In the study of the history of biblical scholarship, there has been a tendency among historians to emphasize biblical philology as a force which, together with the new philosophy and the new science of the seventeenth century, caused the erosion of universal scriptural authority from the mid-seventeenth century onwards. A case in point is Jonathan Israel's impressive account of how biblical criticism in the hands of Spinoza paved the way for the Enlightenment. Others who have argued for a post-Spinozist rise of biblical criticism include Frank Manuel, Adam Sutcliffe, and Travis Frampton. These scholars have built upon longer standing interpretations such as those of Hugh Trevor-Roper and Paul Hazard. However, scholars in the past two decades such as Anthony Grafton, Scott Mandelbrote and Jean-Louis Quantin have altered the picture of an exegetical revolution inaugurated by Thomas Hobbes (1588–1679), Spinoza (1632–1677), and Richard Simon (1638–1712). These heterodox philosophers in fact relied on philological research that had been largely developed in the first half of the seventeenth century. Moreover, such research was carried out by scholars who had no subversive agenda. This is to say that the importance attached to a historical and philological approach to the biblical text had a cross-confessional appeal, not just a radical-political one.

Is it possible to believe that the implications of the Christian Gospel are of such a kind that it cannot be communicated directly, and that the implications of the Christian Gospel are of such a kind that it ought to be preached on the street? Whether such a view is indeed “possible” did not bother the great paradoxical thinker, Søren Kierkegaard, who appeared to hold it. Indeed, one of the most enduring elements of Kierkegaard's theological legacy is his rigorously dialectical approach to Christian communication. For the reader of Kierkegaard, comprehending his (in)direct communication is typically both a frustrating and inspirational affair. On the one hand, Kierkegaard believed that the Gospel—precisely because of its unique existential consequences—cannot be preached directly; and on the other hand, he believed in the impassioned proclamation of this very same Gospel for the very same reasons. Traveling through his enigmatic authorship, one finds both of these aspects side by side, back to front, or sometimes one on top of the other. It is well noted that although Kierkegaard displays different stages of emphasis, he never totally relinquishes the importance of either method. It is the question of this article to re-engage this dialectical quandary, and to see how the paradoxical juxtaposition might prove both directly and indirectly instructive to a theology of Christian proclamation.

Christ's brides were hell bound by the end of the Middle Ages, when women—in the figure of the witch—were increasingly seen as Satan's spouses. Such is the narrative arc of Dyan Elliott's significant recent study of sponsa Christi (bride of Christ), The Bride of Christ Goes to Hell. Elliott points toward the incarnational logic of Christianity in general and the type of physically immanent bridal mysticism that flourished among late medieval women in particular to locate some of the dynamic forces that helped make possible the theological ideas about witches that flourished from the fifteenth century onward. Elliott has done much to enrich our understanding of the development of an embodied version of the bride of Christ. Medieval and early modern Christianity held out an option, for women at least, to marry Jesus—to become a sponsa Christi—in a literal sense, a form of marriage sustained by such things as legal mechanisms, theological visions, particular emotions, religious rituals, and spiritual practices. But Elliott's argument, stopping as it does right before the tumultuous sixteenth century, lends itself to a reading that the literalized sponsa Christi was bound henceforth to the early modern witch craze. Desiderius Erasmus's 1529 treatise De vidua christiana provides us evidence that the literalized sponsa Christi developed in alternative ways in the early modern period, including the creation of a distinctive vision of the Christian widow who is, at times, bigamous. De vidua, then, can serve as the basis for expanding upon an alternative historical trajectory for the bride of Christ that Elliott mentions in passing in her study.

Origen's understanding of the epinoiai (aspects or concepts) of Christ is certainly one of the most fascinating and unique facets of his theology. By no means a marginal element in his Logos-Christology, a treatment, mention, or application of the epinoiai can be found in most of Origen's surviving texts. Scholarship on this topic has justifiably focused upon the two primary sources of the epinoiai in Origen's writings: Book I of his Commentary on John and Book I, Chapter 2 of On First Principles. While referencing these texts because of their systematic and definitional character, I intend to focus this article upon the substantial and multifaceted role of the epinoiai Christou in Origen's Commentary on Romans, the oldest extant commentary on this Pauline epistle. In doing so, my thesis is two-fold: first, I will argue that the epinoiai Christou play a considerable role in Origen's exegesis of Paul's epistle. If correct, this conclusion will be crucial for anyone seeking to gain a comprehensive account of Origen's concept of the epinoiai. Such is especially the case insofar as I will propose that the Commentary on Romans accentuates specifically the virtues as epinoiai, thereby offering a noteworthy glimpse into this particular aspect of Origen's epinoiai teaching. Second, I will argue that the results of Origen's application of the epinoiai concept to his exegesis constitute a compelling reading of the Pauline text that is worthy of contemporary engagement.

Some time in the late-fifth or early-sixth century CE, a ritual practitioner—operating in the environs of Oxyrhynchus, Egypt—created a protective amulet that reads, “Hôr, Hôr, Phôr, Elôei, Adônai, Iaô, Sabaôth, Michaêl, Jesus Christ. Help us and this house. Amen” (Ὡρ, Ὡρ, Φωρ, Ἐλωεί, Ἀδωναί, Ἰάω, Σαβαώθ, Μιχαήλ, Ἰεσοῦ Χριστέ· Βοήθι ἡμῖν καὶ τούτῳ οἴκῳ. ἀμήν). Each of the names used in the first part of this amulet, known as P.Oxy. VIII 1152 (=PGM P6a), is familiar from other ritual objects from late antiquity (approx. fourth to seventh centuries CE). But the juxtaposition of these divine names on a single amulet presents us with a puzzle: did the ritual expert who created this artifact or his client perceive there to be a difference, tension, or even contradiction between Jesus Christ and the other names listed? Or, alternatively, would they have conceptualized all of these names as belonging equally within what they would have thought of as the “Christian tradition” or some other tradition?

In his masterful translation and commentary on the Second Book of Maccabees, Daniel Schwartz devotes a short appendix to the historicity of the information provided in chapter 6, verse 7:

The comparative study of Paul and the rabbis, an interest of students of the New Testament ever since Christian Hebraism, radically changed in the second half of the twentieth century. If “the study of relations between Judaism and early Christianity, perhaps more than any other area of modern scholarship, has felt the impact of World War II and its aftermath,” then, within this, Pauline scholarship has felt this impact the most. Various post-Holocaust studies read Paul not only in connection to early Judaism but specifically to rabbinic Judaism, which they saw as the epitome of both halakhic and Midrashic discourses. Turning to Tannaitic and Amoraic literatures expressed an urgent need to recontextualize Paul as part of traditional Judaism.

When religious tolerance appears in the literature on ecumenicism, religious pluralism, and other modes of peaceful coexistence, it is frequently juxtaposed with the words “beyond,” “more than,” and “is not enough.” To be sure, it is generally conceded in these contexts, tolerance is an improvement on intolerance, and, relatively speaking, then, a fine thing, as far it goes. For many, however, it does not go very far. “Religious tolerance,” we are told, “however virtuous, does nothing to remove our ignorance of one another.” It is thought to lack strenuousness, and hence, to be unsuited for modern moral conflicts, which tend increasingly toward the polarity characteristic of war: “Tolerance, especially of the knee-jerk variety. . . works as long as people can slink off by themselves, avoiding contact, and never facing up to what they truly believe.” No one says, “I am fighting for [fill in the blank] with all the toleration I can muster.”

Currently there is no widespread agreement on what constitutes gnosis or the gnostic identity in the ancient world. The best option, it seems, is to offer a polythetic classification wherein gnostic thinkers or groups possess a range of characteristics without any one group or thinker possessing all of them. Yet even if widespread agreement on a set of characteristics were attained, it still would not explain how gnostic groups emerged, developed, and crafted their own specific identities.

One of the most notable Catholic personalities in Modernism, the well-known current of thought headed in Italy by Ernesto Buonaiuti, Giorgio La Piana deserves more thorough consideration. Like many priests and laymen, La Piana owed an intellectual debt to Buonaiuti, with whom he shared a common interest in the early history of the church as well as in medieval theologian and mystic Gioacchino da Fiore, who prophesied the advent of a spiritual church. They also enjoyed a long-lasting friendship. What distinguished La Piana among his generation of scholars, who gave rise to the so-called “Modernist crisis,” was his choice to migrate to the United States, where he acted as a bridge between American and Italian culture. Notably, he translated George Foot Moore's works into Italian and Buonaiuti's essays into English for publication in the Harvard Theological Review. La Piana became a point of reference for some Italian scholars of the history of the church and religions who had studied under Buonaiuti (such as Alberto Pincherle, Mario Niccoli, Ambrogio Donini, Giorgio Della Vida, and Arturo Carlo Jemolo) and who had considerable problems with the fascist regime. It was often thanks to La Piana that they managed to make contact with the intellectual and academic worlds in the United States.

Ancient polemicists claim that apocryphal texts contributed to the enduring popularity of the Origenist “heresy” in fourth- and fifth-century Egypt. The anchorite Sopatrus associates “apocryphal literature” with “discussions about the image,” shorthand for Origenist debates over the loss of the image of God in humanity, and urges his hearers to avoid both apocryphal books and the theological controversy they incite. In his festal letter of 401 CE, the archbishop Theophilus of Alexandria rails against Origenist teaching and urges Christians throughout Egypt to reject “Origen's evils” and disregard “Scriptures called ‘apocrypha.’” Shenoute's association of Origenist themes with “apocryphal books” in I Am Amazed demonstrates that non-canonical writings continued to occupy a central position in Origenist theological debates well into the fifth century.

At the time of Shahab Ahmed's untimely death on 17 September 2015, he left behind many admiring colleagues, students, friends, and family, as well as a weighty tome of monumental significance—What Is Islam? The Importance of Being Islamic. It is tragic when an author's first book is published posthumously, perhaps even more so in this case given that Ahmed's work is poised to have a pervasive influence on the field of Islamic Studies and has already garnered numerous accolades. Like a supermassive celestial body, this dense book exerts an irresistible attraction and alters the intellectual trajectory of those drawn into its orbit. What Is Islam? poses difficult questions no one in the field can ignore, even if one disagrees with its premises, methods, or conclusions. We are collectively the poorer for being unable to engage directly with the author in the many discussions that are sure to be provoked by the book's meteoric impact.

The short biblical story of the blasphemer (Lev 24:10–23) received a unique mystical and mythical interpretation in the Zohar. When carefully examined, the zoharic homilies of the story reveal the hidden influences of Jewish polemic anti-gospel traditions. This essay exposes the strong link between the biblical blasphemer and Jesus, as well as between the blasphemer's mother and the Virgin Mary. In fact, the zoharic commentary on the blasphemer's biblical story provides a significant understanding of the Zohar’s ambivalent attitude towards Jesus as Son of God—and of the Virgin Mary as linked to the Shekhinah.

Aquila of Sinope, the legendary second-century translator and convert to Judaism, appears in both Jewish and Christian tradition. Recent literature on his famous Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures is surprisingly limited, however. Dominique Barthélemy's landmark monograph on the Minor Prophets’ scroll gives some significant introductory attention to Aquila and the influence of Rabbi Akiva upon him, but the study's influential (if traditional) conclusions cannot be considered final. Lester Grabbe, in particular, has critiqued Barthélemy's portrayal of Aquila as a zealous follower (“un chaud partisan”) of Akiva and of his characteristic manner of exegesis (especially the inclusive sense he gave the accusative particle ’ēt). If there are real reasons informing this conventional depiction of Aquila, for Grabbe, “no isolated theory linking a particular translation with a particular figure of Jewish literature can truly claim serious attention,” without considerably more information about how the whole spectrum of Greek recensional activity interacted with all the diverse forms of ancient Jewish interpretation. Grabbe offers an important critique. At the same time, he requires a considerable advance in our knowledge. Indeed, given many irremediable uncertainties touching the precise information Grabbe would demand, it is not clear how far conclusions in this area can ever be entirely distanced from conjectures.