The Bible is better understood by scholars today than ever before, but it seems to be at the same time less generally used and less enjoyed, and it is natural to ask whether there is a connection between the increasing knowledge of the book by specialists and the lessening familiarity with it and regard for it among the people. The problem thus suggested is not an isolated one. In regard to other books it may be asked whether the advance of learning is accompanied by a gain or a loss in the capacity to read with enjoyment and uplift; and in regard to other facts than those recorded in the Bible the question is in place whether scientific study stimulates or dulls the sense of their poetic beauty or spiritual value. Yet the problem is peculiarly pressing in regard to the Bible and the facts it records, because of the unique significance of these books and of this history for our higher life.

No passage of the Synoptic Gospels throws so much light upon Jesus’ sense of his own mission as that which deals with Knowing the Father and Being Known of Him in Mt. 11 25-27, Lk. 10 21-22. It belongs to the common element of Matthew and Luke unknown in Mark, and in the judgment of the great majority of critics must therefore be referred to a common source of high antiquity. In short, as respects attestation, its claims to authenticity are unexcelled. As respects content, it deals with the all-important matter of Jesus’ doctrine of divine sonship, and yet it seems to stand alone among Synoptic sayings, and to be paralleled only by utterances ascribed to Jesus by the fourth evangelist. But the Johannine discourses give every indication of having been composed by the evangelist himself in order to expound in dialogue form his own deutero-pauline Christology. The only instance in all Synoptic tradition of anything comparable to this apposition of “the Son…the Father,” is Mk. 13 32, Mt. 24 36.

Of that day or that hour knoweth no one, not even the angels in heaven, neither the Son, but the Father.

There have been times in the history of architecture when style was inevitable. In the classic period of Greece or in the Gothic period of northern Europe no architect raised the question as to the style in which he should construct a building. That was decreed for him. And we shall perhaps not go astray if we suggest that the inevitableness of that decree was determined by two factors. One was the purpose to be served by the building, the other was the control over the materials. The one factor determined the contents, the other the form in which those contents were to be expressed. The contents depended on the social and spiritual ideals of the time. The form depended on the nature of the building material and on the mechanical ability to use it.

As every man has both generic and specific characteristics which are common to him with his kind and group, and also certain traits which constitute his individuality, so likewise every thoughtful man has ideas which are the intellectual staple of his age and race and also others which are in a peculiar sense his own. It does not therefore follow that these common ideas are untrue: on the contrary, they may be nearer the truth than those which are relatively unshared; or that they are unimportant, for, even if erroneous, they may furnish points of contact through which his more distinctive opinion finds its way into the popular mind; nevertheless, they may be disregarded in estimating his contribution to the history of thought. Accordingly, nothing will be said here of doctrines, those pertaining to Christ and the Trinity for instance, which Calvin held in substantial agreement with contemporary and traditional Christianity; nor shall we refer to theories concerning the Church, its officers and sacraments, which, although highly significant both at the time and as shaping subsequent ecclesiastical history, have but slight connection with the ideas which make up the distinctively Calvinistic system of theology. We shall restrict ourselves therefore to Calvin's system within his system, to a definite, consistent nexus of ideas, relating principally to sin and salvation, which are, so to speak, the marrow of his body of divinity. And with reference to these, we shall undertake to present them as they appear in the definitive edition of the Institutes, without attempting to trace their relations, of dependence, resemblance, or difference, to ideas of his theological predecessors, like Augustine and Gottschalk, or contemporaries like Luther, Zwingli, Melanchthon, or Bucer; still less shall we essay to follow a possible process of his own thought through the successive editions and enlargements of the Institutes.

A religion different from Islam, centring about the person and teaching of Ali, the adopted son of Muhammed, is steadily gaining ground in certain sections of the Turkish Empire. The believers are called Alevis both by themselves and by the Muslims. The name Kuzul Bash (u as in “cut”), which means “Red Head” and is often used as a term of reproach, is said to have originated at the battle of Siffin. Ali said, “Tie red upon your heads, so that ye slay not your own comrades in the thick of the battle.” In Persia the community is known by the name of Ali Ilāhi, and has commonly been regarded as a sect of Muhammedanism.

The object of this study is to investigate the true nature of this faith with as much accuracy as an oriental religion permits, and to consider the relations of the Alevi brotherhood with Islam and Christianity.

The question, “What have facts to do with faith?” expresses a rather widely prevalent suspicion regarding the religious value of the facts recorded in the gospels and summarized in the creeds; and it deserves consideration by every one who has religious interests at heart, since it brings up vital problems concerning the possibility of revelation and the value of the Christian faith. Two allied questions have been much debated recently in this country, although they were pretty well threshed out in Germany a decade or two ago; first, what obligations rest upon a man who subscribes to the Christian creeds; and, secondly, whether it is not desirable that the creeds should be so changed, or be given such meanings, that no one would be obliged in confessing his faith to make any assertion concerning matters of historical fact. Back of these questions lies a more fundamental and more practical one: What value have facts for our religious faith? Of what value for our religious life is it to affirm in our creeds the truth of such historical happenings as, “He suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and buried; the third day He rose again from the dead”? Of what value is it to read or hear such Scriptures as those which tell us that Christ healed the palsied man let down through the roof, and the blind man who called to him from the wayside; or raised the widow's only son; or had compassion on the multitudes, and fed them? It must be granted, we are told, that doubts may always arise about historical events, since historical knowledge rests on human testimony with all its weaknesses; and granted, too, that events seem but a dry and cold substitute for the living faith craved by our hearts. Would it not, then, be well, we are asked, to omit from our creeds matters of fact (or alleged fact), and to reduce our gospels to “the Words of the Christ”? If not, some sound reason ought to be given for retaining the gospel narratives of our Lord's marvellous deeds, which are stumbling-stones to many feet seeking the path of righteousness, and for affirming in the creeds the most notable events of his life instead of simply calling him Master.

One of the most striking and pathetic figures of the nineteenth century was Friedrich Nietzsche. A radical aristocrat, a radical enemy of religion, a prophet, he shared the fate of the prophet and the radical man. He was a poet rather than a philosopher, not one calmly to weigh the issues of his mind. He was a zealot with a mission, a fiery genius, whose torch, unsteady at times, flared into madness in his latter years. So great was the strain of thought that his mind was literally consumed by his zeal for a vast, a revolutionary cause.