The April before he delivered his address at the Divinity School, Emerson had traveled into Cambridge to discuss “theism” with some of the Divinity School students. Although he was not usually reluctant to let his views be known, he went to this meeting “rather heavy-hearted,” fearing that what he had to say about theism would not be warmly received. “I always find,” he confessed, “that my views chill or shock people at the first opening.” But this conversation must have gone well. Emerson came away from it “cheered,” and remembered one point that seemed to impress the students favorably:

In light of our present knowledge it seems clear that the Essenes, despite all their intentions to be “true Israel,” in fact constituted a digression from the Judaism of their times, both in their mode of life and in certain of their basic concepts. As to their concepts, one can think of dualism, determinism, astrology, manticism, and perhaps also their highly developed hierarchical angelology; as to their modes of life, illustrations include their extreme segregation, their living in communes, common property, common meals, solar calendar, and baptism as a principal part of their ritual. Many attempts have been made to trace these traits within the Stoa, Cynicism, and Neopythagoreanism, as well as in the Persian religon. Some have been content with comparing the Essenes to other sects of the Hellenistic era. In the following pages I assume the well-established theory of the identity of the Essenes depicted in Philo and Josephus with the community of the Qumran scrolls and propose to show that the accounts of Philo and Josephus did not contain commonplace topoi of classical Utopias.

Hebrews 13.9–14 is among the most difficult passages of the entire New Testament. Here, in the context of a warning against “diversified and foreign doctrines” (διδαξαì πoικíλαι καì ξεναι), a Christological argument occurs (13.11-12). It is obviously the intention of the writer to ground his objection to the “foreign doctrines” on this Christological basis. But the character of the doctrines opposed in these verses has remained an enigma to commentators inasmuch as the function of the Christological argument in this polemical setting has not been recognized clearly. However, a closer examination of the Old Testament passage which underlies the Christological argument in Hebrews 13.11 may provide a key for a fresh solution of the complex problems of this passage.

In his seminal 1968 study of Francis Bacon's political thought, Howard B. White argued that the New Atlantis is “a rewriting of a Platonic myth, and a rewriting clearly intended as a refutation.” Bacon's attack on Plato, however, is partially mediated through his critique of Christianity. Indeed, Bacon pays more explicit attention to the tropes and themes of revealed religion than he does to those of the story of the “old” Atlantis told in Plato's Timaeus and Critias. Scholars are divided as to the exact nature of Bacon's intentions in his treatment of religion in the New Atlantis. Richard Tuck suggests that “the desire for a reconstructed religion” is “explicit in the blend of Protestantism and Judaism” created by Bacon. Most scholars, however, unlike Tuck, argue that Bacon was more interested in undermining religion—or more specifically, its political authority—than in reconstructing it. Laurence Lampert's argument that Bacon stands at the head of “the actual holy war fought in Europe . . ., the warfare of science against religion that tamed sovereign religion” typifies much of the scholarly commentary on the New Atlantis since White's reading of it almost forty years ago. The consensus view is that Bacon promotes the politic manipulation of the tropes and themes of revealed religion so that they might be made to support the modern scientific project and the cause of peace from religious strife: “Bacon's lifelong concern for religion uniformly expressed itself in arguments for moderation in religion.” White argues that Bacon demonstrates how “religious turmoil” can be countered “not only by religious toleration, but also by religious eclecticism, amounting to religious universality.”

In the middle of the twentieth century biblical scholars claimed the unity of the human person as the core of biblical anthropology.1 The Hebrew term , “life,” “person,” was no longer to be translated as “soul,” and the best English equivalent for the Greek ψυχή was “person.” In the seventies and eighties, on both sides of the Atlantic, the pendulum swung even further, to the point of favoring the body. In Paris, in the École Pratique des Hautes Études, Pierre Geoltrain offered a lecture course on the “body” in several texts of the New Testament, while in the United States Dale Martin worked on his book published under the title The Corinthian Body.2 In Geneva, where expression corporelle had become a form of instruction in dance and eurhythmic practice at the Institut Jaques-Dalcroze, some New Testament scholars incorporated bodily experience into their understanding of biblical passages.3 It was also this time that saw—in the secular realm—the creation of “body shops” and the continuous care of one's own body. With Merleau-Ponty we can say that this recent period witnesses a rediscovery of the body.4

Jacques Maritain and Simone Weil never met, and only once exchanged letters. Maritain never cites Weil; she, on the other hand, cites him explicitly in at least three places, but disparagingly. Despite their limited contact, which may have left Weil slightly vindictive, Maritain nevertheless played a significant role for Weil. However, it was one in which he chiefly inspired her to rise to a new level of thought by her conscious attempt to contradict him.

The question of how different gnostic Christians interpreted and practiced sacraments — so long limited to the sparse references in the anti-gnostic writers — is being reexamined in the light of recently available gnostic documents. Yet one source long available — the fragments of Heracleon that Origen cites in his own Commentary on John — yields evidence that Heracleon not only interprets the sacraments in terms of Valentinian theology, but also criticized, from this theological standpoint, the sacramental theology and practice of the “great church.” Heracleon's sacramental theology, however, has escaped the notice of those researchers that have limited their investigation to the quoted fragments themselves. Analysis of Origen's commentary as a whole reveals that other statements of Heracleon's doctrine frequently appear apart from the direct quotations. Such statements, recognizable by their concurrence of terminology and doctrine with the quoted fragments, Origen introduces as the opinion of “the heterodox,” 3 or “those who introduce the doctrine of natures,” or in the voice of the imaginary interlocutor. As Heracleon is his principal protagonist, these often set forth his views. Extending our methodology to include investigation of Origen's arguments — which are characteristically structured, in the John commentary, to refute Heracleon's allegations — we discover in the extant debate evidence for a Valentinian theology of baptism and the eucharist.

[I am deeply indebted to Professor A. D. Nock for his kindness in reading this paper in its first draft and for his invaluable criticisms and suggestions.]

In the Christology of the New Testament we are faced with two distinct methods of expressing the belief of the Church as to the person of the historical Jesus of Nazareth. Of the belief that He was merely a great human teacher we find no trace; the Church would never have come into being, if it had not believed that He had risen from the dead. As we all know, the Christology that prevailed was that which saw in Him the Incarnation of the divine Word or Wisdom, which was at once the divine and living pattern of the cosmos, the agent by which the cosmos was created, and the divine mind immanent in the cosmos and more particularly in the mind of man. It was inevitable that this cosmogony should triumph in the end, since it was the only one which could, with whatever difficulty, be formally reconciled with Jewish monotheism; moreover it transferred the Lord from the realm of eschatology, which meant nothing to the Greek convert, into the sphere of cosmogony which was one of the central problems of the semi-Gnostic philosophy and theology of the hellenistic age, as we meet it in the Corpus Hermeticum.

In his long and distinguished career which bridged two centuries, Sir Oliver Lodge (1851–1940) was one of the most versatile intellectual figures in England. His discoveries in physics placed him in the first rank of British science. For his work in electricity, radio, and wave theory Lodge was awarded the Rumford and Alfred medals by the Royal Society. He also was a Romanes Lecturer at Oxford, a president of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and the first Principal of the University of Birmingham. Lodge's publication record is breathtaking: more than 1,200 items, including nearly forty books, over a sixty-year period. While more than half of these were purely scientific or technical, it is significant that more than 100 pieces dealt with psychical research and an additional 170 books and articles dealt with topics in philosophy and religion. More than half of Lodge's writings in this latter category appeared between 1896 and 1914.

Three of the earliest extant Jewish exegetes, Aristobulus, Aristeas, and Philo, all state that King Ptolemy was responsible for a Greek translation of the Hebrew sacred writings. Scholarly discussion has focused on finding the historical kernel in these stories, or linking their creation to a particular event such as the official promulgation of an original or corrected Greek translation. The Letter of Aristeas is usually considered the most accurate version, in large part because it later was used as an introduction to the Septuagint. These discussions have overlooked the fact that in each case the basic plot is fine-tuned to suit each exegete's own ideas about how the Torah was written, how the text and its translation should be read and interpreted, and by whom. A comparison of the three versions reveals that each writer embellishes this bare-bones plot in a distinct manner. In particular, “historical” details are created by each writer that support the very exegetical endeavor he is undertaking. The story of the translation becomes a vehicle for creating all the components necessary to justify the exegete's role, from the creation of a unitary “Torah” out of the multiplicity of versions and stories to the motivation for the particular interpretative moves “demanded” by the very qualities of this Torah. Comparing the three stories gives us valuable insights into the self-perceptions of the exegetes and the emergence of what will become a standard model of text-author-exegete in Judaism.

As a teacher, as a scholar, as a dean, and as a churchman, Krister Stendahl has worked for decades to further Jewish-Christian relations and to promote women's studies and women. It is out of gratitude to him that I present these theses, which I see as a continuation of his work.

In a volume of speeches published in 1799 and addressed to those whom he called “the cultured among the despisers of religion,” Friedrich Schleiermacher offered a description of religious experience, doctrine, and practice designed to convince his readers that the conventional pieties they deplored in the churches and synagogues were not genuine religion. Instead, true religion was the sense and taste for the infinite that they themselves were cultivating in poetry, criticism, conversation, and other aesthetic pursuits of their romantic circle. He was especially concerned to allay their fears that religious beliefs might conflict with the growth of knowledge about the world of nature or the mind. “Religion,” he wrote, “leaves you, your physics and … also your psychology untouched.”

One of the perennial, and more vexing, problems in religious thought and philosophy has been the question unde malum. In ancient, medieval, and modern thought, the issue has been viewed mostly in its theological context. From the perspective of traditional monotheistic theology, the problem thus presents itself: If God is truly all good and all powerful, then why would God cause or even allow evil, whether natural (e.g., earthquakes, floods, human disease) or moral (murder, rape, and the like), to exist? Inasmuch as the existence of evil, at least from the phenomenological point of view, is an indisputable fact, it would seem that either divine omnipotence or benevolence must be limited.

In many fields of activity Robert Grosseteste was an important figure in thirteenth-century England. Bishop of Lincoln for nearly two decades (1235–1253), he pursued a vigorous policy as statesman and churchman. He was already a distinguished teacher and chancellor of the University of Oxford. His voluminous writings were more acceptable to his contemporaries than those of any other author. His scientific achievements were such that Professor Sarton has styled a volume of his monumental History of Science, From Robert Grosseteste to Roger Bacon. In death his memory was revered as that of a saint.

The Hebrew originals of the above-mentioned Psalms have been recently published by J. A. Sanders from a scroll containing approximately the last quarter of the Psalter which was found in the Eleventh Cave at Qumrân. In his preliminary notice on the unrolling of this scroll Sanders had already written:

There are seven non-canonical compositions, aside from Ps 151, interspersed among the psalms. One of these is a prose account of the psalms and songs composed by David and the purposes for which he wrote them. The total number of musical compositions attributed to David is 4050.

In view of the fatefulness of Ludwig Feuerbach for religion in the modern world, it is curious that recent theologians have written so little about him. For the most widely effective critiques of religion in our time, those by Marx and Freud, are both variations on a theme that received its classic expression not from them but from him. Yet Karl Barth is the one major theological figure of today who has explicitly concerned himself with Feuerbach over the years. Even if Barth had no other bearing on our situation than this, his reflections on Feuerbach would merit the attention I propose to give them by considering three questions: (1) Who is the Feuerbach with whom Barth has been concerned? (2) How has Barth responded to him? (3) Has he answered him?

In 1907, Édouard Dhorme first associated the term 'ēd in Gen. 2:6 with Sumerian id, “the cosmic river.” This identification accords well with the presumed Mesopotamian background to the Yahwistic creation account, and so has enjoyed wide acceptance. The term, as was quickly recognized, also occurs in Job 36:27 with similar force. That this name for the cosmic river was normally pronounced id in Akkadian as well as Sumerian is shown from syllabic spellings, so that the loan into Hebrew offers no linguistic difficulties. In the Mesopotamian materials, a primary function of id, the (divine) River, was, as is well known, to serve as judge in certain legal cases. Trial by river ordeal was a widespread phenomenon, in which the accused was plunged into the river, where his success in withstanding the rushing waters was supposed to determine his guilt or innocence.