Mani established his religion on very broad syncretistic grounds, in the hope that it could conquer the whole oikumene, East and West, by integrating the religious traditions of all peoples—except those of the Jews. Although Manichaeism as an organized religion survived for more than a thousand years, and its geographical realm extended from North Africa to Southeast China, this ambition never came close to being realized, and the Manichaeans remained, more often than not, small and persecuted communities. Yet, in a somewhat paradoxical way, Mani did achieve his ecumenical goal. For more than half a millennium, from its birth in the third century throughout late antiquity and beyond, his religion was despised and rejected with the utmost violence by rulers and thinkers belonging to all shades of the spiritual and religious spectrum. In this sense, Manichaeism, an insane system, a “mania,” appeared as the outsider par excellence.

In the first volume of A History of Greek Philosophy W. K. C. Guthrie points out that “the promulgators of teletai in the name of Orpheus were concerned in the religious sphere with the same problem of the relation between the One and the Many which in a different form was the problem of the Milesian philosophers.” Elsewhere Guthrie provides a more detailed explanation of the similarities and differences between the Orphic and the Milesian treatment of the One-Many problem:

Sixth-century religious and philosophical thought … was dominated by one central problem, the problem of the One and the Many. This appeared in two forms, one referring to the macrocosm, the other to the microcosm. In its first form it was the problem of the Milesian natural philosophers, who asked: “What is the relation between the manifold variety of the world in which we live and the one primary substance out of which, as we are convinced, it must in the first place have arisen?” In its second form it was the problem of the religious minds of the age. Their question was: “What is the relation of each individual man to the divine, to which we feel we are akin, and how can we best realize and actualize the potential unity which underlies the two?”

It is by no means fortuitous that our contemporary world is deeply occupied with the problem of time. The literature which has gathered about this problem is not only abundant but also notable for the ways in which various disciplines have sought to wrestle with it. The natural scientist, the philosopher, the theologian, the historian, the sociologist, the poet, and the writer of fiction and drama have all engaged in a common encounter with the mystery of this basic givenness of our human existence. Yet, while it is true that periods like our own incite reflection on time's meaning, the problem plays a role in the history of human thought quite beyond that of the pressures and hazards of eras of social crisis.

The story of Paul, the first man to be consecrated as bishop of Constantinople, has come down to us only in fragments. Le Nain de Tillemont made the first modern attempt to fit the fragments together into a biography. His work is characterized by a sagacity not always exhibited by more recent writers. An addition was made to the fragments previously known by the discovery of passages referring to Paul in the ‘codex Theodosianus’ belonging to the Chapter Library of Verona. This material was brought into use by E. Schwartz in the ninth of his now-famous articles “Zur Geschichte des Athanasius,” where he touches on Paul as an associate of Athanasius. The passages in the ‘codex Theodosianus’ are in Latin, but they derive ultimately from an Alexandrine work of ecclesiastical history otherwise almost wholly lost. This work, to judge from internal evidences, was composed in 368 to celebrate the forty-years' episcopate of Athanasius, and its theme might be called “The contendings for the faith of the bishops of Alexandria.” It is not obvious why such a work should contain anything about either Paul or Constantinople. And a comparison of the Paul passages with those that concern themselves with Alexandrine history is much to the disadvantage of the former.

Some of the most elaborate and detailed descriptions of early Christian churches by a Latin writer are given by the nobleman Pontius Meropius Paulinus, who is usually known as Paulinus of Nola, after the city where he became bishop in the latter part of his life. He was born in Bordeaux around 353, of a wealthy family that had extensive properties in Aquitania, Gallia Narbonensis, Latium, and Campania. He received an education appropriate to his noble stature and became the prize student of Ausonius, also a native of Bordeaux, who was the tutor of the (future) emperor Gratian and a celebrated poet at court.

Midrashic literature often employs the exegesis of a biblical text as the source for a story. When the story is coupled with a historic person, a legend is born. Since there are historic aspects to the legend, its historicity is sometimes uncritically accepted in its entirety. In most instances, however, the fictional content of a legend far exceeds its historical content. Some of these legends continue to flourish and evolve into baroque narratives often quite far removed from the original scriptural verse that precipitated their creation. Then, only a careful examination of the transmission history of the story can recapture its original exegetic context. Beginning with the assumption that some stories evolve from a simple exegesis to a full-blown narrative through the accretion of folk motifs and the fixed formulas of story tellers, one may order the versions of a given legend according to their development.

In a recent publication a scholar suggests that the Talmud preserves teachings only against astrology, and claims that astrology never obtained a foothold within Judaism, remaining only a sectarian phenomenon “at variance with normative Judaism.” The suggestion and claim should not go unchallenged. The present paper looks at the debates over astrology preserved in the Talmud, scans the major relevant sections in the Pseudepigrapha—with an introduction of a Jewish astrological document which should become a new addition to the Pseudepigrapha—reviews the astrological documents found in Cave 4 near Khirbet Qumran, and points again to the abundant evidence of zodiacal wheels and other astrological symbols in early Palestinian synagogues. The necessary breadth precludes exhaustive discussion in any area.

Among the Greek documents concerning Jews the tale told by Josephus in the name of Clearchus of Soli deserves special attention. This account, in which Clearchus describes the meeting of his master Aristotle with a Jewish sage, contains not only the earliest information about personal acquaintance between a Greek and a Jew, but also raises general interest by the personality of the Western representative. Josephus has omitted to report upon the subject of their discourse, although it would have been worth while to relate the words exchanged between the “maestro di color' che sanno” and one of the ἐκλεκτοὶ πιστοὶ `Eβραῖοι.

As a youth of nineteen, Jonathan Edwards was full of questions and anxiety about his conversion. Like many another Puritan seeker, Edwards was eager to obtain the reward of faith but found it impossible not to doubt the genuineness of his religious pretensions. Doubt and self-distrust were hardly unusual in the religious life of a New England Puritan. Indeed, as Edmund Morgan has observed, they were an expected, even prescribed, part of the Christian pilgrim's journey toward God. “This was the constant message of the Puritan preachers: in order to be sure [of one's standing before God] one must be unsure. … [T]he surest earthly sign of a saint was his uncertainty….” Edwards' reflections upon his experience, however, brought to light another, more interesting reason for hesitation—and one that was anything but conventional. He observed a marked discrepancy between what he had experienced and what the theorists of conversion—among them his esteemed grandfather Solomon Stoddard—said he ought to experience. Furthermore, far from glossing over this discrepancy between theory and experience, Edwards brought it to the very center of his attention. He did not seek to evade his difficulty but determined instead to make this aporia the basis for an inquiry that eventually led him to reject the step-by-step model of conversion that had provided the framework for New England's discussion of the knotty problem, never satisfactorily resolved, of how to formulate a reliable procedure for determining who were the visible saints. Even those skeptical about the possibility of arriving at such a procedure, like Solomon Stoddard, phrased their objections within that framework. Stoddard never doubted the truth of the preparationist, step-by-step description of conversion; he did doubt that any reliable procedure for distinguishing true faith from its imitations could be constructed on the basis of that description. Edwards' eventual rejection of his grandfather's open communion practice was a consequence of a critical reevaluation of the step-by-step model upon which New England thought and practice had been based.

Adorno's late work has often been compared to negative theology, yet there is little serious discussion of this comparison in the secondary literature.1 In most of the existing discussions virtually nothing is said about negative theology, as if it is obvious what it is and what the parallels with Adorno's ideas are. The truth is that negative theology is not self-evident, and neither are the parallels with Adorno at all obvious. To find out what they are would require a detailed account of both. In this article I shall make a start in this direction.

The earliest extant public image of the crucifixion of Christ appears on a single relief panel on the early-fifth-century wooden doors of the Church of Santa Sabina on the Aventine Hill in Rome (figs. 1 and 2). General scholarly consensus dates the construction of the church to the pontificate of Pope Celestine I (422–433 c.e.) as stated in the surviving inscription on the church's interior west wall.1 Construction probably continued into the pontificate of Sixtus III (432–440 c.e.) when the church was formally consecrated.2 Although in the ensuing centuries the image of the Crucified Christ—the Crucifix—attained canonical status, scholars seeking precedents for Santa Sabina's crucifixion scene have failed to determine its pedigree satisfactorily within the Christian artistic tradition. We propose that broadening our understanding of artistic prototypes for the Santa Sabina crucifixion image to include both formal and theological elements allows for a more nuanced and promising investigation.

When we read early Christian narratives such as the Acts of Paul and Thecla, what is the relationship between the characters portrayed in the story and the “real-life” persons and groups who composed and transmitted the work? In the second-century Greek account, Thecla abandons her fiancé and family to follow Paul and his ascetic message. She endures a trial by fire in Iconium, resists sexual assault on the road to Antioch, and survives attacks by beasts in the Antiochene arena, all the while supported by a wealthy widow as her patron, a friendly lioness as her protector, and a chorus of women in the stadium who extol her perseverance and cry out to the governor for mercy. In the end, after baptizing herself, Thecla is released, dresses herself like a man, and begins preaching the gospel as an itinerant apostle.

The title of this essay is meant to be perplexing. Schleiermacher is not known for his treatment of grace, much less for a treatise on grace. Few scholars of Schleiermacher's theology have devoted attention to his doctrine of grace, with two notable exceptions. Karl Barth, in his lectures on Schleiermacher, did not hesitate to thrash his nemesis on this point, although to him it was so obvious that Schleiermacher's understanding of grace was not a Christian doctrine of grace, at least not in the Reformation sense, that he barely felt the need to argue the case. “What kind of God is this,” he asked, “What kind of grace?” Richard R. Niebuhr, in his apologia for Schleiermacher, which inspired a new age of scholarship on Schleiermacher in America, included a section entitled “Grace and Nature,” but its focus was on the Christmas Eve Dialogue, not Schleiermacher's dogmatic theology. Neither Barth nor Niebuhr took note of Schleiermacher's more formal, dogmatic treatment of grace—what I am calling Schleiermacher's “treatise on grace”; in the several decades since their influential works, very few have attempted to correct this oversight. Such neglect by specialists has no doubt contributed to a wider sense that, despite the importance of his The Christian Faith (Glaubenslehre), Schleiermacher does not merit a place alongside other theologians when it comes to the history of the Christian doctrine of grace. None of the major scholarly books on the history and development of the doctrine of grace include a chapter or section (or even reference) to Schleiermacher's treatment of grace. Schleiermacher himself almost seems to have anticipated this oversight—worse, really, than any criticism—when he asked, “Does my Glaubenslehre in any way fail to give due honor to divine grace?”

The seven letters written by Ignatius in the early decades of the second century C.E. offer a fascinating if enigmatic glimpse at the internal life of the churches of western Asia Minor.Helpful introductions to Ignatius are P. Nautin, “Ignatius of Antioch,” in Encyclopedia of the Early Church (ed. Angelo Di Berardino; trans. A. Walford; 2 vols.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1992) 1.404–5, and Christine Trevett, A Study of Ignatius of Antioch in Syria and Asia (Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellen, 1992). For surveys of Ignatian scholarship, see William R. Schoedel, “Polycarp of Smyrna and Ignatius of Antioch,” ANRW II.27.1 (1993) 272–358 (hereafter “Schoedel, ANRW”), and Charles Munier, “Où en est la question d'Ignace d'Antioche?” ANRW II.27.1 (1993) 359–484. On the date of the letters, see Schoedel, ANRW, 347–49 (“anywhere between A.D. 105 and A.D. 135”) and Munier, “Ignace,” 380 (“entre les années 110–135”). Throughout this essay the translations of Ignatius are drawn from William R. Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985) (hereafter “Schoedel, Ignatius”). I have used the Greek text edited by Joseph B. Lightfoot, The Apostolic Fathers: Part II, Ignatius and Polycarp (London: Macmillan, 1889–1890; repr., Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson, 1989; 3 vols.) (hereafter “Lightfoot, Ignatius”) which I have verified against F. X. Funk, K. Bihlmeyer, and W. Schneemelcher, Die apostolischen Väter (Tübingen: Mohr-Siebeck, 1970). I have also consulted J. B. Lightfoot and J. R. Harmer, The Apostolic Fathers: Greek Texts and English Translations (ed. and rev. Michael Holmes; Grand Rapids: Baker Book House, 1992). Note the typographical distinction between the Pauline epistles to the Romans (Romans, Rom) and to the Ephesians (Ephesians, Eph) and the Ignatian epistles To the Romans (Romans, Rom.) and To the Ephesians (Ephesians, Eph.). I assume that in his letters, five of which are addressed to churches in Asia Minor, Ignatius is referring to phenomena that he observed, or heard about, while in Asia Minor. Ignatius condemns various errors and heresies, and pleads with his fellow Christians to maintain unity by accepting the leadership of their bishops. Remarkably brief, florid, and allusive, the letters are frequently obscure; as a result the nature and identification of Ignatius's opponents are much debated in contemporary scholarship.Recent discussion includes Schoedel, ANRW, 301–30; Munier, “Ignace,” 404–7 (on the “judaizers”) and 407–13 (on the “Docetists”); Jerry Sumney, “Those Who ‘Ignorantly Deny Him’: The Opponents of Ignatius of Antioch,” Journal of Early Christian Studies 1 (1993) 345–65; Mark Edwards, “Ignatius, Judaism, and Judaizing,” Eranos 93 (1995) 69–77; Judith Lieu, Image and Reality: The Jews in the World of the Christians in the Second Century (Edinburgh: T&T Clark, 1996) 23–56; Michael Goulder, “Ignatius's ‘Docetists,’” Vigiliae Christianae 53 (1999) 16–30; Wolfram Uebele, ‘Viele Verführer sind in die Welt ausgegangen’: Die Gegner in den Briefen des Ignatius von Antiochien und in den Johannesbriefen (BWANT 151; Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2001). Among the much-discussed opponents are the targets of the polemic in To the Philadelphians (6.1–2), in which Ignatius exhorts his flock not to listen to anyone who expounds “Judaism.”

The publication of this work in 1892 made de Régnon the most influential and yet least known of Catholic historians of doctrine.

In her discussion of the life of Macrina (ca. 327–79), the sister of Gregory of Nyssa, Susanna Elm comments upon Macrina's decision to treat the death of her fiancé as if it were the death of a husband. Inasmuch as this decision became a reason for her not to (re)marry, Macrina took on “a new social role: the virgin widow.” Elm's casual remark points to a remarkable failure among a number of commentators to take account of the ambiguities inherent in the title “widow” (Greek χήρα, Latin vidua). While acknowledging the existence of an order of widows, scholars have also widely assumed that the terms χήρα and vidua can be equated to the modern term “widow,” that is, a woman who has survived her husband. The discussion of Christian widows, and especially enrolled widows, has accordingly focused primarily upon the function and often the age of these women. If scholars mention the marital status of such women at all, their discussion is generally directed toward the question of second marriages. I shall argue, however, that it is in fact misleading to assume that a widow must have been married previously and that in the earliest centuries of the Christian church, there is evidence not only for the existence of “virgin widows” but also for the problems that these women posed for some church leaders.

Philo, professionally, was not a teacher of philosophy. He was a preacher, a preacher on biblical topics, who dispensed his philosophic thoughts in the form of sermons. And because he was not professionally a teacher of philosophy, some modern students of his works say that he was not a philosopher. For nowadays, as we all know, to be called philosopher one must be ordained and one must be hired to teach philosophy and one must also learn to discuss certain hoary problems as if they were plucked yesterday out of the air. Some say that Philo was an eclectic. But there is one eminent authority who would begrudge him even the title of eclectic without further qualification, for, after all, eclecticism is the name of a reputable system in ancient Greek philosophy. The eclecticism of Philo, our eminent authority says, “is that of the jackdaw rather than the philosopher.” But, while we may deny Philo the honorific title of philosopher, with the privilege of wearing ostentatiously a special garb like that affected by ancient Greek philosophers, we cannot deny him the humbler and more modest title of religious philosopher. As such, Philo was the first who tried to reduce the narratives and laws and exhortations of Scripture to a coherent and closely knit system of thought and thereby produced what may be called scriptural philosophy in contradistinction to pagan Greek philosophy.

The “eclectic method” in NT textual criticism is one of several disguises for the broad and basic problem of the “canons of criticism” or of the “criteria for originality” as applied to the various readings in the NT textual tradition, and in a real sense eclectic methodology—in its several forms as currently practised—is as much a symptom of basic problems in the discipline as it is a proposed and widely applied solution to those problems. By the same token, perhaps every methodological approach and even every discussion of methodology in NT textual criticism could be described as symptomatic of the problems; yet the eclectic method seems in a particularly pointed way to veil the problems of the discipline, for by its very nature it tries in one way or another to utilize all available approaches to textual problems, and in a single given case of seeking the original text it often wishes to apply to the problem several established text-critical criteria, even if these criteria have the appearance of being mutually exclusive or contradictory.

It seems agreed that κερδαίνω in the sense of ‘to win over an unbeliever to one's faith’ (I Cor. 9.19–22, I Pet. 3.1) or ‘to win back a sinner to the way of life required by his and your faith’ (Matt. 18.15) is an echter terminus technicus der Missions-sprache; by which is meant, apparently, that there is no precedent for this sense of the word in either Hellenistic or Rabbinic language. I wish to suggest that this view is not correct; and that the use of κερδαίνω in the passages in question, while conceivably reflecting a specifically Christian trend, is in the main determined by the Rabbinic vocabulary.