May I begin with a personal introduction to the theme of this evening's lecture, the encounter between continental pietism and New England Puritanism? I began teaching Church history at the Martin Luther University in Halle-Wittenberg in 1932. There I had the opportunity to study the archives of August Hermann Francke, in the old library of Francke's orphanage. These archives were in a state of highly inspiring disorder, for there were chances of all kinds of unforeseen discoveries, both in the many boxes containing Francke's correspondence and on the shelves holding all the books sent to this head of pietism by his friends all over the world. At first, I studied his correspondence with ministers, scholars, bishops and generals in Russia and the Baltics, publishing an article about Francke in Russia. Then I came across some boxes which held an enormous mass of material connected with New England, letters to German ministers and German communities in Pennsylvania, diaries of emigrants, together with letters in English from Puritan theologians and New England missionaries. I was especially interested in Francke's correspondence with Cotton Mather.

In a 1963 article in the Journal of Religion, Langdon Gilkey examined the troubled condition of the doctrine of providence and concluded that it had become “the forgotten stepchild of contemporary theology.” He attributed its demise to the violent eruptions of evil in our century, the unfortunate link between the doctrine and now defunct theories of natural theology, as well as the pervasive Arminianism and naturalism of contemporary thought. Current neglect of the concept was all the more striking, he reflected, because of its integral relationship to nearly all the theological systems of the preceding century.

In a recent essay, Nicole Loraux identified a pattern of scholarly dependence on the origins of a particular deity for the interpretation of how human beings at various, specific times and places related to and used that figure to meet the needs of their lives. Shifting social and political conditions, such as the development and modification of the Athenian polis, led to changes in people's religious needs and are reflected by modifications, sometimes radical, in the conceptualization and worship of their gods. Loraux discussed the problems that this scholarly perspective brought to the study of goddesses in particular, where focus on the origins of many goddesses in a hypothesized worship of a Great Goddess of fertility can obscure our understanding of the ways in which these figures met the needs of individuals and cities at specific points in antiquity.

At the turn of the century, Edward W. Blyden, resident of Liberia and former Presbyterian missionary from America, read to some African natives the following description from the New York Independent of the burning of a black man in Georgia:

Sam Hose was burned on Sunday afternoon in the presence of thousands of people. Before the fire had been kindled the mob amused themselves by cutting off the ears, fingers, toes, etc. to carry away as mementos. After the burning, and before the body was cool, it was cut to pieces, the heart and liver being especially cut up and sold. Small pieces of bone brought 25 cents, and “a bit of liver, crisply cooked, sold for 10 cents.” So eager were the crowd to obtain souvenirs that a rush for the stake was made, and those near the body were forced against and had to fight for their escape.

The goal of New Testament textual criticism would appear to be simple enough: to restore the original text written by each author of the New Testament books. Upon examination, however, the notion of simplicity vanishes immediately and each of the key terms here—“restore,” “original,” “text,” and “author”—has its problematic aspects, but more importantly the simply stated goal itself turns out to be inadequate. Grist for the text-critical mill consists of textual readings or variants, which for the relatively small collection of writings called the New Testament are not merely in the hundreds or thousands, or even the tens of thousands, but run to perhaps a third of a million. They stem from the nearly 5,500 Greek manuscripts, some 10,000 versional manuscripts, and innumerable patristic citations of New Testament passages.

A number of recent studies have drawn attention to how the study of religion and religious seeking were intertwined in European and American cultures in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Ann Taves, Leigh Schmidt and Hans Kippenberg, for example, have pointed to ways that particularly Protestant anxieties and dilemmas shaped scholarly thinking about categories such as experience and “mysticism.” Scholars have been less interested, however, in the other side of the exchange—less interested, in other words, in how scholarship has reshaped religious belief and practice. The first Americans to study religion scientifically, American psychologists of religion, serve as a particularly useful illustration of how scholarly methods influenced modern ways of believing, but there is still little historical scholarship on the key figures involved. There remain few critical works, for example, on the pioneer psychologists of religion—Edwin Starbuck (1866–1947), George Coe (1862–1951), James Bissett Pratt (1875–1944), and G. Stanley Hall (1844–1924)—and their ways of studying and attempting to reform religion. The notable exception is, of course, the literature on William James, which includes an enormous number of dissertations and monographs, including several important studies examining the Varieties of Religious Experience and James's other efforts to help fashion a science of religion. But even the scholarship on James does not consider how he and others used the sciences to reform religious belief and revitalize American culture. Given the fact that James identified himself as a psychologist, engaged a wide range of neurological, physiological and psychological thinkers in his work, and drew extensively on psychologists like George Coe and Edwin Starbuck, it is remarkable that these contexts have been overlooked. His debt to the psychologist Edwin Starbuck is particularly striking. In his Varieties, he uses or refers to Starbuck's empirical work twenty-six times, he draws from Starbuck's questionnaire data thirty-seven times, and he mentions Starbuck by name a total of forty-six times, which is roughly the equivalent of once in every six pages of text.

We should like to have Josephus's history of the Jews from the great revolt to the thirteenth year of Domitian (Ant. 20.267), if he ever managed to write such a work. Since we do not have it, we are compelled to depend on a few scattered references in Josephus and other writers, and on our ingenuity, for our knowledge of Jewish political history after August 70. Nonetheless, the first few years of the period after 70 are slightly less obscure than the succeeding years because we possess, in book 7 of Josephus's Bellum Iudaicum, an account, albeit sketchy, of the aftermath of the revolt. It is therefore somewhat surprising that book 7, with the exception of the Masada episode (252–406), has been neglected by modern scholarship. Those scholars who have discussed the book at all have limited their comments to general statements on the book's poor style, unusual in Bell., or its date of composition. In fact, Bell. 7 is problematic throughout. In the first part of the book, until Titus's return to Rome (119), Josephus introduces extraneous material into its main account with exceptional crudeness.

At the Council of Nicaea all the bishops but two signed the creed and canons. This virtual unanimity must have been very gratifying to Constantine, and it represents no mean achievement in reconciliation on the emperor's part — for it is not what anyone would have expected after the dramatic events leading up to the calling of the Council. The creed appears to have been on every ground acceptable to Alexander of Alexandria and to Ossius of Cordova. If it was not, they had only themselves to blame, since they had been chiefly responsible for its form and had previously agreed, at a meeting of the Council's steering committee at Nicomedia, on the crucial word homoousios. It is not so certain that the creed was equally acceptable to the extreme anti-Arians, Marcellus of Ancyra or Eustathius of Antioch. Eustathius seems to have been ill content that the Nicene fathers had not had the courage of their convictions and had failed to confirm the decisions of the Council of Antioch held shortly before it; in his view they should have roundly condemned the rank Arianism of Eusebius of Caesarea and his two friends, Theodotus of Laodicea and Narcissus of Neronias. We may reasonably doubt whether any document that Eusebius was conscientiously able to sign would have been regarded as satisfactory by Eustathius. But neither Eustathius nor Marcellus would themselves have found difficulty with the content of the creed. And there is no reason to suppose that the nineteenth canon, regulating the terms for the admission of members of the congregation loyal to Paul of Samosata, represented any policy other than that which Eustathius would have been happy to implement. So far as his own position was concerned, he could sign both creed and canons with an untroubled conscience.

Boissier long ago remarked that Augustine's Dialogues (that is, the Contra Academicos, De Beata Vita and De Ordine) reminded him in a way of Boethius's Consolatio Philosophiae. He was dealing with the vexed question of Boethius's Christianity. It seemed to him that Boethius in dealing purely philosophically in the Consolatio with problems lying more or less within the domain of theology had done nothing more than Augustine had done at Cassiciacum and that he was probably following Augustine's example. This meant that Boethius was just as much a Christian and probably the same sort of Christian as the young Augustine. Boissier did not carry his analysis of the resemblance between the two any farther.

In Frazer's Golden Bough the leading instance of the central figure whom he called “the dying god” was Adonis, famous from Greco-Roman literature and art but firmly localized in Semitic Phoenicia, Syria, and Cyprus. Since Frazer wrote, his other Near Eastern instances have been so transformed by increasing knowledge that it can be doubted whether they severally belong to the same type or indeed whether any general type exists. Adonis has hardly shared in these discoveries and debates, for research has emphasized instead the large developments which overtook his worship within the Greco-Roman world. Most of this research does not bear at all on the origins of Adonis, but scholars have sometimes been so bemused by the Greek elements as to forget or deny the Semitic. Everything has been called into question at different times. Such features of his myth as the boar and the myrrh tree and the incest are discounted as Greek embroidery; his peculiar festival, with mourning women and miniature gardens of lettuce, is traced to the preoccupations of Greek urban society; even the Semitic derivation derivation of his name is disputed. This Greek exclusivism cannot be sustained. All accounts of Adonis' life and lineage, and all analogies for his worship converge in the Levant — not in a single site or land, but in Phoenicia, coastal Syria and Cyprus together, lands which from the Late Bronze Age onward display a distinctive common culture, above all with respect to religion. This is where Adonis is at home, and where we may look for evidence to explain the figure of the dying god.

From the days of the Renaissance and Reformation to the present, the Mystery Religions of antiquity have engaged the attention of classical scholars and theologians alike. During what may be called the precritical stage of the study of this subject, it was commonly believed that by the Mysteries a constant succession of priests or hierophants transmitted from age to age an esoteric doctrine, better and nobler than that of the popular religion. Whether this recondite science had been derived originally from the hidden wisdom of India or Egypt, or from the Old Testament, or even from a primitive revelation to all mankind, was debated with characteristic disregard for historical methodology.

Among the Graeco-Oriental cults that shared the loyalties of the Mediterranean peoples during the first four centuries of our era, the religion of Sarapis occupied a commanding position. Throughout his career Sarapis was a worker of miracles, but no miracle of his doing ever equalled in historical significance the political thaumaturgy by which he was brought to life. A composite figure created in the last years of the fourth century B.C. by the first Ptolemy, for the purpose of binding together the divergent ethnic elements of Egypt, he was the Greek Pluto imposed on Apis, the Egyptian bull-god of Memphis, who became at death another Osiris, and specifically Osiris-Apis. The identification was of the usual syncretistic type, since Pluto and Osiris were both gods of the dead. As a newcomer Sarapis underwent a long probation at the side of Osiris and Isis, and although with characteristic inconsequence Sarapis never wholly supplanted Osiris, by the second century A.D. he had become, together with Isis, the most beloved figure of the native pantheon, while outside Egypt he was receiving the reverent attention of Greeks of the rank of Plutarch and Aristides. In great measure, the prestige of his magnificent temple at Alexandria and the unceasing flow of propaganda literature account for his eminence at this time. His greatest glory, however, was still to come. In the fourth century, when the approaching victory of the Christian cult threatened all pagan beliefs with extermination, Sarapis took on the rôle of a universal solar deity.

Judges 5, the Song of Deborah, is and has traditionally been one of the foci of biblical study. Artistically, it evinces a consummate skill, with a series of powerful scenes and strong stanzas. Literarily, it has broad import, particularly in that it is one of the oldest integral texts in the Hebrew Bible. Few scholars dissent from the proposition that the poem is premonarchic. As a result, it represents also a virtually unimpeachable source for the study of early Israel.

The fascinating legend of Solomon's magical wisdom was widespread in Late Antiquity, and new evidence for it has surfaced in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Nag Hammadi texts. Yet the key literary text for understanding the legend remains the miracle story of Eleazar in Josephus's Antiquitates Judaicae 8.42–49. In this article, I would like to examine the story's form, content, and function. First, it is necessary to clarify the story by a formal analysis and by relating its form to other miracles within the corpus of Josephus, and to similar accounts of miracles in Late Antiquity. Next, I shall examine the way in which this miracle functions in the Antiquitates from the perspective of Josephus's overall apologetic purpose, his view of miracle and magic, his portrait of Solomon, his knowledge of the Jewish legend of Solomon's magical wisdom, and his immediate context for the story. Finally, I shall propose a modest hypothesis about Josephus's treatment of the Eleazar miracle in relation to his social location as a Jewish apologist to educated Greco-Roman readers in the first century CE.

The history of Persia from its very beginning until today, from Cyrus the Great to Riza Khan Pehlevi — a history covering twenty-five centuries equally divided by the Arab conquest of the year 642 into a pre-Islamic and an Islamic period — has seen an uninterrupted and continuous association between Iran and Israel. Jews have been living on Iran's soil from the dawn of the first Persian empire on, as an inseparable part of Iran's national destiny and development. Jews were the eye-witnesses of all the historical events in Persia under every dynasty — the Achaemenids, Parthians and Sassanids, the Omayyads and the Abbasids, the Seljuks, Mongols, Safavids, and Kajars, under every ruler, Caliph, Sultan, Il-Khan, Emir or Shah. Jews were the contemporaries of all the manifold religious movements and sects that were born on Persian soil, such as Zoroastrianism, Manichaeism, Shiʻa, Sufism, Bahaism; they were companions of the great classical poets, of a Firdūsī, Ḥāfiz, Saʻadī, Jāmī, and of all the other great Persian masters of art, literature and philosophy who made their everlasting contributions to world culture.

Taking up this well worked problem in New Testament scholarship may seem audacious to some, futile to others. At least one scholar has exulted over his own claim, supported by a few, to have solved the problem; whereas at least one other scholar has declared the problem insoluble. Although the problem is difficult, the elements of a solution are indeed present in the discussion. It is taken up again in this essay because of its importance for research on the historical Jesus and on the emergence of Christology.

In Palestine, Christian monasticism began early in the fourth century C.E. The first monks known to us by name are Hilarion of Thavata, who lived in the region of Gaza; Epiphanius, who settled near Eleutheropolis, in the Shephelah; and Chariton, a native of Iconium in Asia Minor who became the founder of monasticism in the Judean Desert. The monastic movement spread throughout Palestine during the Byzantine period (324–642 C.E.), and the remains ofmonasteries have been found in diverse areas. Many monasteries were establishedin or around large cities, or at holy places and sites of pilgrimage, while others were set in desert areas.

In the campaign of 1931–32 at Dura-Europos on the Euphrates there was found among the military archives in the temple of Artemis Azzanathcona a papyrus document containing a list of the festivals which were officially celebrated by the Roman garrison in the city. This document, of unique interest and importance, placed by internal evidence in the reign of Severus Alexander between the years A.D. 223 and 225, contains among its entries the two lines quoted above. In them is prescribed for celebration on two different dates a hitherto unknown festival which is of some little importance both for the religious life of the Roman army and for the history of Roman festivals during the Empire. An attempt will be made in this paper to interpret its nature and to touch briefly on both these aspects of its significance.

Form criticism has enjoyed great success in providing tangible insights into the social life and liturgical practices of Hellenistic Judaism and early Christianity, but until now there has not been forthcoming a clear idea of what Jewish and Christian preaching was like before the middle of the second century CE Scholars are generally agreed that we have little, if any, direct evidence of sermons from this period. The sermons in Acts would seem to be excellent sources, but as Alexander Mac-Donald has pointed out, these are almost all missionary sermons or speeches to outsiders, and are therefore of little use in determining the nature of sermons addressed to coreligionists in the synagogue or church. Morton Smith attempted to isolate sermons in the synoptic gospels, but there he admits that the passages adduced—largely collections of sayings—may not constitute the actual form of oral preaching, but instead reflect a consistent pattern of literary sermon reports. As for Jewish sermons, the midrashic collections were edited later than the period in question, and it is generally unwise to extrapolate backward from these texts. Recent attempts to compare rabbinic homiletical forms with NT texts have been strongly criticized.