It was Gerald Heard who said: “Newton banished God from nature, Darwin banished Him from life, and now Freud has banished Him from His last stronghold, the soul.” The one thing I wish here to suggest about that dictum is this—that if for great numbers of our contemporaries the effect of Newton, Darwin and Freud has been to banish the divine, it has even more emphatically been to banish the demonic. St. Paul's “principalities and powers” and “spirit forces of evil” are now known, we are told, to have been mere apocalyptic imagination.

‘Biblical theology’ has long influenced modern theological method, especially Protestant, as both boon and bane. Its role has been seen as either pivotal or problematic in the attempt to construe the Christian Bible as scripture with unified teaching for the contemporary church. The attempt to unfold biblical teaching as having organic unity, related to an internal structure of theological concepts, is frequently perceived as a failure, a has-been that leaves us only with fragmentation – between parts of the Bible, between academy and church, church and world, clergy and laity, and between various theological disciplines. Today a new movement is afoot, often labelled ‘theological interpretation of scripture’. Some of its adherents define this practice as distinct from, even opposed to, biblical theology. Others treat the two practices as virtually coterminous, while perhaps contesting what ‘biblical theology’ is typically taken to be in favour of new theological hermeneutics. Much of the difficulty in defining the relationship, then, stems from lingering debates about what biblical theology can or should be. The rest of the difficulty is perhaps rooted in the dilemma of any interdisciplinary efforts: how to breach unhelpful sections of disciplinary boundaries without redefining territory so nebulously that no one knows where they are.

In 1892, Hastings Rashdall delivered a University Sermon at Oxford entitled ‘Abelard's Doctrine of the Atonement’. In this sermon, he outlines with increasing enthusiasm what he considered to be ‘as noble and perspicuous a statement as can even yet be found of the faith which is still the life of Christendom’. The central theme of his sermon is that in the twelfth century figure of Peter Abailard can be found a theory of the Atonement which meets the demands of an age shaped in the spirit of Darwinism and historical criticism. What Rashdall understands by the ‘Abelardian doctrine of the Atonement’ is expounded at much greater length in his 1915 Bampton Lectures, The Idea of Atonement in Christian Theology.

In a book entitled The Christian Pastor and the Working Church, published in 1898, Washington Gladden, a leading figure in the Social Gospel movement, attempts a definition of the field of Pastoral Theology. Gladden's characterisation of pastoral theology as the pragmatic study of the work of the minister and the management of the Church is typical of many definitions, both historical and contemporary:

The ‘philosophical theology’ of Paul Tillich is one of the most remarkable features of today's theological landscape, and obviously impressive on any estimate. Yet it has given rise to a great deal of puzzlement. This is not simply because the tightly systematised nature of Tillich's thought has led him to wrap up his ideas in a special terminology. Although the volume of his work in English is now reasonably large, so that his technical vocabulary is no longer unfamiliar, there still seems to be considerable uncertainty about just what is involved in the synthesis between philosophy and religion upon which his theology is based.

The subject which I have been asked to consider is the concept of Ktisis in the New Testament, with special reference to those decisively important texts, Romans 8.18ff, and Colossians 1.15ff. At the cost of repeating what others may have said, or may be going to say, here, I must preface my remarks with some observations about the attitude to creation which seems to be characteristic of the Old Testament, because to a large extent it is presupposed by the New Testament writers. The following points seem to be relevant for our purpose. First, the views of the Hebrew writers about creation are, in a sense, wholly anthropocentric. Man stands at the centre of the whole picture, and the rest of the animate and inanimate world is seen as a kind of backcloth for the drama of human history. What we ourselves would call ‘nature’ derives its significance from the activity within it of mankind and, in particular, of the chosen people of God. In this sense, what we call the ‘natural order’ revolves around man as the central point and focus which gives meaning to the whole. The creation of the world is not extra-historical. It is itself a part of history; for the creation narratives are part of a story which continues straight on to the great redemptive events which formed the basis of Israel's faith in God and the ground of her existence as his people. In the pentateuch, as in the prophets and psalms, creation and redemption are inseparably linked together.

In the background of Anselm's philosophical theology there appear a number of philosophical issues which have not received as much attention from philosophers as they deserve. Some of these issues are his view on the relation between language and reality; the way he handles the notion of being and its opposite, non-being; and his notions of necessity and eternity. Despite its title, this paper will not issue in a systematic and comprehensive reconstruction of the Anselmian metaphysics, since I doubt that that would be possible. Anselm's objectives were always ultimately theological in character, and he never purported to present a rounded metaphysical system. In his hands the basic notions mentioned were modified through their being employed by such an acute and subtle thinker to articulate and elucidate basic articles of Christian belief. But it is possible to discern a central unifying theme through which his views on metaphysical topics are connected. That theme is his interesting and quite novel account of truth. In this paper I will focus upon that theme for the light it sheds on these other issues.

In the past some of Wolfhart Pannenberg's interpreters have suggested that a major weakness of his revision of the doctrine of God is a neglect of the doctrine of the Trinity. In 1975 Herbert Burhenn criticised Pannenberg for exercising considerable reservation with regard to the three-in-oneness of God and for reducing the trinitarian distinctions of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit to temporal distinctions. He also stated that ‘The Trinity cannot function for Pannenberg, as it does for Barth, as a structural principle of theology.’ About a decade later Elizabeth Johnson very cogently noted the need for a well-developed concept of the Trinity in Pannenberg's theology:

The purpose of this essay is to gain some clarity on a theological understanding of adoption as a witness to Christian faith. Contrary to contemporary portrayals of adoption as a reproduction option, the principal thesis of this essay is that adoption is rooted in charity. Adoption signifies a loving act of providing familial care and belonging for a child who would otherwise have none. In developing this thesis, baptism and foster care are examined in regard to Christian claims about the nature of the parent–child relationship. It is argued that since children do not belong to their parents, but are entrusted to their care by God, parental authority is therefore limited. Consequently, the parent–child relationship is embedded within a larger community of faith in which a child is affirmed as both gift and sign of hope.

The theses offered here for discussion constitute a response to theses published by my Princeton Theological Seminary colleague, George Hunsinger. The debate carried out between us has to do not only with the question of how Karl Barth's theology is to be understood, but also with how his theology is to be taken up today in order address pressing issues of concern. As the debate has unfolded, it has centred upon three areas of questioning: 1) the genetic-historical question of how Karl Barth's theology developed, whether his mind changed on important issues and in what way; 2) the question of whether Barth's later christology (in volume IV of the Church Dogmatics) would require modifications to be made in his earlier treatment of the doctrine of the Trinity (in CD I/1), his christology (in CD I/2) and of the being and perfections of God (in CD II/1); and 3) the question of the logical relationship between God's eternal act of election (as treated by Barth in CD II/2) and God's triunity. The last question does indeed take me beyond Barth, but it does so in a way that does full justice to the christological commitments found in his doctrine of reconciliation. The position I set forth here is one I have held to with a high degree of consistency since 1994 – which means that it antedates the publication of my book on Barth's theological development in 1995. Since that time, I have been engaged in a process of further elaboration and clarification.

Traditional Reformation scholarship argued that conceiving faith as a habit is one of the differences between Reformed orthodoxy on the one hand, and Reformation thought on the other. Two theses have been defended in this respect. First, it has been argued that conceptualising faith as a habit was a typical example of introducing Thomistic and Aristotelian concepts into the Reformed faith. Secondly, several scholars have argued that the conceptualisation of faith as a habit overrules the role of the act of faith in salvation. The function of faith as a response to God's offer of salvation becomes secondary to the doctrine of predestination. By unravelling the transformation process which the concept of habit underwent through the history of Christian theology, the author shows that the first thesis is seriously flawed. As to the second thesis, he proposes an alternative interpretation of the sources by arguing that the nature of faith as a habit implies that it can only be known from its acts. At the end of the article, he provides some remarks about the value of the concept of habitus fidei for contemporary theology.

Hell is a doctrine that has always had its uses. The range of those uses can be conveniently traced by examining a passage from Cold Comfort Farm, the comic novel by Stella Gibbons, first published in 1932. The novel is set in rural England during the third decade of the twentieth century, a time when automobiles were not entirely unknown but not yet widely in use. The scene to be examined involves Flora Poste and Amos Starkadder. Flora is a young, sophisticated woman who has gone to visit her relatives in the country, and Amos is her gray-haired, grizzled cousin, a Scotsman who lives on the farm with other kinfolk and who serves as a lay preacher in town at the Church of the Quivering Brethren. Flora accompanies Amos to a preaching service one evening. They arrive by horse and buggy, enter the hall, and take their seats. Flora sits in the back near the exit, Amos by the platform up front.

The foundation of Christian belief,' states Paul Tillich, ‘is not the historical Jesus, but the biblical picture of the Christ.’1 This statement is only now beginning to elicit the serious comment that one might expect from the statement of so great a theologian as Paul Tillich. Tillich's penetrating analysis of the meaning of Jesus as the Christ is a profound contribution to the Christian understanding of the Incarnation. Donald Baillie was surely right, too, in expressing his enthusiasm for Tillich's christological interpretation of history when he stated that there seemed to him to be ‘deep truth … in the idea that Christology stands for the Christian interpretation of history as against other interpretations’.2 Even Tillich's claim that ‘to practise Christology does not mean to turn backward to an unknown historical past or to exert oneself about the applicability of questionable mythical categories to an unknown historical persoanality’,3 contains a refreshing and valid emphasis upon Christology as living existential faith rather than arid theoretical speculation. Yet Christianity has always maintained that its foundation is Jesus of Nazareth in whom the Word of God became flesh. Tilliach's Christology must therefore stand or fall on this christological question which he regards as quite subordinate: the question of the historical basis of the biblical picture of the Christ. If the foundation of Tillich's Christology is “not the historical Jesus, but the biblical picture of the Christ”, how much importance Tillich does actually allow the historical dimension in his Christology must be carefully examined.

From those high fountains where now she drinks her fill of the waters of life the woman of Samaria may permit herself a wry smile at the curiously contorted ways in which some of her modern commentators re-tell her story. It is not that they take the incident at Jacob's well too seriously. In a way they do not take it seriously enough. Those few minutes of conversation by the well-side were for her the beginning of the new and abundant life which she now lives to all eternity — and nothing could be more serious and important than that. No, it is rather that the conversation is given the wrong sort of seriousness. It is invested with an earnest solemnity of which the event itself was entirely free. I fear she hardly recognises herself in the pasteboard caricature which is held up to our inspection by over-earnest, perhaps overlearned, exegetes.

Dilthey, in his famous essay, ‘Die Enstehung der Hermeneutik’, first published in 1900, taught us that Matthias Flacius Illyricus, the mid sixteenth-century Lutheran theologian, was the author of the first significant treatise on hermeneutics. Conceding a classic Protestant opinion once articulated by Flacius, he consigned medieval interpretation to what must have seemed a justified oblivion: he simply ignored the period between Origen and John Calvin. Calvin, Flacius, and especially Friedrich Schleiermacher were the main contributors to the rediscovery of the interpretive force of history and language, which Dilthey surely felt was best appreciated by his own philosophy of culture. Hans-Georg Gadamer later tried to show that Dilthey himself was weak on language and misinformed about history, falling prey to the movement that Gadamer opprobriously called ‘historicism’. Gadamer's own view of the development of hermeneutics—with its subjection of historical knowledge to ‘our own present horizon of understanding’, its accent on language, and its debt to Martin Heidegger—shifted the chronology of hermeneutics even closer to the present According to Gadamer, the ‘hermeneutic problem’ was specifically created by the alienation of exegesis and understanding from ‘application’, the importance of which was discovered only by Romantic philosophy and best redressed with the help of a language-obsessed philosophy of being. But as was the case for Dilthey, the crucial moment in the development of hermeneutics remained the discovery of the role of language in ‘meaning’, in the broadest sense, so that texts could only be understood in the grand context of a philosophy of life or, in Gadamerian terms, in the context of a philosophy that functioned as present interpretation.

It would be difficult not to agree with the judgment of Barth himself concerning his Anselm book; that, although of all his books he had written it with the greatest love, in America and Europe it was of all his books the least read. This is somewhat surprising, considering what is thought by most commentators to be the decisive influence of this book on the formulation of Barth's dogmatic method from 1931 onward. That is after the critical turn which Barth made subsequent to the publication of his first systematic attempt, Die christliche Dogmatik im Entwurf. This paper attempts to assess how Barth understood Anselm's theological programme and in what respects this understanding evinces a characteristic systematic weakness in Barth's own theological project.

The last fifty years have seen revolutionary progress in the work of the interpretation of the parables of Jesus. This progress has been made possible primarily by the final discarding of the allegorical method and the repudiation of ‘the centuries of distortion and ill-usage that the parables have suffered through allegorical interpretation’.1 Exegesis of the parables in centuries before the present might seem therefore to be of purely antiquarian interest. Nevertheless it seems worth while attempting to discover whether there may not be some light to be gained from the way in which the parables were understood by those who stood nearest to them in point of history. This study is therefore devoted to the interpretation of parables in the ante-Nicene fathers.

The way in which anybody interprets the parables will largely be controlled by the answer which he gives to two prior questions—namely: What constitutes a parable? and Why did Jesus use the parabolic method? There is not much direct discussion of these issues. Origen defines a parable as ‘an account of an event which did not literally take place, but which, could have done so. It is a figurative representation of certain things by virtue of their correspondence to the things spoken of in the parable.’ He distinguishes it from a fable (αἴνιγμα) where the event spoken of is something which could not conceivably have happened in real life.2

Friedrich Daniel Ernst Schleiermacher was born on the 2Ist day of November 1768, and died on the 12th day of February 1834. It is altogether fitting that as we honour the birth of this great man by dedicating to his memory this number of the Scottish Journal of Theology, we should consider that aspect of his thought which has continued to influence us in the twentieth century so powerfully.