In 1960 a unique encounter between East and West took place. Paul Tillich visited Japan for a lecture visit of three months. In a recent article appearing in The Christian Century in the series ‘How My Mind Has Changed’, Tillich declares that this encounter was perhaps the most significant experience of the past ten years of his life. His discussions with Japanese religious leaders, especially those of Buddhism, ‘served to bring to full awareness elements of thought which had been present for a long time’ (‘On the Boundary Line’, Christian Century, 6th Dec. 1960, p. 1435). While not becoming a convert to Zen Buddhism (as he puts it), he was impressed with the ultimate concern he found in forms of religious life uninfluenced by Christianity. He declares that his observations strengthened his theological conviction that the concept of religion in its larger sense ‘transcends the concrete existence of any religion, as God transcends each of his manifestations’ (ibid.).

The Amsterdam literature has pointed out afresh the well-known fact that one of the points at issue between the Catholic and Protestant traditions is the number of the Sacraments, and it may well be that a discussion of this question would bring to light some of the other differences between these two traditions. An attempt is made in this paper to outline a Protestant view of the question. It is clear that “Catholic” is used here in a sense different from that which it bears in the historic creeds. Moreover, the contrast made between Catholic (chiefly Anglo-Catholic) and Protestant (chiefly non-Anglican) views is not intended to deny that the Church of England is in a sense Protestant, or to raise the question how far in loyalty to its formularies it can be other than Protestant.

It is good in this centenary year of his death to remember that the Chair of Christian Ethics and Practical Theology in the University of Edinburgh is successor to the Chair of Evangelistic Theology first occupied by Alexander Duff. Duff was a missionary strategist and statesman who saw the Christian mission in world-wide terms, yet found in his Scottish Reformed heritage treasures of immense value and relevance to the India of his day. Within a few short months of his arrival in Calcutta in 1830, Duff produced an assessment of the situation in Bengal of quite extraordinary shrewdness and insight, discerning the signs of the times and pinpointing the opportunities and dangers to the Christian witness. He looked, as any good practical theologian must, for the working of God in the context in which he found himself; he embraced not just the immediate opportunity but the long-term process, imbuing his converts—remarkable men that they were—with a vision of India as she might be, and of their own role as reformers, renewers and leaders of Indian society and culture in their ministerial and educational work. Duff saw himself not as handing on a closed and unexamined package of accumulated wisdom and orthodoxy, but as equipping a new generation to think for themselves and live creatively always looking, like the heroes of faith of Hebrews xi, to the future, to the city whose builder and maker is God.

It is individuals and their particular characteristics that form the pattern of any country's theology; but it is neither the qualifications nor the scholarship of these individuals alone by which the distinctive theological outlook of the country is determined. A great deal too depends on the way in which the Universities are organised, the extent of ground covered by the professorships, the nature of theological examinations, and things of that kind. It is factors such as these which determine the course of study to be followed by theological scholars before they reach a chair in the University, and for those of them who are appointed as lecturers it is the organisation of the study which prescribes, for example, what they are required to teach. A few words, then, may be appropriate at this point on the composition of the Swedish theological faculties.

Study of Barth's doctrine of angels has languished, and the time is ripe for a thorough reassessment. While any full account will centre on the magisterial theology of angels in the Church Dogmatics, much can be gained from a close, contextually informed reading of the earlier treatment of angels in the Göttingen dogmatics lectures. These lectures are shaped by a twofold procedural commitment: Barth's presentation is ordered, on one hand, to a recognisably modern conception of the logical content of Christian preaching; and it conforms, on the other hand, to a doctrinal sequence recommended by the dogmatic textbooks of the classical Reformed tradition. A tension between these two aspects becomes visible in Barth's handling of the doctrine of angels – a tract of teaching by which he is visibly unsettled. Barth accordingly attends with particular care to two fundamental modern objections to the doctrine – namely that it involves a superfluous reduplication of anthropological themes and that it has no independent doctrinal standing. The first objection exploits the observation that the doctrine of angels traditionally stands in close proximity to the doctrine of the human creature; the second follows from the claim that Christian preaching, and the dogmatic theology which serves it, attends strictly to the relationship between God and humanity, realised and revealed in the gospel. Barth's attempts to respond to these criticisms, and so to draw out the necessity and the proper dogmatic status of the doctrine of angels, are traced in detail. Angels and demons, conceived as real spiritual forces, are ineluctable features of the situation within which human moral agency is exercised. And angels are ingredients in, though not central to, the scriptural depiction of the relationship between God and humanity. Barth's elaboration of the positive features of Protestant scholastic angelology is summarised, and the motivating impulses and constructive potential of his theology of angels are briefly noted: Barth's exposition may be read as a complex exercise in theological self-differentiation; a recommendation of a distinctive style of biblical reasoning; and a creative contribution to the revitalisation of a culture of Christian witness.

Certain myths are often perpetuated in a discipline, myths which upon later reflection are seen to be what they in fact are: unhelpful, deceptive or simply wrong. Often these myths are perpetuated in spite of good evidence to the contrary. This tendency is not unique to Biblical studies but is a pattern that is found in a range of disciplines. Thomas Kuhn, in The Structure of Scientific Revolutions, addresses this tendency in the so-called hard sciences. He does not use the term myth but rather speaks of the presuppositions of normal science, the scientific paradigm which controls the scientific community of a given time. But as is so often the case, growing evidence mounts that the model is unsatisfactory, that it fails in significant ways to explain evidence which is increasingly seen to be important. The evidence mounts, until a paradigm shift occurs, when the significant or major practitioners of a discipline realise that a new model must be invoked to explain the data at hand.

One purpose of this article is to explicate what Karl Barth means by the man-to-man relationship, or, in his terms, ‘humanity’, and to discuss the variety of forms involved in this basic dynamic-form. Another purpose is to make the reader aware of the way dialectical-dialogical thought functions in describing the relationship between God and man, and man and man.

The Orthodox Church within the Soviet Union has so far made no direct contribution to the ecumenical work which has been done in the World Council of Churches since its constitution in 1948 and before that in the ecumenical movement which led up to its constitution. The political situation has so far prevented this—just as the autocephalous Orthodox Churches of the Balkans, which shared in the ecumenical work before the Second World War, have found it impossible to do so since they have been in the Communist sphere of influence. There is, to be sure, a negative contribution from the Moscow Patriarchate, namely the ‘Resolution on the question of “The Ecumenical Movement and the Orthodox Church”’, passed in July 1948 in connexion with the jubilee celebrations of the Russian Orthodox Church on the occasion of the fifth centenary of its independence, and in accordance with this the refusal on 1st August 1948 of the invitation from the general secretariat of the World Council of Churches to participate in the Conference of Churches in Amsterdam. In this connexion, however, it must be borne in mind that at that time and as a result of many years of isolation it was hardly possible for the Russian Orthodox Church to take an objective view of the World Council, inasmuch as the Council's understanding of itself before the Amsterdam Conference could in fact only be discerned imperfectly from written documents alone, and in particular the important Toronto declaration clarifying this understanding was not made until 1949.

In discussions on the ministry those who claim to belong to the more ‘catholic’ branch of the Church, often say that their ministry is priestly whereas that of the ‘reformed’ tradition is prophetic. The representatives of the latter are usually happy to accept this as an accurate description of their own ministry, but go on to point out that the ‘catholic’ ministry is not really priestly, arguing that, since there is one priest, Jesus Christ, who has already offered the one necessary sacrifice, there is no longer need of other sacrifices, or priests to offer them. With the validity of that argument we are not at present concerned; we are concerned, though, to inquire in what sense the Reformed minister may be described as a successor to the prophets, or, to put it another way, what is prophetic preaching? Since the word ‘prophet’ occurs in Scripture and since we claim that our faith is biblical, it is incumbent on us to examine the conception of the prophetic office as found in Scripture. Since the prophets of the Old Covenant and those of the New are not necessarily the same it is necessary to divide our inquiry; we consider first the prophets of the Old Testament.

Before the General Assembly of the United Nations Pope John Paul II declared that the quest for freedom points to the existence of ‘natural rights’ that reflect the objective and inviolable demands of a universal moral law. While this assertion was well received by those in attendance, an important question remains: how are we to reconcile this universal vision of human rights with the current plethora of disputable legislated rights? Ernest Fortin claims the problem is rooted in the fact that modern ‘rights talk’ emphasizes individual subjective rights over the objective reality of human nature, and Alasdair Maclntyre even questions the moral value of human rights because they are all too easily manipulated by those who view them as self-evident truths. When you add to these observations the appearance of such controversial individual entitlements as ‘reproductive rights’, ‘sex rights’, ‘the right to same-sex marriage’ and the ‘right to die’, it is not surprising to hear people calling for a silencing of ‘rights talk’.

Discussion about the Holy Spirit is at present in a state of almost total confusion. A renewed interest is being shown in the Spirit and in the process the term ‘Holy Spirit’ is tending to become a rag-bag into which are relegated all those aspects of aeligion and life which we are unhappy simply to assign to the working of God. It has become a cover for our deficiencies, so that the Spirit is whatever we like to make it. Phrases are created on analogy with ‘The Spirit of Truth’ to associate with the Spirit whichever particular aspect of life a writer wishes to dignify. Alternatively, in the face of unresolvable complexities the phrase is invoked as a pious aphorism to which there can be no retort—‘Leave it to the Spirit’.

We were on our honeymoon. Theological questions were not high on our agenda as we toured Ireland. We drove innocently into Sneem, a village on the ring of Kerry, identified as the ‘tidy town of Ireland’ in 1988. It was certainly that. The houses that surrounded the central square were as immaculate as they were colorful.

Bishop Stephen Neill, in his Survey of the Training of the Ministry in Africa, writes as follows: ‘I could not but feel profound sympathy with the African student who remarked: “It seems to me that missionaries are much too hard in their judgments on the African Churches. Did you never have a period of struggle in your own Churches? ” Indeed we did. In that moment I suddenly saw that, for the African Churches in their contemporary struggle, the most important period is the one that ordinarily we never teach them in detail, the Dark Ages.… They wrestle with precisely the same difficulties and are called to find anew the way out of the twilight of the coexistence of the old and new into a more genuinely Christian life and social order. ’

I am very grateful to Amy Pauw for the careful and forceful way in which she has applied her considerable theological acumen, and the fruits of her long engagement with the church, to an interpretation and cautionary commentary on my book. Her remarks are a gift to me even as they chasten and redirect my efforts to expand the arguments of this book into a larger one. As I mention in an aside at the end of Chapter 3, the give and take of intellectual life, at its best, is an intimation of the community of mutual fulfillment which I believe the gospel calls us to realize everywhere. In writing the book I could only hope that faults in my arguments would be remedied and their good points developed, beyond anything I could achieve alone, by fine theologians such as Pauw taking up those arguments and offering them back to me transformed. This very exchange reflects the way a community of mutual fulfillment need not be community at a remove from disagreement, conflict, and the temptation to hubris among fallible, morally weak individuals (such as myself). In a fallen world of finite creatures, a community of mutual fulfillment often just is in this way a community of argument (of the sort I discuss in Theories of Culture) – a community that is agonistic, prone to deep disagreement about matters of shared concern, but a community held together nonetheless by the shared admission of fault and the consequent recognition that the true and the good can be had by anyone only through open engagement with all.

A number of New Testament scholars, including John O'Neill and Larry Hurtado, have drawn attention to the prospects which worship texts in the writings of the New Testament offer in revealing the way in which the first Christians thought of Jesus. Whilst the impossibility of separating the Jesus of history from the Christ of faith has contributed to this development and has also been a central impulse in the so-called Third Quest, the ancient principle of lex orandi, lex credendi, coined by Prosper of Aquitaine, gives a further theological foundation for such explorations. However, its later distortion, particularly in the aftermath of the Reformation, has privileged doctrine (credendi) over experience (orandi), and diminished the reciprocity between the two demanded by the classical formulation.

Revelation 4–5 are explored as two texts which are rooted in experience, both of Christian liturgy and the merkavah traditions which drew on the heavenly visions of prophets like Ezekiel and Isaiah. Viewed from this perspective, the visions make claims about the divinity of the Lamb and the propriety of its worship on the basis of religious experience, embodied in authoritative claims for both ‘altered states of consciousness’ and literary tropes. They give pictorial descriptions and visions which should stand as authoritative theological claims in their own right.

However, modern New Testament scholarship, following post-Reformation patterns, attempts to explain these visions in more technical and abstract theological terms such as binitarian or trinitarian. This, it is suggested, is undesirable because of the danger of importing anachronisms, with their attendant theological bag and baggage, of making overly bold claims for our knowledge of the individuals, communities and/or circumstances which produced these texts (given both the oscillation of New Testament writers between binitarian and trinitarian tendencies, and a degree of confusion caused by the role of the Spirit in related discourse), and of shifting the locus of meaning from the texts themselves to secondary explications (a phenomenon which appears peculiarly attractive to modern scholarship).

Drawing on Wittgenstein's reflections on the study and analysis of religious experience, it is suggested that it may be wiser to leave the texts to stand in their own right, rather than to be interpreted via theological categories which may ultimately say more about the concerns of modern scholars than the producers of the texts.

This article traces the role of the Holy Spirit throughout Augustine's De Trinitate. After situating Augustine's treatise in terms of texts of Athanasius and Basil on the Holy Spirit, it treats the place of the Holy Spirit in his critique of the existing dogmatic terminology and the distinction between the economic and immanent Trinity. In contrast with the dominant Western and Eastern traditions, for Augustine the Holy Spirit comes to be thought of as God in a privileged sense, that is, as the person of the Trinity who is the most proper bearer of certain privileged names of God, most notably love. The notion of the Holy Spirit as eternal ‘gift’ proves to be especially troubling for Augustine, but also especially productive, and the present reading explicates the complex interrelationships that he is forced to develop among the concepts of love, cupiditas, gift, communio and enjoyment. The analysis of the concept of enjoyment in particular leads to the claim that the notion of property or ownership is completely foreign to God and that the Holy Spirit as communio must be thought as ‘gift’ only insofar as it is disruptive of the realm of ownership, that is, the realm of sin. The article finishes, as the De Trinitate does, with the implications of Augustine's treatment of the Holy Spirit for ethics and ecclesiology.

This essay examines Herman Bavinck's Stone Lectures (1908), published as Philosophy of Revelation, for indications of a noteworthy conception of the relation between ontology and revelation. One discovers in the lectures that in responding constructively to various challenges to the Christian faith, Bavinck pushes in a direction documented in recent studies of his work: toward doctrinal organicism. What emerges in terms of ontology and revelation is Bavinck's belief that Christianity is distinguished primarily by confession of a real divine relational initiative, understood in terms of the incarnation, which serves as the ontological precondition of divine revelation and thus as vindication of creaturely naming of God.