In the Bible we find Baptism suddenly appearing for the first time in that action of John the Baptist which, according to one way of reading Mark I.I, was ‘the beginning of the Gospel’. The Evangelists speak of Baptism not as a strange rite invented by John, but as something so familiar that it requires neither detailed description nor careful explanation.

To readers of the present day, however, the sudden appearance of Baptism at the beginning of the New Testament is a source of bewilderment which can easily lead to the kind of false interpretation of Scripture that underlies the Baptist movement et hoc genus omne.

It is therefore necessary to try to discover all we can as to the origin and significance of this strange rite.

The New Testament uses two cognate nouns: βάπτισμα and βαπτισμóς. βάπτισμα is found only in the New Testament and in Christian writers, and in the New Testament is used only of Baptism, whether it be John's Baptism or Christian Baptism. βαπτισμóς is used in the New Testament meaning a special form of ‘washing’. It occurs only at Mark 7.4, Heb. 6.2 and 9.10. In all these cases the reference is to ritual washings either of persons or of things. It is never used of Baptism in the New Testament, though Josephus, the only profane author to use the word, applies it to John's Baptism (Ant. xvii.v.2).

This book, the latest in Wright's series on ‘Christian Origins and the Question of God’, is a daunting phenomenon: over 1500 pages, packaged in two volumes, containing (I reckon) more than 800,000 words. Building on his earlier publications, and referring across to companion volumes – not even this gigantic text is self-sufficient – Wright here advances in full the synthetic vision of Paul's theology which he has developed and promoted over more than thirty years. The scale reflects his ambition: to integrate all the motifs in Pauline theology within a single large-scale schema; to elucidate its Jewish roots and its points of interaction with Graeco-Roman philosophy, religion and politics; to engage in most of the recent debates on Pauline theology; and to defend and advance his own distinctive theories on justification, covenant and the Messiahship of Jesus, against critics who have lined up against him on several sides. The structure and size of the project create considerable repetition. Many topics are opened, postponed for several hundred pages, then discussed and then later reprised, while the reader is liable to be wearied by a prose style which often seems excessively baggy. Wright strives to keep our attention with arresting metaphors, engaging illustrations and a knock-about lecture-hall style, but the latter is often tetchy in its criticism of others, and descends too often to caricature. Indeed, the standard of intellectual engagement with contrary opinions is often disappointing, and hardly improved by grand generalisations about ‘Enlightenment frameworks’ and ‘postmodern moralism’. It is only rarely that this large work engages in detailed exegesis (close engagement with texts, in debate with a range of exegetical options): the opening discussion of Philemon, the focused study of Galatians 6:16 and the close analysis of Romans 9–11 (the highlight of this work) are among the exceptions. Of course one cannot advance a thesis of such breadth without sacrificing some depth in textual debate, but the effect is to lessen considerably the persuasiveness of the whole.

The object of this essay is to offer for consideration a new way of translating the fragment of Papias' Preface quoted by Eusebius, in the belief that it may show that Papias was indeed ‘a man of the primitive age’ (⋯ρχαîos), who flourished about A.D. 80, and whose ‘Interpretation’ did not deal with Matthew's Gospel, still less with Luke's, because the First and Third Evangelists had not published their works when he wrote.

The question of the Sabbath is still a living issue. Unfortunately it is also one that all too often becomes bogged down either in a legalism which prescribes a list of do's and don't's (mainly don't's), or in a humanism which leaves us to please ourselves. In between, there are many who are frankly puzzled. On the one hand they are not enthusiastic about the Scottish Sabbath of the past (though in actual fact our forefathers do not seem to have found it as grim and irksome in practice as we feel it must have been), while on the other hand they are apprehensive of what is commonly known as the ‘continental Sunday’. But there seems to be equally little promise in the nondescript hybrid which is fast emerging among us, and which has no definite character at all but is merely a part of the ‘weekend’. Obviously new thinking is urgently needed here. This article attempts a few steps in that direction. It takes its cue not from the fourth commandment, but from a Gospel passage (Mark 2.2–28) which in a sense points behind and before it and sets the whole question of the Christian Sabbath in a new light.

Accidental truths of history can never become the proof of necessary truths of reason.

It is a tribute to the perspicacity of Lessing and Kierkegaard that their way of investigating the problem of the role of historical investigation in the task of theological construction has set the tone of subsequent discussion. The centrality of their problem in our time is shown up by the way Diem depicts Lessing's question and Kierkegaard's answer as the starting-point of the contemporary theological debate.1 Diem's analysis here is penetrating, even if it only shows up the need for that starting-point to be critically examined.

In this article, after an examination of Kierkegaard's general position, what I wish to suggest is (1) that the problem as Lessing has posed it is insoluble, and thus Kierkegaard's paradoxical solution is no solution; (2) that nevertheless, despite his clear dependence on Lessing, Kierkegaard has restated the problem in the only way which shows any promise for a Christian theology; and (3) that the pursuit of this solution requires that faith be not sealed off from ‘natural inquiry’, and consequently, a serious grappling with ordinary historical problems is unavoidable in Christian theology—which is the opposite conclusion to that which Kierkegaard himself drew (and which is widely accepted at the present time).

There does seem some truth in saying that any large-scale endeavour to work through a comprehensive programme of thought produces the radical critic who proclaims, after the manner of a prophet, that the programme is wrong-headed and misconceived, and who himself works through the programme for just one reason—to show, once and for all, that the only thing to do is to abandon an impossible investigation. Søren Kierkegaard was such a critic.

Writers belonging to various Christian denominations have recently had much to say about the Laity and their privileges and responsibilities within the Church. It is plain that the Church is unthinkable apart from membership, and this membership consists largely of laymen. We are, however, painfully conscious that for the majority connexion with the Church is vague, and it seems natural to speculate whether deeper sympathy might not be roused if membership more clearly carried with it a real share in a life of obvious activity. The Calvinistic Reformers made serious efforts in this direction, with reference both to Worship and to Government, and corresponding strategy is everywhere needed today, for nothing will occupy a prominent place in a man's heart that does not make an appreciable demand upon his attention and supply him with agreeable outlets for his energy. Experience teaches the observant minister that he must offer church-people something definite to do, something that will bring out their capabilities and promote the exercise of their gifts, stir their pride and stimulate loyal sentiments and render fellowship interesting and action rewarding. Being busy about a church is not being religious; but religion will have a better chance with the ordinary person as the Church forces itself to a higher place on the list of his priorities. Both rights and obligations ought to be underlined.

Recently, I attended a conference on the theme ‘theologies of the cross’. I gained much from it in various ways, but one feature concerned me: in reading the papers, and listening to discussions, it became rather clear that, whilst the various contributors might or might not agree, or even be sure about, what they did believe about the cross, they were all both united and certain on what they didn't believe in – the traditional Reformed and Evangelical idea of penal substitution. Now, I confess that I had no particular commitment to this idea. I knew of no exegetical or theological reason to demand that we hold on to it, or to suggest that our account of the atonement would necessarily be lacking something vital if we did not express it in this way. Penal substitution was a way of talking about the cross with which I was familiar, but to which I was not committed. Temperamentally, I had tended to avoid it: as far as I can judge, the dominant way of talking about the cross in my preaching has been in terms of combat with, and victory over, the evil powers of sin and death and hell; it is not a theme I have touched on much in my academic writing. Penal ideas are common, however, in the liturgy and (particularly) hymnody of my church tradition: ‘Bearing shame and scoffing rude/In my place condemned he stood’; ‘All our pride, all our greed, all our fallenness and shame, and the Lord has laid the punishment on him.’ I have never seen any reason to object to such songs. So, to be at a conference where there was near unanimity that, whatever else we were going to say about the cross, we would begin by dismissing this tradition, was of interest and concern to me.

The Middle Platonic concept of ‘participation’ in the Forms is important for understanding the connection that Athanasius finds between Christians and Christ. Yet, Athanasius adapts this concept to his Johannine view of the Word of God incarnate in Christ. He turns to the language of bodily creation and kinship rather than contemplation to express the relationship between Christ and Christians. For Athanasius, evil makes it impossible for humans to contemplate the divine Word by which they were created. Therefore, the Word embodied a new humanity in Christ. The Holy Spirit enables Christians to participate in Christ, becoming thereby part of a new humanity and children of God.

What might be learned, for theology, from recent interest in the complex love triangle of Nelly Barth, Charlotte von Kirschbaum and Karl Barth? I explore some aspects of how the story has been told, in and since Christiane Tietz's 2016 presentation and article, and argue that they expose deep-seated issues in and for the discipline of systematic theology. In particular, I draw attention to the focus on preserving the authority of the individual (male/masculine) author as the exemplar of theological practice; and to the reluctance to recognise the social, political and economic dimensions of sexuality and ‘domestic’ life. I argue that a properly ‘systematic theological’ approach to the Barth-von Kirschbaum story would involve critical and constructive theological reflection on theology's conditions of production: using historical contexts to help us recognise and respond to contemporary issues, without reducing such reflection to stories about individual authors.

It is well known that the seeds from which the modern discipline of OT theology grew are already found in 17th and 18th century discussion of the relationship between Bible and Church, which tended to drive a wedge between the two, regarding canon in historical rather than theological terms; stressing the difference between what is transient and particular in the Bible and what is universal and of abiding significance; and placing the task of deciding which is which upon the shoulders of the individual reader rather than upon the church. Free investigation of the Bible, unfettered by church tradition and theology, was to be the way ahead. OT theology finds its roots more particularly in the 18th century discussion of the nature of and the relationship between Biblical Theology and Dogmatic Theology, and in particular in Gabler's classic theoretical statement of their nature and relationship. The first book which may strictly be called an OT theology appeared in 1796: an historical discussion of the ideas to be found in the OT, with an emphasis on their probable origin and the stages through which Hebrew religious thought had passed, compared and contrasted with the beliefs of other ancient peoples, and evaluated from the point of view of rationalistic religion. Here we find the unreserved acceptance of Gabler's principle that OT theology must in the first instance be a descriptive and historical discipline, freed from dogmatic constraints and resistant to the premature merging of OT and NT — a principle which in the succeeding century was accepted by writers across the whole theological spectrum, including those of orthodox and conservative inclination.

One of the most controversial issues dividing Calvin scholars has to do with Calvin's understanding of God as the author of Scripture. Specifically the issue is this: did Calvin believe that the Scriptures were verbally inspired in such a way that they can be identified without qualification with God's Word and therefore held to be infallible?

For more than sixty years theological thinking has been influenced by developments in modern psychology, as even a cursory examination of the theological literature of the past half century will indicate. The movement has been largely one way: a borrowing of methods and concepts from psychology by the theologian. Now this situation is changing. There are signs of the beginning of a two-way movement, with psychology learning something from theology as well as contributing to theology. We may be at the beginning of a significant period of creative dialogue between the two.

This essay explores the overlapping territory between the phenomenon known as ‘imaginative resistance’ in literary, psychological and philosophical circles and Karl Barth's theological hermeneutic. Imaginative resistance refers to the way readers are willing to give consent to all sorts of implausible things in the context of a fiction, but become uneasy when asked to imagine that something they consider morally or ethically reprehensible is good. The essay offers an overview of the current scholarly theories regarding the origins of the phenomenon of imaginative resistance, arguing that none of them provide an adequate account of imaginative resistance in relation to a text read as ‘Word of God’. The essay suggests that Karl Barth's theological hermeneutic does not offer a ‘solution’ to imaginative resistance in relation to scripture, but rather deepens and redescribes it in meaningful ways by acknowledging the appropriateness of the interpreter's resistance while encouraging continued engagement even with the claims of challenging biblical texts.

Does ἐγώ in Rom. 7:14–25 refer to the Christian? This question, pivotal for understanding Paul's view of both man and the nature of the Christian life, has been debated throughout the history of the Christian Church. The Greek fathers generally answered ‘no’. Augustine, in his struggle against Pelagius, however, answered ‘yes’. The mediaeval Church, Luther, Calvin, and Calvinistic theology agreed. A swing of the pendulum back to the ‘pre-Christian’ view began with Pietism, and, at least on the continent, was made virtually complete with the publication of Werner Georg Kümmel's Römer 7 und die Bekehrung des Paulus in 1929. Thus in 1964 the Dutch scholar W. K. Grossouw could say ‘ … among modern exegetes an occasional one still takes up an exceptional position and understands Rom. 7:(14)–25 of the Christian existence …’ A notable more recent continental exception, though, has been the Swedish scholar Anders Nygren. A considerable number of British scholars, too, hold to the ‘Christian’ position. Notable examples would include C. E. B. Cranfield, John Murray, F. F. Bruce, C. K. Barrett, J. I. Packer, and J. D. G. Dunn.

In determining the meaning of the expression ‘the substance of the Faith’, it seems right to go back to the act of the Scottish Parliament in 1690 which ratified the Westminster Confession of Faith ‘as the publick and avowed Confession of this Church, containing the summe and substance of the doctrine of the Reformed Churches.’ There the WCF was regarded as containing the sum and substance of some thirty Reformed Confessions, including the Scots Confession, the First and Second Helvetic Confessions. These confessions expressly acknowledged the ancient Catholic Creeds and Conciliar Statements of the Church, the Apostles Creed, the Nicene Creed, the Formulations of Ephesus and Chalcedon, and the so-called ‘Athanasian Creed’, and embodied all their main statements as essential articles of belief. This was true of the WCF which, as James Denney once pointed out, ‘contains everything that is in the Nicene Creed’ (Jesus and the Gospel, p. 39If). That is to say, there was no move away from what the Athanasian Creed and the Second Helvetic Confession called ‘the Catholic Faith’, although the basic articles of faith handed down through the Creeds were set within a confessional frame of distinctively Reformed character. It was inevitable, therefore, that a distinction was made between what Samuel Rutherford called (Due Right Presbyteries, p. 13) ‘a confession dejure, what everyman ought to believe, as the Nicene Creed, and the Creed of Athanasius’, and a wider summation of teaching common to ‘true Reformed Protestant religion’.

Since 1961 Hans Urs von Balthasar has been publishing a multi-volume study with the somewhat unusual title Herrlichkeit: Eine theologische Ästhetik. Although thus far only a brief section of volume one has been translated into English, a French translation has been appearing shortly after the publication of each German volume, titled La gloire el la croix: Les aspects esthétiques de la révélation. In the second volume of Herrlichkeit, which is devoted to the manner in which a theological esthetic has been achieved in the life and thought of certain distinctive Christians, Balthasar devotes a long chapter to St. Anselm. Although Balthasar has referred to Anselm often elsewhere in his many writings, this chapter contains his most sustained analysis of Anselm. It will lie at the center of my consideration of Anselm's doctrine of the atonement in the present paper. Where appropriate, I will also consider what Balthasar has said elsewhere about Anselm, particularly to show the influence of Anselm's theory on Balthasar's own thought. My goals are twofold, to summarise Balthasar's understanding of Anselm, and to show how Balthasar uses Anselm's thought in his own trinitarian speculation on the atonement.

Recent discussion of St Anselm's theology of reconciliation has again raised the question of freedom in respect to the relationship presupposed between God and man in this encounter. It has been asked whether in fact St Anselm's account excludes God's ability to act freely, ‘within the dynamics and development of the narrative’, and suggested that such exclusion derives from an understanding of God's ‘unchanging nature beyond the influence of persons and events within the narrative’.

Almost all recent discussion in theological hermeneutics has been so abstract that it has had little relevance for the more practical task of the interpretation of biblical texts. This has largely been caused by the prominence in this discussion of proponents of ‘The New Hermeneutic’ who have had a predominantly existential interest in understanding the New Testament, but who represent only one of several alternatives in theological hermeneutics. Moreover, their exegesis has often been unreliable, to put it mildly.1 The chief deficiency of the New Hermeneutic is that it is concerned with the existential situation of the believing Christian, but hardly at all with the understanding and interpretation of texts. It is certainly true that theological hermeneutics can no longer provide a set of rules or principles for the extraction of the correct meaning from the text as was attempted in the nineteenth century and the early part of the twentieth century, but hermeneutics can still analyse the process and structure of understanding which takes place in New Testament exegesis and can encourage self-reflection and self-criticism on the part of exegetes themselves. The task which now deserves attention, and which has for so long been neglected, is to relate the work done on the problem of hermeneutics by dogmatic theologians to the specific projects of interpretation carried out by New Testament exegetes. In this article I shall try to do just that by focusing attention on one particular problem.