According to a tradition in the Greek Life of Adam and Eve (GLAE), Seth and his mother Eve were confronted by a wild beast that attacked Seth. This article asserts that Seth's battle with the beast should be understood as a struggle between the ‘image of God’ and Satan, and viewed in a Christian context. The claim is based on three aspects of the story: how the beast is described, why it attacked Seth and only he could control it, and why the beast was confined to its dwelling place until the Day of Judgement. The struggle between Seth and the beast/Satan should be seen as a link in the chain of struggle between the image of God and Satan. It begins in Paradise between Adam, the image of God, and Satan, as recounted in the story of Satan's fall from heaven, continues on earth between Seth, Adam's descendant, and Satan, and will culminate with the final victory of Jesus, the ultimate image of God, over Satan at the end of times.

It is appropriate to begin this presentation with an extended citation from Luther, where this founder of ‘Protestant thought’ develops what he means by ‘justification by faith’. We read in the Large Commentary to the Galatians:

Faith lays hold upon Christ and has Him present, enclosing Him as the ring encloses the precious stone which is set in it. And he who is found to have laid hold upon Christ with such a faith and have Him in his heart, God counts for righteous. This is the reason or the merit through which we receive the forgiveness of sins and righteousness. Because you believe in Me, says God, and because your faith lays hold upon Christ, whom I have given to you to be your Justifier and Saviour, therefore be thou righteous… And it is altogether necessary that God accepts us or counts us as righteous, first because we are not yet in this life wholly righteous, rather in this life sin always remains in the flesh. This sin remaining in the flesh God purges from us. Further we are also sometimes abandoned by the Holy Spirit and fall into sin, like Peter, David and other saints. But then we may always fall back upon this doctrine, that our sins are covered and that God will not impute them unto us (Rom. 4.7f).

Humour is a serious business. The immediate aim of the comedian may be simply to entertain. But if he is successful in his art, his achievement goes far beyond this limited purpose. As much as the scientist or the novelist, the humorist holds the mirror up to man and reflects, often in sharpest focus, aspects of man's condition in and relationship to the world which otherwise might pass unnoticed. Man, after all, is the only animal which laughs, just as he is the only animal which conducts experiments or tells stories. This simple and undeniable fact surely reveals something about the kind of being man is and the kind of world he inhabits. The world is not only a realm of physical order whose regularity man-the-scientist may observe and chart; nor is it only a great theatre where the drama of human history unfolds in which man-the-actor plays and (modestly) directs his part. The world is also comical, and man-the-humorist perceives and participates in its comic structures.

John Polkinghorne FRS (b.1930), the Cambridge Professor of Mathematical Physics turned Anglican parson enjoys unrivalled opportunities as an apologist for the Christian faith to those with a general scientific education. Without reading a word of his writings, many Christians will be encouraged to know that a distinguished professional scientist is so firmly persuaded of the truth of the Christian faith as to resign a prestigious professional position and embrace the far from prestigious calling of a Christian minister in the secular environment of today. Some who embark on his books may not understand all the scientific allusions, but they will be impressed by his testimony that orthodox Christian belief can exist in harmony with the scientific worldview and vocation.

Church union schemes have for some years past tended to hinge upon a special service of ‘commissioning’ by which the ministries of various existing denominations should be unified. This pattern of unification, commonly associated with North India, has been attacked on the grounds that it gives ‘an impression of evasion and dishonesty’.1 It is held by many that it encourages some to believe that the commissioning is an ordination, and others to believe that it is not. And while this may be true of some present-day advocates of such schemes, it is not true of their origin. There was a quite clear theological interpretation to services for ‘unifying the ministry’, though in the opinion of this writer a false one. As we shall see, it was held that in a divided church there was no longer one ministry, but a number of parallel ministries, all defective until such time as they should be added together. It is the purpose of this survey to record the rise and fall of that idea amongst Anglicans, who have been particularly prone to it, over the past fifty years.

We confess Holy Baptism as the act of grace of our Lord and Saviour fesus Christ, by which, on the command and promise of His Word, we are sealed in a second birth to eternal life as sons and heirs of His eternal Kingdom and members of His holy Church, in order that by the Holy Spirit, in His Word and faith, we may be daily baptised into His death and raised with Him.

This article is concerned with the relation of ‘religion A’ to ‘religion B’ in the thought of Søren Kierkegaard. The point of departure for my study is a disagreement with the views of Walter Lowrie, one of the most prolific translators of SK into English and the author of the extensive and competent biography, Kierkegaard (Princeton, 1938). Lowrie's main discussion of the question at hand occurs in his introduction to the Postscript. If my alternative thesis has any merit, it is indeed unfortunate that English readers are confronted with Lowrie's understanding of the matter before they have had a chance to form a judgment of their own.

I fear I may have little new light to throw on this difficult subject; but I love Ignatius, and should like to think that others may be drawn into the same affection. I propose, (I) to consider the meaning of the question; (2) (my main purpose) to say something of the Episcopate in Ignatius; (3) to venture a few remarks on later history.

In a recent excellent review of Barth's Dogmatik III/2 (Scottish Journal of Theology, March 1949) the Rev. W. A. Whitehouse found himself unable through the exigencies of space to deal, save in the briefest way, with that great section of the book which treats of man in his time. Very rightly he appealed for a speedy translation, for only thus could the scope and richness of the treatment of this theme become apparent to those who do not read German. It is indeed the case that any summary of this section which extends to over two hundred and fifty large pages, and in which the thought moves forward with the most careful precision while continually opening out new perspectives, must appear somewhat jejune and lifeless. In responding therefore to the request of the editors to provide such a summary I find myself confronted with a most difficult task. I can only request readers to read what I have written in conjunction with Mr Whitehouse's article and with that of Professor Souček which follows it. In that way a summary, unsatisfactory as it must be, may not be entirely useless.

The paradigm for Christians' descriptions of their liturgy occurs at 1 Cor. 11:

The Lord Jesus on the night that he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said. ‘This is my body which is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way also the cup, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’

This article suggests that the narrative of human community Bonhoeffer described in Sanctorum Communio, following the categories of creation, fall and redemption, provides the framework for understanding the various aspects of human sexuality found in Creation and Fall and Ethics. A comparative study of these texts reveals that marriage and sexuality in Bonhoeffer encapsulates the human drive towards community, preserved from the fall for redemption in Christ. Understanding human sexuality within the structure of this narrative allows for a new way of appropriating and evaluating Bonhoeffer's theological anthropology for contemporary ethical reflection in the Christian community.

“When I see you setting off down the road on Monday morning,” the village schoolmaster once said to me, “I sometimes wonder if you are regarding human life as radically as you did when you were preaching in the kirk the day before. You seem, somehow, easier-minded about it. You come into the school. What, honestly, do you see there? A fine bunch of children, going on their pleasant way to become decent men and women—or are they really heading for a life which is rooted in the world's evil, a life out of which you'll tell them in a few years they must be saved by the grace of God?

“And then on the Tuesday morning,” he went on, “you're off to the Presbytery. Now, tell me honestly, don't you meet together pretty much as any other body of people would do—to transact your business, to express your opinions, and to come to the judgment which your own experience has led you to hold? And yet your distinctive characteristic is supposed to be that you believe that human experience and human judgment are shot through with a deadly evil. You say that you distrust yourselves, that ‘of yourselves you can do nothing aright”—but I can't say that you look or sound particularly like people who are distrusting themselves. You say in your opening prayer that you want to be over-ruled and corrected—but you'll forgive me for saying that you don't seem very often to go through the process during the meeting that follows.

In light of current discussions in theological ethics, Karl Barth's ethics can be understood within the dialectical relationship of ‘postmodern’ and ‘realism’. Barth shifts theological ethics beyond anthropocentric Kantian or naturalist inspired ‘modern realism’ on the one hand, and a nihilist or deconstructionist inspired ‘postmodern antirealism’ on the other. Beginning with the centrality of the Word of God, Barth deconstructs modern (anthropocentric) moral realism, while at the same time reestablishing this same moral realism on theological grounds, which ironically moves it beyond the claims of postmodernism itself. What makes Barth's thought post-modern, then, is not his similarity to antirealist and deconstructionist thought, but his departure from its secular and anti-theological assumptions. Barth's ‘postmodern realism’, therefore, not only provides a way for contemporary theological ethics to dialectically be critical and hopeful, deconstructive and constructive, decentering and centering, but does so from the anti-anthropocentric and anti-secular standpoint of the Word of God.

In recent essays Professor John Hick has argued that serious theological consideration of the relationship of Christianity and other world faiths has become in the present generation for the first time unavoidable; that this must lead to a revolution in theological thought so radical that it can be spoken of as ‘Copernican’; and that the consequent reshaping of Christian doctrine, for which he has made a number of suggestions, cannot but change in deeply significant and quite unprecedented ways the traditional teaching of the Church. In this paper I wish to raise some questions about this ‘Copernican Revolution’, the exact nature of which is not made as clear as we might expect, as a theological response to the present situation, asking whether it is helpful in inter-religious dialogue and acceptable as an account of Christianity, of other living faiths, and of the relation between them.

Generally speaking the Christian catholic tradition has been more uniformly well disposed than protestantism towards the idea of the imitatio Christi. In protestantism there is a perceptible nervousness about using the term at all. This has been particularly the case since the time of Luther. His final antipathy to the ideal became the orthodox protestant tradition on the matter. Luther was critical of the ideal of the imitatio Christi, partly because he was repelled by the excesses of some of the sects where it was being interpreted in a crudely liberal way (e.g. among the Anabaptists) and partly because he became convinced that the ‘imitation’ of Christ conflicted with the essence of the Christian gospel as he had come to interpret it. He found himself unable to reconcile the presuppositions of the practice of the imitation of Christ with his doctrine of justification by faith. The imitation of Christ he believed must inevitably involve a denial of grace and conceal an incipient doctrine of works.

Luther did, however, leave a more positive legacy to Christian thinking about the imitatio Christi. This was his distinction between imitatio and conformitas. Imitatio he disliked because he thought it suggested some human moral endeavour to emulate Christ undertaken apart from the work of the Spirit in grace. He preferred to speak of conformitas to Christ: the Christian life as a process of conformation to Christ through the work of the Creator Spirit.

Anabaptist theologians who vie for the most convincing theory of divine non-violence in the contemporary ‘atonement debate’ quite often fail to appreciate the contributions of medieval scholars such as St Thomas Aquinas. Of course, that failure does have a rationale. Aquinas does, indeed, support various systematic expressions of a satisfaction theory of atonement. In doing so, he insists upon God's violent solution to the problem of sin and also employs language fraught with quid pro quo, mercantile and penal images. Aquinas does attempt to ‘correct’ Anselm and rearticulate the satisfaction theory of atonement; however, his expression of that motif still hinges upon the divine demand for remuneration, balanced accounts or an economic transaction in order to repair the damage done by sin. God's desire for this redemptive reparation results in the necessity of the violent death of an innocent man. Consequently, although Aquinas expresses the notion of necessity differently than Anselm, his theory also necessitates, at best, divine complicity with violence and, at worst, divine insistence on violence. Anabaptist theologians who remain true to the tradition's pacifist roots rightfully cry ‘foul’ in response to Aquinas’ theory. If Jesus of Nazareth fully reveals the character of God as indicated in John 14:7 with the words, ‘if you have seen me, you have seen the Father’, theories of atonement which depict God as condoning or requiring violence do not harmonise with the life and teachings of the man Christians call the Prince of Peace, especially if that violence pertains to the redemption of a loving God's good creation. As a result, those who oppose the implicit divine violence embedded in Aquinas’ satisfaction theory of atonement may opt to disengage with him, to expel him completely from the conversation. Yet I suggest that non-violent atonement theologians pause and rethink their indictment of the angelic doctor. Satisfaction remains the prevalent theme surrounding Aquinas’ atonement motif, but it is not by any means the only image he brings to bear on the topic. In fact, throughout his ruminations on the passion of Christ, St Thomas focuses explicitly on the unfathomable, extravagant and immeasurable divine love as the primary motivation for God's desire and subsequent actions to redeem and restore a sinful humanity. I suggest that, given Aquinas’ emphasis on divine love, Anabaptist theologians may well discover a satisfying interlocutor for further theological conversation which carries significant implications for the life of the church. Indeed, scholastic savants such as Thomas Aquinas still do warrant a place at the communal table.