Hans-Georg Gadamer and Michael Polanyi are interestingly close and yet surprisingly different. I want to illustrate their closeness and divergence at certain crucial points, and then draw from the comparison certain wider implications for understanding authorial intention and textual autonomy on the one hand, and genre and the nature of a gospel on the other.

In the theology of Karl Barth the fact of the life, death and J. resurrection of Jesus Christ is not merely the central point in our knowledge of God and His ways, a central point which might, however, be merely one, the greatest one, in a series of ways whereby we might know God and learn to speak about God. The Incarnation is for Barth the one and only revelation of God to men. In page after page he stresses that man by his unaided efforts can never know God. It is not only that man's reason is inadequate to read of God in the works of His hands, but by the fact of the Fall man has, ‘made himself quite impossible in relation to the redemptive Grace of God; and in so doing has made himself quite impossible in his created being as man, who has cut the ground from under his feet, who has lost his whole raison d'être‘ (p. 10). For such a man the knowledge of God has become quite out of the question, an utter impossibility, which can only again become possible in the quite incomprehensible ‘yet and never the less’ of the Grace of God in Jesus Christ, in Jesus Christ alone.

I. The origins of Deuteronomy: what are the clues?

II. Theological interpretation of an OT book: a response to Gordon McConville's Deuteronomy

III. A response from Gordon McConville

John Milbank is one of the most recent and arguably most radical proponents of an understanding of nature as graced. This article critically examines Milbank's understanding of nature and grace, specifically as elaborated within his reading of Thomas Aquinas. In the first part I will outline Aquinas's most direct discussions of nature and grace in the Summa Theologica, drawing attention to several central, albeit subtle, distinctions that these contain. In the second and third parts, I will examine Milbank's reading of Aquinas in Truth in Aquinas, and examine whether it adequately reflects and negotiates Aquinas's distinctions. On this basis I will argue Milbank's reading, while drawing attention to some important and often neglected areas of Aquinas's thought, ultimately remains limited.

This article attempts to show that Karl Barth and Thomas Aquinas are not as divergent as often thought. Taking Eugene Rogers's argument as a working hypothesis, I argue for two points of convergence between Barth and Aquinas, specifically on their understandings of analogy. First, both root analogy in christology. Using Christ as the great magister, Aquinas shows how Christ teaches us to see him, despite its difficulty, in his trinitarian divinity. Barth, using the imagery of the prodigal son, discusses how the incarnation places humanity in an ontological relationship within God's own dialogue within the Trinity. Second, both understand analogy as a theological practice, not a metaphysical mechanism or abstract doctrine, though metaphysics and doctrine are at play in their work. Both Aquinas and Barth attempt to train their readers in the judgement necessary to speak truthfully about God. This analogical relationship between Barth and Aquinas I call the analogia Christi.

Contemporary Christian construals of the Eucharist, both in doctrine and in practice, generally tend to subordinate, de-emphasise or omit theological reference to the Jewish Passover meal. And yet the key New Testament texts in which the Eucharist's institution is variously narrated – the very texts and institution allegedly ‘remembered’ in eucharistic rites – are virtually unintelligible apart from Passover. Thus, at the heart of Christian doctrine and practical life sits a particular theological problem: namely, precisely how to relate the distinctively Jewish character of the Eucharist's origins as narrated in the New Testament to the distinctively Christian character of eucharistic doctrine and liturgy. Drawing on two Jewish thinkers, Michael Fishbane and Yair Zakovitch, in this article I offer one model for understanding the Eucharist–Passover relationship in particular, and the Christian–Jewish relationship generally, as fundamentally typological, performative and ‘subsessionist’. That is, I propose a subsessionist (as opposed to supersessionist) typological understanding of the Eucharist as a Christian rendition of Passover, at once distinct from its Jewish counterparts today and utterly dependent on the ancient Israelite festival for its intelligibility and force. From Fishbane, I draw the idea that throughout the Hebrew Bible, the exodus narrative provides a crucial interpretative key applicable to both prior and anticipated redemptions. From Zakovitch, I draw the idea that the ubiquity of exodus typology in Hebrew scripture may function to create an impression of periodic repetition in salvation history, in effect reassuring Israel that future deliverance will conform to the essential patterns of the prestigious past. The typology at play here, then, so far from being a triumphalist ‘prophecy-fulfilment’ arrangement in which the ‘old’ is valuable only insofar as it serves as a signpost pointing to the ‘new’, is rather a ‘paradigm-rendition’ typology in which the new performance is clarified and authenticated precisely insofar as it corresponds to the old, exalted original. At stake here, I contend, is not only a more fruitful framework for conceiving the relationship between Eucharist and Passover (or indeed between Christianity and Judaism), but also a crucial theological strategy for resisting what amounts to a de facto Marcionism in contemporary Christian communities.

The interaction between God and creatures is central to biblical narratives. There are several possible models for understanding the relationship between divine and creaturely agency. This article argues that a ‘non-competitive’ model for the interaction of divine and creaturely agency allows for a coherent interpretation of various features of Genesis 1 where alternative models lead to confusion. Since this ‘non-competitive’ model is historically related to creatio ex nihilo, it raises once again the question of the suitability of creatio ex nihilo for biblical interpretation.

Let me begin by observing that many Pauline interpreters share with me a fundamentally participatory view of Paul's gospel, understanding salvation as a pneumatological incorporation into Christ's death and resurrection. This is arguably an irreducibly proto-trinitarian account as well, so recently Michael Gorman has rightly emphasised theosis within its description. This view holds further that the only effective ethic for a sinful humanity is generated by divine action, essentially in terms of inaugurated eschatology; humanity must be transformed in Christ in order to act well. Hence Douglas Moo clearly shares this articulation. Indeed, I do not know of an Evangelical who does not affirm everything that has just been said; but it tends to be arranged under the rubric of ‘sanctification’, and hence treated in second position in any account of Paul's gospel. And this brings us to the nub of the problem, and to the solution, that I articulate in my book The Deliverance of God: An Apocalyptic Rereading of Justification in Paul.

The Nicodemus story can be read as a distillation of the Gospel of John and an example of many of its key features. John 3:1–21 poses a wide range of the problems raised by this most distinctive and mysterious of the four gospels. It shows characteristic practices of John as a reader, writer and teacher. In line with John's theology of the Spirit ‘leading into all the truth’, it also shows him as a daring theologian, opening up fresh interpretations and ways of doing theology beyond the Septuagint and the Synoptic Gospels and even beyond his own Prologue (itself a remarkably daring piece of theology). That same Spirit means that John also expects his readers to be led into further truth, and to improvise on his theology as he himself did on the Septuagint and on the Synoptic traditions. His ways of reading, writing and teaching encourage such a response in the Spirit by creating a work rich in intertextuality, imagery and conceptuality which has a ‘deep plain sense’, superabundant in meaning and always inviting the reader to reread, learn more and interpret afresh. So one challenge for readers now is whether they are open not only to thinking along with John but also to thinking beyond him, in ways appropriate to different people and contexts. But this transformation in thought and imagination is not all: it is inseparable from doing the truth ‘in God’. The mutual involvement of seeing, believing/trusting, knowing and living in love is above all communicated in the drama of John's Gospel, whose backbone is a series of meetings with Jesus and the injunction to follow Jesus. More embracing and fundamental than, for example, doctrinal theology or existential decision-making, is the dramatic reality of encountering other people and following Jesus in all the complexities of life in specific contexts. In John 3:1–21 the encounter of Jesus with Nicodemus is the dramatic heart of the passage, blending into a discourse which itself culminates in the ultimate drama of ‘deeds done in God’. But to stop interpretation there would be to refuse the Johannine invitation to enter into more truth with a view to ‘doing greater things’. So the article ends with two midrashic interpretations of Nicodemus for today.

Over the last fifty years studies of Anselm of Canterbury's concept of divine justice have delivered different results. The aim of this article is to present the results of a new comprehensive inquiry, based on the interpretation of key passages about justice in Anselm's theological works. The article argues that Anselm works with three definitions of God's justice. The first is the most traditional: God's justice is his right dealing with good and bad. The second definition follows the Anselmian concept of God: God's justice is his acting according to his being that than which nothing greater can be conceived. The third definition is God's rightness of will, preserved for its own sake. The article concludes that the attempt to show how these three definitions are related to each other brings to light tensions and loose ends in Anselm's works.

The broad contours of Augustine's critique of Stoic virtue theory in De civitate dei 19.4 finds a fascinating analogue in Theodor Adorno's theory of immanent critique: Augustine ‘enters’ into Stoic virtue theory and criticises it from its own postulates, illustrating the striking implausibility of Stoic orthodoxy when lived out in concreto and the absurd, but logical, conclusions to which one is necessarily carried by Stoic ethics. Through this deconstruction, Augustine clears a space to propose his own virtue ethic. Augustine maintains that a Stoic virtue ethic fails to deliver on its promised eudaimonistic ends because it lacks a robust eschatological vision. For Augustine, the Christian faith offers a more viable virtue ethic.

This article proposes that Calvin's ‘hardness of heart’ principle functions as a substantive limitation on political authority and the law, creating the legal space for meaningful moral pluralism. Calvin distinguished between the spiritual and civil uses of the law, as well as between the natural moral law and the civil law within the Mosaic law. He repeatedly used Jesus' concept of ‘hardness of heart’ to explain inadequacies within the Mosaic law and to articulate a general principle about the nature and limits of civil law. This approach has important implications for law and morality in contemporary contexts characterised by a degree of moral pluralism that Calvin scarcely could have anticipated.

IN the early nineteenth century visits by German philosophers and theologians to Britain were rare, rarer still when the visitor was of Friedrich Schleiermacher's distinction. However, Schleiermacher spent three weeks in London in September 1828, and the occasion provides a fascinating sidelight on this period of English Church history. It was his first and last visit: though Schleiermacher had learned English early in life, and translated two volumes of sermons and written various articles for the Athenaeum, he had felt no urge to cross the Channel before. The reasons now were political rather than religious. He lodged in London with his wife's cousin, Ludwig von Miihlenfels, a writer and critic who had been arrested for ‘demagogic’ activities in Germany and had subsequently escaped and settled in England. From this point of view the visit was a success; Schleiermacher appears to have reinstated von Mühlenfels in the eyes of the Prussian authorities since he was allowed to return home in 1830.

In his endeavour to expound the Parables of Jesus, the preacher who turns for help to the work of modern New Testament scholars will not be disappointed. Certainly the present writer has put himself very much in their debt. At the same time there are rules and definitions by which some modern scholars restrict the understanding of the parables in a way that is often baffling to the preacher. As the parables, however, are peculiarly the domain of the preacher, it would appear that these elements require further discussion and clarification if he is to get full benefit from recent research and do justice to the kerygmatic setting in which we have received the parables.

The renaissance of virtue ethics in Christian moral discourse has led a handful of Reformed theologians to consider whether or not the Reformed tradition is compatible with classical and medieval concepts of virtue. Barthians, in particular, express doubt regarding the prospect of such a retrieval, arguing that classical notions of virtue compromise the Reformed hallmark of divine sovereignty and Luther's dictum simul justus et peccator. This essay counters that the Reformed tradition is broad enough to find more productive ways to engage virtue ethics. In particular, the Westminster Standards provide both the formal space for a significant theological exploration of human agency and the material content for the development of something like a classical virtue ethic. Barthian concerns regarding divine sovereignty and moral progress are satisfied by a demonstration that Westminster's attention to human agency is always within the context of a greater emphasis on divine agency.

In the following discussion I wish to demonstrate the basic homogeneity of Barth's thinking on the relationship between Divine self-disclosure and Religion. In order to restrict the discussion, reference will be made to the second edition of the commentary on Romans, the first volume of the Church Dogmatics, the essays: ‘The Humanity of God’and ‘The Christian Understanding of Revelation’, and volume four of the Dogmatics— for if there has been a significant change in the structure of Barth's thinking, one must expect to find such evidence in these basic sources. While the primary aim is to explore the relationship between Revelation and Religion, the discussion must necessarily take into consideration a number of secondary relationships which impinge upon the central theme at certain places. These secondary relationships as it happens, vary in accordance with the dialogical situation in which Barth formulates his argument. In Romans for example, the resurrection of Jesus occupies a pivotal position, but in the first volume of the Dogmatics he has shifted his attention to the significance of the Incarnation. Again, however, at the closing stages of volume four attention has swung back to the importance and relevance of the resurrection for Christian faith.

The Universal Church in God's Design, and The Church's Witness to God's Design, the first two volumes written in preparation for the meeting of the World Council of Churches at Amsterdam, are an ecumenical event in themselves. They form the most significant attempt at combined thinking about the nature and mission of the Church that has yet taken place. The stage is now set for a fresh and exhaustive inquiry behind the present divisions among the Churches into a Biblical and Christological doctrine of the Church which may yet knit into a theological unity the agreement of the Churches reached at Amsterdam. After all “the only valid argument for the union of the Churches is theological, a belief that unity is the will of God for His Church, and that the Church as the Body of Christ ought to represent on earth the mysterious unity of the Godhead” (Vol. II, p. 202). The purpose of this essay is not so much to review the actual material presented in these volumes as to face the questions they raise and, if possible, to point the discussion further along the road to that theological unity.

Those scholars who have assiduously ignored the quest for the historical Jesus because it was unintelligible, incoherent or just uninteresting must now take notice. With the publication of Jesus and Judaism [SCM, 1985] E. P. Sanders has taken a bold (though not unprecedented) and programmatic step towards making historical Jesus study intelligible, coherent and interesting. My aim here is to explore the program represented by Sanders' work and then to show how this work may actually lead to the demise of the quest of the historical Jesus.

Exhaustive studies of Martin Luther's preaching are few, and for good reason. The persistence of his scribes has resulted in a corpus of more than 2,000 sermons — and a tangle of questions concerning their authenticity and integrity. His theological program was such that in matters of content he did not maintain a rigid distinction between treatise and sermon. Everything we have from Luther ‘preaches’. Complicating the picture are the various postils, which are usually identified as ‘sermons’. The postils were not intended to do more than set a standard for others; yet they probably were delivered verbatim from some pulpits, and in The German Mass Luther says they should be!

Bonhoeffer gave surprisingly little systematic attention to questions of providence and history despite the fact that his lifelong theological concern was to explore the way in which revelation was given form in his world. It was only in the experiences in the Second World War when working in the Abwehr with members of the resistance and subsequently in prison, when he had to face the possibility of a major shift in human consciousness, that he looked at the problem of history and the development of culture and had to relate it to an understanding of providence. Even so circumstances did not allow him to work this out in detail; both the Ethics and Letters and Papers from Prison are evidence of a direction in his thinking, though the way seems to be fairly clearly delineated.