the concept of accommodation too much at the center of Calvin's thought and of trying to organize everything around this notion. Yet, if this be a faithful interpretation, accommodation would seem (even when Calvin does not explicitly advert to it) his fundamental way of explaining how the secret, hidden God reveals himself to us.

The aim of this paper is to place Richard Dawkins' book The God Delusion (2006) within a particular literary genre and, by so doing, to account for certain features of its written style, to identify its structuring claims and to offer an explanation for the popularity it has enjoyed with a broad readership. By offering a description of this kind, I hope to avoid engaging in the polemics which the book both offers and has elicited; the argument is situated at another level. My proposal may seem a surprising one: Dawkins' work comes within a spectrum that includes in its modern forms both science fiction and fantasy literature, a spectrum that uses the products of science to think with, in order to explore human dilemmas. In a word, this is a modern theodicy. I shall begin by sketching out the notion of thinking with science, before turning to characteristic stylistic features of Dawkins' work, and then examining the core claims of the book in the perspective outlined. I shall offer some concluding remarks, but there is little to be said about the author's argument with respect to religion or faith; his topic is a pretext for another kind of exercise.

There was a widespread assumption in the 1980s that liberation theology had come of age. The early passionate manifestos of those such as Hugo Assmann had been replaced by a deluge of substantial theological works which entered the theological debate bearing the wounds of oppression and injustice in Latin America, and also the clear marks of the European academy. Liberation theology remained highly controversial, but it had to be taken seriously. It suggested a new way of doing theology which was at one and the same time a recovery of older understandings of the nature of theology and rooted in Latin American reality. It plundered and turned on their original possessors the weapons of post-Enlightenment and post-Vatican II theologising, and it was viewed with deep suspicion by most of the authorities in church and state. The movement found resonances and allies in many countries of the Third World, and spread from systematics into biblical studies, ethics and pastoral theology.

In his important book The Shape of Christology, John Mclntyre argues that revelation cannot provide an adequate foundation for the doctrine of the divinity of Jesus Christ. He contests Karl Barth's derivation of this doctrine from revelation, and he concludes that Barth and other neo-orthodox theologians place far too much emphasis upon revelation, which is a ‘second-order model’ in early Christianity. As an alternative, Mclntyre contends that a viable doctrine of the divinity of Christ must be based upon redemption, not revelation.

Biblical scholars and theologians have sometimes suggested that the concept of story or narration may be used to avoid or even resolve certain long-standing problems in theology. The context of such a suggestion appears to be not only the gradual filtering of ideas from the social sciences into theological awareness but also a much improved understanding of the nature and transmission of the biblical traditions. For instance, literary criticism had tried to tell the story of the making of the Bible as a story of writing and editing. With its analytic interest, form criticism penetrated deeper, concentrating on the crucial role of oral tradition and on the power of communities to shape certain forms. Depending on these prior analytical activities, tradition criticism (or ‘redaction criticism’ in New Testament studies) felt free to seek larger unities in the material before it. That is, whereas form criticism's interest lay in describing separately the variety of ‘;scenes’ that later took their respective places in the story, tradition criticism concentrated on telling the whole story of the making of the Bible.2

I argue that Lindbeck's notion of religion as a cultural-linguistic system may be profitably considered in the light of contemporary socio-linguistic concerns orientated towards the critical analysis of real-world language usage. Examples drawn from observation are used to show how, by combining Lindbeck's approach with Critical Discourse Analysis (Critical Postliberalism), extrasystemic features of religion and religious language can be perceived which link with a basic (R1–R2) dialectic. The latter can be correlated not only with the observable product of socio-theological grammars in believing communities today, but also with salient features of the gospels. Regional and other culturally related variations appear within limits to be accommodated by the model.

This passage has aroused much debate about the possibility that Paul is here using Greek rather than Hebrew concepts. Some, like W. L. Knox, have contended that in order to appeal to Hellenistic hearers, the apostle, after his alleged failure at Athens, realised that he must move away from Hebrew categories. (Cf the chapter ‘The Failure of Eschatology’ in St Paul and the Church of the Gentiles.) Others maintain that Paul's language and concepts in this passage can all be explained from his Hebrew background; e.g. W. D. Davies in Paul and Rabbinic Judaism, ch. 10).

Ever since the 1920s, Rudolf Bultmann has been charged with confining theology to philosophy, owing to his naïve adoption of Martin Heidegger's existentialist ontology. Bultmann's personal friendship with Heidegger is well-known, and the presence of Heideggerian concepts throughout his work is impossible to miss. But there is a great deal of confusion over the details of this relationship, and scholars differ widely over what conclusions we ought to draw regarding the nature of Bultmann's work. This article reassesses the Bultmann–Heidegger relationship from three angles. First, I show that the essential elements of Bultmann's theology were already in place before he met or learnt from Heidegger. Second, I argue that Bultmann circumscribes Heidegger's philosophy within a theology of revelation. Third, I demonstrate that his theological programme is, in principle, open to other conceptualities. Since nothing material rests on the appropriation of Heidegger, one cannot accurately call Bultmann a Heideggerian theologian.

Wilhelm Herrmann remains of importance in present theological debates, particularly those between Bultmann and Barth, two of his most distinguished pupils. Barth's own break with liberal theology was to an extent a break with his teacher Herrmann, a rejection of revelation as essentially the mode of inward appropriation within the religious subject and a rejection of the psychological pragmatism which determines the soteriological significance of Jesus in terms of the moral need of the individual. Barth sees Bultmann as setting forth in existentialist categories the transformation of the inner life of the believer and reminds us of all that Bultmann learned from Herrmann long before he had ever heard of Heidegger. When we consider the distinction drawn by Herrmann between historico-critical research and the certitude of faith, his conception of revelation as event in the life of the individual, his sharp rejection of dogmatics as a normative discipline, we discern motifs which continue to be determinants of Bultmann's theology.

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female; for ye are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28)

It is not my intention in this paper to attempt a fresh exegesis or interpretation of a passage which in recent years has been much studied by New Testament scholars, but rather to draw attention to two unavoidable limitations in human thinking, shared by Paul and ourselves, which, I believe, go some way to explain the commentators' difficulties in dealing with ‘the unmanageable dimensions of the Christian verities’ found here. Paul makes some attempt to overcome these limitations by the use of a series of metaphors, apparently not always consistent with one another in strict logic, and we shall consider these individually in the third part of our study.

In section I the author of this inaugural lecture (of the new Chair of World Religions for Peace at the University of Glasgow) seeks to clarify the meaning of ‘tolerance’ and argues in favour of its traditional understanding as tolerating what is disapproved. The necessity of practising tolerance in this sense is defended in section II. However – as is explained in section III – given this understanding of tolerance, the concept is no longer adequate to characterise the Christian attitude towards other religions, which has frequently started to move ‘beyond tolerance’ towards appreciation. Section IV closes with a brief discussion of those theological and christological presuppositions that are required in order to complete this move.

Poststructural emphasis on the intertextual character of texts appears to threaten the integrity of texts, opening them to a dizzying infinite variety of meanings. One might respond by trying to shore up the boundaries around texts, but it is undeniable that texts take their meaning by harmonising with other texts. How can this dilemma be resolved? Using jokes as a paradigm, the paper defends the notion that texts are ‘porous’. A text has its own integrity and specific meaning, but the boundaries between text and text are permeable. In dialogue with Kevin Vanhoozer, I argue that texts must be permeable if they are to have meaning at all. Jokes only work when the hearer has relevant information from outside the joke itself. The porosity of texts does not destroy authorial intention; the joker intends for the hearer to bring outside information to bear on the text. In these senses, every text is a joke, and a good interpreter knows the information from outside the text and has the wit to know what information is relevant. Good interpretation is always a matter of ‘getting it’.

It is widely known that early on in his teaching career Karl Barth advanced a concept of the ‘orders of creation’, but that he retracted that concept in his later work in reaction to the tragic use that had been made of it by the National Socialist movement in Germany. However, two aspects of this movement remain relatively unexplored: first, the underlying material continuity between Barth's early ethics and his later ethics that this movement occludes; and second, the significant methodological shift in Barth's theology which this movement attests. This article explores both these aspects of Barth's theological development through his treatment of the ‘orders of creation’.

When we raise the question of whether the pleasures of the human body are as valuable as those of the human mind — whether, for example, pushpin is as good as poetry — it is quite possible that people will disagree on their answers. But we would also expect most people to agree with the assertion that the death of a human being would generally be a bad thing; whilst his continuing to live would be a good thing. Furthermore, we would expect most people to concede immediately that the death of five human beings is a worse evil than the death of one single individual: all other things being equal, I hasten to add. It seems to follow now, on the basis of this commonly held view, that saving the lives of five people, who would be doomed to a certain death without an intervention on the part of another, would be morally right, if not praiseworthy, even if the action which is necessary to save those five lives would also entail the death of another person. To liven up the proceedings, if you will pardon the expression in this context, let me put to you this specific case:

organs distributed. In that case, there would be one dead but five saved.’

There has recently been a number of books on the Christian understanding of atonement. What has been fascinating for me is the extent to which these books do, or more often do not, use the Old Testament material on atonement as the basis for what they have to say. The New Testament speaks in a variety of ways about atonement and this has become the centre of Christian dogmatics; but this ‘atonement’ is only loosely related to its Old Testament roots. Did the first Christians, then, radically alter what was understood by atonement, or was this radical alteration made by subsequent expositors of their ideas? The latter is more likely; in other words, the original ‘model’ for New Testament theology has been lost.

The first post-Apostolic3 Chiliast known to us is Papias of Hierapolis. From the oral tradition of presbyters who saw the disciple John he adduces a saying of Jesus referring to the miraculous fruitfulness of corn and wine during the millennium. There is an exact parallel to this tradition—perhaps its source— in Syr. Baruch 29.5: ‘The earth also will yield its fruit 10,000 fold, and on one vine there will be 1000 branches, and each branch will produce 1000 clusters, and each cluster will produce 1000 grapes, and each grape will produce a cor of wine.’ In this context we cannot discuss the priority and interdependence of the two traditions. We can only maintain that there existed in the Early Church a saying of Jesus which the presbyters and authorities cited by Papias referred at once to the millennium. We may also notice how closely the Christian and Judaistic traditions approximated and even merged into each other at this point. This is true even in the case of the Epistle of Barnabas, which is normally so anti-Jewish. Speaking of the Sabbath which was instituted at creation, Barn. 15.3–9 argues that the Genesis narrative points prophetically to the final consummation. God created the world in six days, and He will bring it to its consummation in 6000 years, for one day is with the Lord as a 1000 years (Ps. 90.4; Barn. 15.4)4 ‘And God rested the seventh day’ means for Barnabas that when His Son comes He will destroy the age (kaipóy) of the lawless one (i.e. the Antichrist, cf. Isa. 11.4; 2 Thess. 2.8), judge the ungodly, and refashion the sun and the moon and the stars.