In present–day North America, with mosques and temples springing up a few streets from synagogues, cathedrals, and steepled church houses, a state of religious plurality is becoming undeniably more pronounced. In the wake of 9/11, the tensions ushered in by this shifting landscape are also increasing—not least for Christian believers who have shadowy notions of the religious “other” and are concerned about the realities of a pluralistic, post–Christian American society. Meanwhile, Christian scholars and practitioners engaged in the burgeoning field of comparative theology view this pluralistic situation not as a daunting challenge; rather, they view it in terms of its constructive potential. For them, religious pluralism is not an obstacle to be overcome but an opportunity for rich theological inquiry and practice. Thus, these comparative theologians urge their fellow Christians to take up a distinct form of conversation with the religious newcomer, guided by peaceful interreligious dialogue and the understanding that interreligious learning is a worthy aim.

An idea's genealogy is not the idea itself, and still less does an idea's historical context exhaust its potentialities for meaning. The excavation of sources and influences is then for the historian of ideas not an end in itself; it is more properly the inauguration, not the consummation, of efforts in intellectual history. But genealogical investigation does matter, because its vertical depth can illuminate the contours requisite for horizontal discernment, and because exploring its temporal register can free an idea from artificially inert stasis back into the stream of living reflective activity.

C. S. Lewis read Anders Nygren's Agape and Eros in his mid-thirties, probably during the Christmas holiday of 1934. His first recorded thoughts, including the statement above, are from a letter dated “Jan 8th 1935” to his Oxford colleague Janet Spens. Despite his decisive criticism of what he calls Nygren's “central contrast”—that agape is selfless and eros self-regarding—Lewis ends this letter with a declaration of uncertainty: “However, I must tackle him again. He has shaken me up extremely.” It is remarkable, then, that Nygren is not mentioned by name in Lewis's The Four Loves (1960). Lewis's opening remarks on his theology of love, which do not directly refer to Nygren, “are critical of Nygren's main thesis in Agape and Eros.”

The role philosophy played in the rise of new Jewish esoteric traditions in the Middle Ages has always been a critical question for kabbalah scholarship. Many scholars have contributed to our understanding of kabbalah's relationship to Greek, Christian, and Jewish philosophy, Neoplatonic and Neo-Aristotelian traditions alike. In this article I wish to contribute to this vast scholarly discussion by enlightening some aspects of theosophical kabbalah's innovation in light of its dialogue with philosophical ideas. This dialogue is complex, and the extent of kabbalah's interaction with philosophy is difficult to evaluate. My assumption in the following is that such a dialogue is best apprehended where conflict can be detected. Consequently I will study different cases of theological conflict between theosophical and philosophical conceptions—cases of heresy, where a theological tension can be identified. These tensions will help us to evaluate the nature of the theosophical innovation in question. The framework of this article rests on the assumption that theosophical kabbalah shares with different philosophical traditions some important theological structures but also that it maintains important conceptual differences. In order to evaluate the theological tensions involved I will analyze different cases of theological heresies, both philosophical and theosophical. I hope with this analysis to clarify theosophical kabbalah in light of its theological renewal, a renewal that was not merely the result of the acceptance of or resistance to philosophical ideas but also of the emerging of what I propose to call counter-theology.

This paper represents a conversation between two disciplines that too rarely enter into dialogue: New Testament studies and the history of Byzantine art. Two gospel passages have been chosen for analysis here: the first is a parable, the parable of the fig tree (Luke 13:6–9); the second, which follows immediately upon the first, is a miracle story that provokes a controversy (Luke 13:10–17). Both passages appear exclusively in the Gospel of Luke. Our joint study will start with exegetical notes on the Gospel of Luke and the history of the interpretation of these particular verses and will then turn to the miniatures that illustrate them in an eleventh-century Byzantine manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale de France, Parisinus graecus 74 (figs. 1–2). François Bovon has interpreted the Gospel of Luke in a German collection, the Evangelisch-katholischer Kommentar zum Neuen Testament, a series attentive to the history of the reception (Wirkungsgeschichte) of the biblical text in the life of the Christian church. He will explain the two New Testament passages and follow the path of patristic and Byzantine interpretation during these periods.

For all of the criticism that Pope Gregory XVI (1831–1846) has attracted in the historiography for his severe, backward-thinking papal policies, such as condemning freedoms of speech and the press (Mirari vos; 1832) or his refusal to grant the construction of railroads, his reputation as a gifted theologian has remained untainted. Owen Chadwick called him “the best educated pope for nearly three-quarters of a century.” At the bottom of this assessment lies Gregory's only monograph, Il trionfo della Santa Sede (The triumph of the Holy See; 1799). Many have attempted to use this work to provide continuity or an appropriate backdrop to Gregory's later (papal) career. His order's own biographer has suggested that Il trionfo was responsible for his becoming cardinal. Alan Reinerman has claimed that the work's “fervor and erudition won him the esteem of the Curia” since it was written “at one of the darkest moments in Papal history.” Il trionfo acquired for Mauro Cappellari (later Gregory XVI) “an honored name among apologists,” claimed lifelong doting barber-turned-assistant Gaetano Moroni. Regarding its more immediate impact, Jean Leflon believed that Il trionfo caused Cappellari to be expelled from Rome.

Anyone who has struggled to navigate the challenges that evolutionary and other natural sciences pose to a rich religious sense of the importance of human dignity will enjoy reading this book. Alan L. Mittleman gives the reader more than a robust understanding of the sciences; he also probes carefully their philosophical premises and makes a case for why a detailed engagement with Jewish sources in particular allows one to construct a reasonable and intellectually satisfying alternative to a purely naturalistic account based on the sciences. In the course of his investigation Mittleman deals skillfully with popular scientific motifs that were in the air half a century ago and that remain remarkably persistent today, such as the reductionist view, stemming from well-known writers like Desmond Morris, that humans are little more than naked apes; even at the height of Morris's popularity that view clashed with other philosophical perspectives that were equally prevalent and that stressed the existential alienation of human beings in the world.