Jewish messianic expectations have had multiple expressions. One such expression was Messiah Ephraim. The midrashic work Pesiqta Rabbati contains numerous messianic passages, as well as entire homilies, that focus mainly upon Messiah Ephraim. Ephraim, a son of Joseph, was adopted by Jacob (Gen 48:5). In Jewish texts other than Pesiq. Rab., the Ephraimite Messiah was consistently portrayed as a militant figure, a warrior. The objective of this article is to examine the messianic contours that apply both to Messiah Ephraim in Pesiq. Rab. and to Jesus in order to determine whether there are any Christian elements in the composition of certain passages in Pesiq. Rab.

Sometime in the latter half of the second century, Bishop Dionysios of Corinth began writing letters to Christian communities around the eastern Mediterranean. Of these letters, which remain only as fragments and summaries in Eusebius's Ecclesiastical History, we know of eight, including one addressed to a woman named Chrysophora. Though Dionysios is not often mentioned in histories of second-century Christianity, he was famous enough in his own day that his advice was requested from as far as the Black Sea and his letters were tampered with by those seeking to lend his authority to their theological positions. When Dionysios has been discussed by historians of early Christianity, his work has been mined for what it can tell us about early Christian letter collections, for the names of other second century bishops, and for fights over various early Christian heresies. Though I draw on these studies, I am here concerned with examining Dionysios's surviving letters as political rhetoric within what Loveday Alexander has called the “social networks” of early Christianity. Rather than focusing on questions of episcopal succession or early Christian letter collections, I consider how Dionysios's letters functioned as political instruments that knit together early Christian communities as they made their way to and from Corinth aboard merchant ships and overland caravans, moving amongst the myriad of people and goods that flowed through Roman trade routes in the eastern Mediterranean.

The story found in Sifra Behar 5.3 and in the Babylonian Talmud, Baba Meṣi'a 62a, about two persons traveling in a desert and having a quantity of water that allows only one of them to reach civilization and survive, is well known and frequently referred to in books and articles dealing with Jewish ethics. The rabbinic texts raise the question: Should the travelers share the water and die together, or should the person who owns the water drink it in order to survive? This story reminds one of the case of the two shipwrecked men who grasp a plank that can bear the weight of only one person and therefore enables only one of them to reach the coast, a case referred to in philosophical texts from the Hellenistic and Roman periods. The similarities between the issues dealt with in the rabbinic texts and the Greco-Roman ones have indeed been noticed by several scholars working on rabbinic literature (whereas specialists of ancient philosophy generally ignore them). However, a systematic comparative analysis of the rabbinic tradition and the philosophical texts has not been undertaken so far, nor have previous studies paid much attention to the issues at stake within the Greco-Roman texts themselves, to their inner logic and relationships with one another.

Tucked away in the Hebrew Bible at the end of 1 Samuel and then resumed near the end of 2 Samuel is a provocative tale recounting the final fate of Saul, Israel's first king. At the beginning of this two-part narrative (1 Sam 31:1), we find Saul atop Mount Gilboa, badly wounded by Philistine archers and nearly dead. Fearing the Philistine armies will rush upon him and continue the humiliation—perhaps by stabbing him repeatedly while still alive, as Saul suggests in 31:4, or something worse—Saul commits suicide. As the rest of the chapter recounts, upon finding his corpse, the enemy army abuses him in a different but perhaps not less dreadful manner, i.e., by beheading the king and hanging the remainder of his body on the wall of Beth Shan (along with the bodies of his sons, who died with their father in the battle). The residents of Jabesh Gilead, however, hear of these events and abscond with the bodies, burying the bones in their own territory and thus ending this particular episode of conflict between Israel and Philistia.

Via the focus on food that she had found to be the distinguishing preoccupation in the female piety of the Middle Ages and had addressed so probingly and with such independence of scholarly spirit in her Holy Feast and Holy Fast, Caroline Walker Bynum has moved on over the past two decades, and logically enough, to bring her formidable scholarly intelligence and drive to bear, first, on issues pertaining to the body and then, beyond that, to the intriguing cat's cradle of questions pertaining to late-medieval assumptions about matter and its nature in general. The first impulse came to fruition in her Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336, a book in which celibacy, asceticism, fasting, and renunciation notwithstanding, she pushed back hard against the modern temptation to project onto medieval religiosity some sort of body-hating soul-body dualism. In this she was moved, as she herself has forthrightly acknowledged, by a “determination to let individual voices be individual and to let the past be different,” as well as by the adamant refusal, evinced also in the work under review, to simplify “the intricate and contradictory assumptions and practices” she was exploring. “Paradox remains paradox,” she has bluntly insisted, and “complexity remains complex” (13).

In his most recent book—Mind and Cosmos: Why the Materialist Neo-Darwinian Conception of Nature Is Almost Certainly False—and in numerous places in his previous work, Thomas Nagel wishes to suggest several reasons that theism is not a live option for him (to use a phrase made famous by William James). He does not seem to intend many of his criticisms to be more than suggestive, much less decisive; nonetheless, in light of the strength of his conviction that theism is somehow inherently too outrageous an option to believe, I would like to spend a bit of time identifying and assessing the criticisms he mentions.