I should like to acknowledge at the outset that I harbor no grandiose illusions about the import of what I will say this afternoon. As any veteran of annual meetings readily knows, presidential addresses are a time-honored ritual in the life of learned societies, a ritual comparable to the prayers spoken in the United States Congress, well meant, but stirring only mild interest. Alas, they all tend to be written as on water.

Whenever Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, stood before newly baptized Christians on Easter week, his task seemed straightforward: to explain the meaning of the initiations they had recently undergone. His explanations, however, were peppered with dialogue, as he thought aloud about the impression these rites had made on the new converts. He recounted the previous days' events in these words: “You went, you washed, you came to the altar, you began to see what you had not seen before.” This promise of novel sights, however, could not dispel the neophytes' lingering doubts. Aloud, he imagined their questions: “Is this that great mystery which the eye has not seen nor the ear heard … ? I see waters which I used to see daily; are these able to cleanse me?” Ambrose wondered if the baptism lacked sufficient majesty, such that a catechumen might ask, “‘Is this all?’” Ambrose already knew what he would reply, “Yes, this is all, truly all.” Baptism, the rite often timed to coincide with Easter, might disappoint as much as it inspired awe.

Anglo-Saxonist Allen Frantzen, addressing fellow medievalists in 1993, dismissed fears expressed by female colleaguesthat adopting the designation “gender studies” would signal a reinstatement of “familiar male canons while crowding hard-won courses on women writers out of the curriculum.” Such a regression, Frantzen retorted, was “inconceivable,” since “a return to a prefeminist curriculum is as likely in most universities as a resurgence of the electric typewriter.”

Nazi foreign policy was hampered from the start by a hostile foreign press that carried alarming reports, not only of atrocities and persecution of the political opposition and of Jews, but also of a persecution of Christians in Germany. Protestant Christians abroad were increasingly outraged by the so-called “German Christians” who, with the support of the government, gained control of the administration of the Evangelical state churches and set about to fashion a centralized Nazi church based on principles of race, blood, and soil. The militant attack by “German Christians” on Christian, as opposed to Germanic, traditions and values led to the birth of a Confessing Church, whose leaders fought to remain true to the Gospel, often at the risk of imprisonment. Such persecution resulted in calls from abroad for boycott and intervention, particularly in Britain and the United States, and threatened to complicate foreign relations for the Nazi regime at a time when Hitler was still highly vulnerable. In order to win the support of the German people and to consolidate the Nazi grip on German society, Hitler needed accomplishments in foreign policy and solutions to the German economic crisis. Both were possible only with the indulgence of foreign powers.

The historiography of Judaism in the rabbinic period (together with its implications for the history of Christianity) had been, until quite recently, founded on the assumption that the kind of historical information that rabbinic legends could yield was somehow directly related to the narrative contents that they displayed, which were understood as more or less reliable depending on the critical sensibility of the scholar. This scholarship was not, of course, generally naïve or pious in its aims or methods. A recurring question within such research had to do with the question of the credibility of a given text or passage of rabbinic literature or the recovery of its “historical kernel.” For the method or approach that I take up, all texts are by definition equally credible, for the object of research is the motives of the construction of the narrative itself, that is taken to attest to the political context of its telling or retellingrather than to the context of the narrative's content. All texts inscribe the social practices within which they originate, and many also seek to locate the genealogy of those social practices in a narrative of origins, producing a reversal of cause and effect. This reversal is a mode of narration that is particularly germane to the project of replacing traditional patterns of belief and behavior (“We have always done it this way”) with new ones that wish nevertheless to claim the authority, necessarily, of hoary antiquity—in short, to the invention of orthodoxies.

Although in recent years fourth- and fifth-century Egyptian monasticism has received much scholarly attention of increasing methodological and theoretical sophistication, conflict with demons, a primary metaphor for the ascetic life in the literature of the period, has been left relatively unexplored. One reason for this lack of attention is a shift in the intellectual paradigms through which scholars approach ascetic literature: as they have moved from psychological and theological models to social and performative ones in interpreting ascetic theory and practice, seemingly subjective or theological themes such as demonological theory have given way to more cultural topics, such as constructions of the body and formations of ascetic institutions and practices, with their accompanying politics. But the neglect of demons is a function also of the weighty influence exercised by two fourth-century demonologists, Athanasius of Alexandria and Evagrius of Pontus, and of the powerful modern explications of monastic demonology based on these important sources. Together the Life of Antony and the works of Evagrius construct, it seems, the monastic demonology, upon which later sources only elaborate.

Already famous for his best-selling books on Christian devotion and increasingly infamous for his attempts at a theological synthesis of Calvinist and Arminian perspectives on salvation—which (no surprise) pleased hardly anyone—Richard Baxter (1615–91) nearly succeeded in redefining English pastoral practice before the Restoration brought his experiment in pastor-led, parish-based reformation to a frustrating end. At the core of his efforts to bring reformation to Kidderminster lay his efforts to establish a parish-based system of church discipline that would preserve the integrity of the sacraments and thus rob separatists of one of their primary excuses for abandoning the parochial system. This article seeks to place Baxter's effort to develop a strategy for an effective church discipline in its historical context. In particular, I will first consider the precedents to the system which Richard Baxter developed for St. Mary's parish. Special attention will be given to Martin Bucer's Reformation-era prescription for reforming the discipline of the church and the intriguing possibility that Baxter's strategy was actually a recovery of Bucerian pastoral emphases. Second, I will trace the evolution of Baxter's own program for discipline. Finally, I will discuss the impact Baxter's discipline had on his wider goal of reformation, both in his parish and beyond.

Our understanding of the types and meaningful levels of resistance to Hitler's rule has broadened as more complex and reflective studies have unremittingly exposed the political, social, and cultural dynamics supporting the Holocaust and its significance for our culture. Analyses of how and why the Holocaust erupted in Nazi-controlled Europe have elicited studies on the tools and methods of terror in the Third Reich. The works of both Eric Johnson and Robert Gellately, for example, have helped crystallize our understanding of the phenomenon that individual Germans living out their hopes, fears, and, frequently, petty jealousies made operant the ideological and physical terror that empowered the Nazi oppression. The Gestapo and courts, of course, formally carried out the brutalization of society, but they were assisted by countless Germans in fulfilling the Nazi agenda.

In his Faithful Narrative of a Surprising Work of God, an account of the awakening of 1734–35 in his church at Northampton, Massachusetts, Jonathan Edwards excitedly reported a considerable number of old persons among the several hundred converts. “I suppose,” he wrote, “there were … more than twenty of them above fifty, and about ten of them above sixty, and two of them above seventy years of age.” Edwards's evident self-satisfaction stemmed from the widespread belief that conversion among the elderly was unusual. “It has been a thing heretofore rarely to be heard of,” he noted, “that any were converted past middle age; but now we have the same ground to think that many such have in this time been savingly changed, as that others have been so in more early years.”

In his memoir, German chaplain Hans Leonhard describes a visit to a military hospital during World War II. Leonhard entered a ward full of men with sexually transmitted diseases. “So you're a pastor?” one patient jeered. “We don't need one of them. You just want to tell us those stories about cattle breeders and pimps.” The phrasecame from the Nazi ideologue Alfred Rosenberg. In The Myth of the Twentieth Century, he dubbed the Old Testament a collection of “stories of pimps and cattle traders.” Members of the pro-Nazi “German Christian” movement popularized Rosenberg's phrase in church circles. Leonhard, accustomed to hostile reactions, answered the taunt with a challenge: “Tell me just one such story,” he said to the man. “If you can tell me even one, I'll leave the room immediately and never bother you again.” All the patients looked at their comrade. “I can't think of any right now,” he finally said. The others laughed, but he did not give up. “You probably want to tell us something about praying,” he accused Leonhard. “Well, a real man doesn” The chaplain countered with another question: “Were you at the front?” he wanted to know. There was a pause before the man muttered, “We from the reserves have done our duty, too.” According to Leonhard, that admission ended the exchange. The chaplain sat down with the rest of the men and talked about the Old Testament and about prayer.

The great pearl of Reformed piety, assurance of salvation, eluded Richard Rogers, Essex presbyterian activist, in theearly 1580s. Rogers “languished long” in “unsettledness in my life” “untill wofull experience” drove him to search out a more reliable method of obtaining a steady assurance. He decided that only a steady, highly reflective, and rigorous course of life could keep assurance constant. To that end, Rogers devised “a more certain manner of direction for me through the daie and the weeke.” His new method combined continual selfreminders of God's blessings with strict activities of piety and selfscrutiny, and through it, he found the settled peace he had been seeking.

George McTaggart's house sits across the road from the tiny clapboard Baptist church, the only landmark in the postage-stamp sized, rural town of Saint-Blaise, Québec, a town where, as inhabitants confide, “Protestants and Catholics have always had a love-hate relationship.” McTaggart will probably be mowing the long fields behind his narrow farm with his tractor, just as he was the day we met him. He speaks English with a Scots brogue and French with the characteristic Québecois broadness. He has wise eyes, wrinkles like a topographic map, and a mischievous sense of humor. Pushing eightyfive, he remembers virtually every event in his long life, every person he has ever known, but he speaks with special animation about someone he never met, a strong-minded, charismatic, independent Swiss woman named Henriette Feller.

Among the priests of the diocese of Berlin who lived and served as parish ministers during the Third Reich, one individual stands out for his courage and willingness to risk his life and speak the Christian truth in a world often devoid of any gospel values. Monsignor Bernhard Lichtenberg (1875–1943) surpassed the other clergy of his diocese in his conscious efforts to challenge the perverse policies of the state in a consistent, profound manner. To defend the faith against encroachment by the state, Lichtenberg not only exhibited Resistenz by creating defensive barriers through his own ministry, but also publicly protested, in a rigorous manner, state actions that he deemed immoral and contradictory to Catholic values.

Ruth Rouse, writing in A History of the Ecumenical Movement, made an extraordinary claim about the origins of modern ecumenism. She identified two factors in the 1890s that, in her words, “changed the course of Church history and made possible the modern ecumenical movement.” One was the Student Christian Movement, established in 1895 by the American Methodist layman, John R. Mott. The other factor was the Grindelwald (Switzerland) Reunion Conferences, an assembly mostly of English church leaders organized by a Methodist minister, Henry Lunn, between 1892 and 1895. Mott's movement is very well known to modern readers. The Grindelwald Conferences, by contrast, are utterly obscure in spite of Rouse's conclusion that they “began a new phase in the growth of the ecumenical idea.”

Religious conversion is undoubtedly one of the most-explored aspects of medieval and early modern social history. Thefact that the literature concerning that problem is still significantly on the increase proves its scholarly importance. The subject has found a permanent place among works dealing with denominational relations in pre-partition Poland, and the list of such works is substantial. Theyshow a significant number of dispersed pieces of information con-cerning reconversions to the Catholic Church, with no lack of more general observations on this matter.

In 1834 the rector of St. Mary's Episcopal Church in Burlington, New Jersey desired to place a cross atop his newly-refurbished sanctuary. No ordinary rector, George Washington Doane also served as the Episcopal bishop of New Jersey. Shortly after taking charge of St. Mary's in 1833, he and his vestry had decided to renovate their old church, and their ambitious new design featured a cruciform plan with Greek details, including a pediment adorned with lotus leaves and a tower “derived from that built at Athens… commonly called the Tower of the Winds.” But when Doane carried out the plans for “an enriched Greek Cross” to be mounted on the roof, the community stood aghast. A local Presbyterian minister chronicled the confrontation, and he began by asserting that most of St. Mary's vestrymen had originally approved the designs without “noticing the Cross at the time.” The project was thus completed, and to the vestry's “great surprise, as well as that of many in the community, of all ‘denominations’—lo! a Cross made quite a Catholic appearance on the apex of the pediment!” Controversy arose, “both in the Vestry and out of it,” and “after a very warm meeting, one of the Vestry shortly after declared that unless the Cross was taken down very soon, it should be pulled down.”

There is a wealth of literature on Victorian religious doubt, and much of it is structured by implicitly defining pure faith in the context of nineteenth-century England as an organized, traditional, orthodox, trinitarian, and supernatural version of Christianity and then herding together people who deviate from this ideal at various points into vague categories such as “unbelief,” “infidelity,” “irreligion,” “honest doubt,” or “freethought.” Members of the numerically impressive group which is thereby constructed are then said to represent a strong trend that is given labels such as “the Victorian crisis of faith,” “the loss of faith,” or “secularization.” Much of this historiography is imbued with a Whig interpretation: these figures are seen as part of an inevitable movement toward the abandonment of religious beliefs by thinking people in the modern age as they progressed toward a more credible worldview. Indeed, the considerable attention that is paid to such people in the literature despite the fact that the Victorian age is often simultaneously declared to have been an extraordinarily religious one seems to be tacitly justified on the grounds that, although these figures may have been out of step with thespiritual confidence of their own generation, they were in step with the march of truth. The rhetoric of “honest doubt” is often tinged with the notion that a full appreciation of the fruits of modern thought and scientific inquiry would almost automatically lead to the abandonment of religious views; it is not just “honest” in the senseof candidly avowed and not derived from unworthy motives, but, rather, it is as if an “honest” examination ofthe facts could lead only to religious doubt. A contention of this study is that these interpretative tendencies have obscured a notable and telling countervailing pattern.

Hitler's wars for living space sent millions of Germans abroad and aggravated a severe labor shortage at home. German authorities recruited or forcibly transported up to seven million foreign workers to the Reich from 1939 to 1945. A great many of these civilian workers, POWs, and slave laborers came from Poland, the Ukraine, and western areas of the Soviet Union, that is, homelands the Nazi regime stigmatized as particularly “inferior.” Nazi racial thinking and wartime security concerns produced an extensive set of discriminatory measures aimed at the subjugation and strict control of Slavs. Nazi edicts required Poles and so-called Eastern Workers (Ostarbeiter) to wear a purple “P” or “Ost” badge on their outer clothing. Restrictive measures limited allowable movement to their immediate area of residence and work. The regime also imposed a system akin to apartheid. Racial law thus prohibited unnecessary social contact between members of the so-called master race and their “racial inferiors.”

Pentecostalism originated in the body as much as the spirit. The “full gospel” it proclaimed promised renewed health along with saved souls, and its embryonic ethos prized the human embodiment of divine initiative. Glossolalia and other ecstatic manifestations authenticated God's presence and power, reflecting the reality of the Holy Spirit within believers. But the materiality of the culture that gave rise to Pentecostalism received its fullest expression in “divine healing.” Suffering men and women yearned for the restoration of their broken bodies, and their faith provided it.

The past two decades have seen an efflorescence of works exploring cultural anti-Catholicism in a variety of national contexts. But so far, historians have engaged in little comparative analysis. This article is a first step, examining recent historical literature on modern British and American anti-Catholicism, in order to trace the similarities and distinctiveness of the turn-of-the-century German case. Historians are most likely to be acquainted with American nativism, the German Kulturkampf, continental anticlericalism, and the problems of Catholic Emancipation and the Irish Question in Britain. Many of the themes and functions of anti-Catholic discourse in the West transcended national and temporal boundaries. In each case, the conceptualization of a Catholic ‘other’ is a testament to the tenacity of confessionalism in an age formerly characterized as one of inexorable secularization. Contemporary observers often agreed that religious culture—like history, race, ethnicity, geography, and local custom—played a role in the self-evident distinctiveness of peoples and nations, in their political forms, economic performance, and intellectual and artistic contributions. We will see how confessionalism remained a lens through which intellectuals and ordinary citizens, whether attached or estranged from religious commitments, viewed political, economic, and cultural change.