The claim in recent years of a radical disjunction between the theologies of Calvin and the Calvinists has frequently come to focus on the seminal influence of Calvin's successor at Geneva, Theodore Beza. Scholars who have suggested Beza as the main culprit behind an increasing trend in sixteenth century Reformed theology to a rationalistic, scholastic, predestinarian rigidity include Ernst Bizer, Walter Kickel, Basil Hall, Brian G. Armstrong, Johannes Dantine, Edward A. Dowey Jun., John W. Beardslee III, and R. T. Kendall. Indeed, in order to appreciate Beza's significance we are compelled to see him in comparison with his great predecessor.

Among recent reconstructions, Wolfhart Pannenberg's systematic theology is one of the most influential attempts to overcome authoritarianism and subjectivism. Without presenting a thorough development of Pannenberg's theology here, I shall discuss the relationship between philosophy and theology by analyzing Pannenberg's critique of Barth's ‘subjectivism’ and ‘authoritarianism’. I argue that by grounding theological knowledge in a version of Heidegger's concept of anticipation, Pannenberg has not escaped his own religious subjectivism. Thus theological meaning inevitably results from a philosophy of existence grounded in an anticipatory grasp (Vorgriff) of the totality of reality which is presumed to refer to the reality of God.

Although the term cosmos in Romans is largely used in a neutral fashion to refer to humanity, as has been demonstrated by Edward Adams, the cosmos is nevertheless the location of a conflict between God and anti-God powers, most prominently the powers of Sin and Death. This conflict comes into view in Paul's repeated use of the language drawn from the arenas of slavery, statecraft and the military (especially in Romans 5–8). In the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ, Sin and Death are themselves defeated (5:12–21; 6:8–11), but they are not yet destroyed. The conflict continues in the present as comes to expression in Romans 8, where Paul claims that the whole of creation (both human and non-human) waits for deliverance. And the conflict continues especially in 8:31–9, with its strong assertions that no power is powerful enough to separate humanity from its rightful Lord, assertions that would be unnecessary apart from the conviction that there are indeed anti-God powers whose goal is to reclaim human lives. Paul's cosmology, then, is less concerned with the order and wonder of the cosmos than with its need of redemption, a redemption begun but not yet complete. Cosmology and soteriology are inextricably connected to one another.

‘Truly, you are a God who hides himself, O God of Israel, the Saviour’ is a verse which has long held a fascination for theologians. Aquinas, Luther, Brunner, and Barth all speak of a deus absconditus. They all, especially Barth, stress that the main characteristic of God is that he reveals himself. His hiddenness is, therefore, only a means to that end. Faith is necessary before anyone can gain knowledge of God. So Ulrich Simon in his commentary on Second Isaiah, a commentary with a markedly Barthian flavour, takes Isaiah 45:15 as the voice of the nations as they experience what he calls ‘Messianic action’. He writes:

My aim in this paper is to explore the question of David Hume's position on the theological problem of evil. I want to determine whether Hume was of the opinion that God and evil are logically incompatible. The argument will proceed by an examination of Parts x and xi of the Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion and a discussion of two current views of Hume's view on this matter. These are the positions of William Capitan and Nelson Pike.

In reaction to the claim by some scholars that sōma in the NT, especially in Paul, has a ‘holistic’ meaning, according to which the term refers to the whole person under some aspect, and not the physical body, or form, R. H. Gundry has argued for a return to a wholly physical understanding of sōma. Gundry argues that the presence of anthropological dualism in the NT speaks against the holistic understanding of soma. He adduces a number of passages in support of his contention that there is anthropological dualism in the NT and concludes by saying that the ultimate source of anthropological dualism in the NT is the OT, and not Greek thought.

Modern exponents of the doctrine of creation skate as lightly as possible over the thesis that God is Maker of heaven as well as of earth. And St. Matthew's habit of referring to the Kingdom of Heaven does not commend itself as important to most scholars in their elucidation of the Kingdom of God. For Barth, whose doctrine of Providence was outlined in the last issue of this Journal, “God's Kingdom which comes to us on earth is the Kingdom of Heaven; and when God's will is done on earth as it is in heaven, that is not only a divine event, i.e. one established, governed, and consummated by God, but also a heavenly event, i.e. one worked out in the presence, power, co-operation, and co-revelation of heaven on earth” (p. 558). Though this is a secondary aspect of the event, a theology which ignores it is gravely impoverished. And a proper recognition of this aspect entails a further recognition that man's encounter with God in His saving act is also an encounter with the angels of God, the creatures who inhabit heaven. Schleiermacher wrote a notable appendix Of the Angels (§§42–43 in the Second Edition of The Christian Faith) which dismissed the topic from Protestant theology for 150 years, but now it has come back in a treatise which will surely rank with the other two great monuments of angelology, the Celestial Hierarchy of Pseudo-Dionysius, and the Summa Theologica of Aquinas (1.50–64, 106–114), both of which are sympathetically evaluated.

The New Testament contains a very considerable amount of material bearing on the political responsibility of the Christian—much more, I think, than someone who has not yet questioned it seriously on the subject would be likely to expect. It will, therefore, be wise for us, before attempting to draw out the New Testament teaching, to try to get a general idea of the various ranges of material which ought to be taken into account.

All intellectual activity implies some presuppositions. Thoughts can only be formulated in words and these words have been formed by the previous thought of the community whose language they are. Even the most radical scepticism can only be formulated in terms of presuppositions which are-for the moment—unquestioned. (See Michael Polanyi: Personal Knowledge, chap. 9, ‘The Critique of Doubt’, pp. 269–98.)

While the words ‘triumph’, ‘triumphal’ and ‘triumphant’ are words with a long history, the expression ‘triumphalism’ is a modern invention. It seems to have started its career when first Bishop de Smedt of Belgium and later other speakers used it in their speeches in the early sessions of the Second Vatican Council. Through the innumerable articles and books about the Council it became widely known and became a current expression in the terminology of writers on religious themes. The speed and extent of its success showed that it pointed to the existence of an acute problem in the life of the churches. This problem was clearly stated in a contribution to the council's debate on the nature of the Church by Bishop Laszlo of Eisenstadt.

Mark 4.1–34 is a stretch of the Gospel where it is specially important for the English-speaking student working under the guidance of Rawlinson's great commentary to be aware that much water has flowed under the bridge since 1925; for during the last quarter of a century much has been published that bears directly on the exegesis of this section. The problem of the parables of Jesus is so fascinating, so tantalisingly difficult, and of such obvious importance, that we are forced to return to it again and again. In the first part of this article we shall look at vv. 3–9 and 13–20; in the second part we hope to look at the structure of the whole section and then to concentrate our attention on the notorious crux interpretum, vv. 11 and 12.

The importance of this well-known verse has been frequently noted. It is cited as a high point in the literature of Israel, as a classic summary of the teaching of the eighth century prophets and as a statement of great lasting and theological value. In Jewish tradition it is used as one of the memorable summaries of the whole Law. It does contain, however, uncertainties of meaning and interpretation. In form it is a priestly or prophetic torah, giving an answer to the worshipper's question in vv. 6–7, What has a sinner to do to be restored to a right relationship with God, and then how is that relationship to be sustained? With a general statement like this questions of date and authorship are minor matters.

This paper is an attempt to follow up and expand on the following statement which I made in an earlier paper published in SJT: The Christian doctrine of original sin has no place within a rabbinic system which avoids the crucial difficulty in Christian theodicy — that of the creation of evil ex nihilo at the time of the Fall.

In developing this statement I would like to sound a warning note to NT and patristic scholars who utilise rabbinic sources as background material for the study of early Christianity. It is often assumed that rabbinic texts, along with the literary remains of the other sorts of Judaism in existence in the first century A.D., can be used as a mine of material for illustrating the sort of beliefs with which the early Christians started out and against which they subsequently reacted. Thus, for example, to approach closer to the title of this paper, in considering the famous Pauline passage on the Fall (Rom. 5.12–21), it is customary for NT scholars to marshall all the evidence from the OT, the Apocrypha and Pseudepigrapha, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and rabbinic Judaism to try and explain the origin of the Christian doctrine of the Fall and Original Sin. But all too often the rabbinic evidence is used rather indiscriminately without regard to the date of its origin or to the possibility that rabbinic views on these matters may have changed in the course of the centuries during which the Talmudic literature was evolving.

(1) The term ‘eschatology’ stems from Abraham Calov who entitled the twelfth and last section of his masterpiece of dogmatics, Systema locorum Theologicorum (1677), ‘EΣXATOΛOΓIA Sacra’. This final section, which concludes the Dogmatics of a leading representative of Lutheran Orthodoxy, deals with the ‘last things’ (de novissimis), specifically death and the state after death, the resurrection of the dead, the last Judgment, the consummation of the world, hell and everlasting death, and, finally, life everlasting. Calov does not define the artificial term ‘eschatologia’ which he himself had probably coined; he hardly even explains it in the course of his presentation, so that it remains a mere heading. Clearly it applies to the eschaton, namely ‘the end’, which, according to I Cor. 15.24, comes about when Christ, after subjugating all powers and authorities, delivers over the dominion to God the Father (quaestio 2). In the preceding section Calov had cited NT texts which explicitly or implicitly speak of the eschata, the last things, or of the last day/days as the conclusion of human history.

In the first instalment of a seven volume series, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, C. S. Lewis offers us an extraordinary tale involving four children who enter a magical land, Narnia, a myriad of talking animals, a Christ-like lion named Asian and a satanic creature known simply as the Witch (although she claims the title of Queen of Narnia and Empress of the Lone Islands). At the heart of the story is a drama of salvation, or at least saving deliverance. One of the children, Edmund, is held captive by the Witch and will be released only on the condition of Asian's taking Edmund's place. Asian is the ransom for Edmund. In rough outline, Asian's ransoming Edmund and his subsequent resurrection fits the classic ransom theory of the atonement, a theory which can hardly boast of enormous contemporary appeal. I do not think its unpopularity is altogether deserved. Versions of the theory may be found in many patristic writers including Irenaeus, Gregory of Nyssa, Basil the Great, St Ambrose, St Jerome, and Origen. I wish here to defend a modified ransom theory against six of the classic objections which have contributed to its neglect. As C. S. Lewis, the father of Narnia, has presented a rich story of a ransom drama which is more familiar (and sometimes more fun to read) than the Nicene and Prenicene fathers, I will use The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe to set forth a bold, unsophisticated ransom theory.

Temple Chevallier, the first Professor of Astronomy at Durham University, was one of the leading British scientists of the nineteenth century. While his scientific work has been widely recognised, little has been written on his theological approach which provides an insight into the use of the design argument and revelation. In common with many scientists of the period, Chevallier had strong theological interests, was Reader in Hebrew at Durham University, and an Anglican priest. His Hulsean Lectures, ‘On the proofs of Divine Power and Wisdom, derived from the study of astronomy and the evidence, doctrines and precepts of Revealed Religion’, provide a fascinating picture of the engagement of Christian theology with science, in stark contrast to the dominant narratives of conflict which have been applied to this century. Having had many things in common with his contemporary Darwin, including the influence of Paley, Chevallier departed from both in his understanding of the Bible and the created order.

Chevallier's use of the design argument demonstrated the holding together of natural and revealed theology. This enabled him to use science to give pointers to God rather than proofs. Science was seen as a gift from God, engendering awe and reflecting God's sustaining of the Universe. Indeed it is argued that this was characteristic of the origins of the design argument in its earliest forms.

This strong context of revealed theology allowed him, with many others in the nineteenth century, to respond in a relaxed way to Darwin's evolutionary theory. Chevallier is a reminder of the complexity of British theological thinking in this period. Furthermore, this historical account is an important cautionary voice in the contemporary revival of the design argument in modern astronomy, whether used by the proponents of intelligent design or by those such as Paul Davies who would exclude revelation from any part of the discussion.

To James 2.14–26 we may give the title, Of true faith. The clue to the understanding of the section is the fact (very often ignored) that in verse 14 (‘What doth it profit, my brethren, if a man say he hath faith, but have not works? can that faith save him?’) the author has not said, ‘if a man have faith’, but ‘if a man say he hath faith’.1 This fact should be allowed to control our interpretation of the whole paragraph. The second ‘faith’ in the verse is to be taken as in inverted commas. By ‘that faith’ (ἡ πίςτις) the writer means that thing which the man in question wrongly calls ‘faith’; he does not imply that he himself regards it as faith. When this is recognised, it is clear that the burden of this section is not (as is often supposed) that we are saved through faith plus works, but that we are saved through genuine, as opposed to counterfeit, faith.

The Second Coming (otherwise called the Parousia)1 of Christ constituted a serious problem for the apostolic Church. One of the earliest of Paul's Epistles (1 Thessalonians) shows how quickly his converts became discouraged when some of their number died before the Lord's appearing. In reply Paul repeats his promise that the Lord will soon return, although in his second epistle he has to give a reminder that Antichrist must first make a final bid for power (1 Thess. 4.15–18, 2 Thess. 2). Similarly the author of Hebrews, writing to a disillusioned and apathetic group of Christians some decades later in the first century, recalls the words of Habakkuk that ‘the Lord will come and not be slow’ (10.37). Finally 2 Peter, the latest book of the New Testament (written, perhaps, as late as the middle of the second century), continues to offer the hope of an imminent Parousia to be accompanied by the world's destruction and renewal (ch. 3). If Christians are tempted to despair they must remember that the word of prophets and Apostles is sure (v. 2) and that with God ‘a thousand years are as one day’ (v. 8).