Until Titus's destruction of Jerusalem in 70 CE, the national and religious life of Palestinian Jewry was organized around the cultic system of the Temple. Despite many changes in the political status of the nation and of Jerusalem itself, the Temple continued to serve as the seat of the priesthood, the destination of sacred pilgrimage, and the instrument of cultic expiation. Other places and forms of worship are attested during the second commonwealth, and by the advent of the common era groups such as the Qumran community had turned away from Jerusalem altogether. Yet there can be little doubt that the Temple was perceived as the preeminent symbol of Israel's God. Excavations of first-century Palestinian synagogues have revealed a basic architectural design of orientation toward the sanctuary. Although geographically and religiously remote from the Temple, the Jews of the diaspora continued, writes Philo of Alexandria (ca. 20 BCE–50 CE), to “hold the Holy City where stands the sacred Temple of the most high God to be their mother city.”

In 177 CE Christians in Lugdunum and Vienna in Gaul were persecuted, and some were martyred. The survivors sent a letter by Irenaeus to the churches in Asia and Phrygia describing what happened. Among other things, they complained that they were excluded from the baths (βαλανεῖα). Later in his Adversus haereses (ca. 190 CE) Irenaeus referred to a story he claimed stemmed from Polycarp of Smyrna, who died ca. 156 CE, about John the disciple going to the public baths (βαλανεῖον) in Ephesus where he saw Cerinthus. Tertullian of Carthage in his Apologeticum (197 CE) claimed that the Christians were no different from other people: they went to the forum, the food market, and the baths (balneia). These three passages, among the earliest references to Roman baths by Christians, suggest no ethical reservations about going to the baths. An interesting question arises: Were there women in these baths?

The Papal Inquisition of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries cannot be assigned so prominent a position in the history of French Jewry as that which the “New” Inquisition later occupied in the destinies of the Jews of Spain. It is perhaps for this reason that the Jewish aspects of the Inquisition in France have attracted comparatively little attention from scholars. The paucity of original documents relating to the subject may also have been a contributing factor. Still, though it can be understood, this neglect remains unfortunate. In addition to its intrinsic interest for the study of Franco-Jewish history and of Jewish relations with the medieval Church, research into the treatment of the Jews by the French Inquisition can shed much light on the later development in Spain. For all the difference in the historical situations, the Papal Inquisition adumbrated, in its dealings with the Jews, the institution which was to play such a formidable role in the Iberian Peninsula. There is surprisingly little in the theoretical, procedural, and even the practical approach of the Spanish Inquisition to Jewish affairs for which one cannot find the archetype in the earlier Inquisition.

The question of whether there existed “Forerunners of the Reformation” is of considerable interest both to historians and theologians. The significance of the historical aspect of the question will be evident to any student of the history of ideas. It is clearly important to establish whether precursors of the distinctive teachings associated with the Reformation of the sixteenth century exist, and if they can be thus identified, to establish what influence, if any, they had upon the Reformers. However, it was the theological aspect of the question which was considered more relevant at the time of the Reformation itself, and which still has considerable significance today. The central theological question concerning the existence or otherwise of the Forerunners is this: Can the distinctive teachings of the churches of the Reformation be considered to be truly catholic? It can be shown without difficulty that it was the desire to demonstrate the catholicity of the Lutheran Reformation which led to the search for such Forerunners in the first instance.

The question of revelation is a formidable question in the proper sense of the word, not only because it may be seen as the first and last question for faith, but also because it has been obscured by so many false debates that the recovery of a real question in itself constitutes an enormous task. My lecture today will be devoted to just this enterprise.

Ever since the Boston Church cast out Anne Hutchinson in 1638, the fact of her having “made a Lye” has stood without question. But why she told “soe horrible an Untruth and falshood,” or what it meant to her to do so, has not always been so clear. Part of the problem is an irony so deeply imbedded in the lie itself that it almost escapes notice: when Mrs. Hutchinson denied that she had held the erroneous opinions which countless people had heard her openly proclaim, she was inadvertently saying something about the relationship between thinking and speaking—something about language itself. That “something,” though neither she nor her adversaries could fully grasp or articulate it, was felt to be so subversive that the mere presence of its perpetrator in the community was deemed utterly intolerable: a dishonor to Jesus Christ and a “sine agaynst God” (385).

When I set out to survey the history of these epithets I did not expect to find anything of particular interest. But soon the following points which required an explanation emerged.

In part, perhaps, because of the lack of a modern edition — the most recent, Wilhelm Dindorf's text of 1832, has become extremely scarce — Themistius' orations, and their significance in the religious and intellectual history of the fourth century, have not been as well known as they should be. It is hoped that a new edition may be forthcoming before long. In the meantime the present study will offer some observations on Themistius' writings which will suggest some of his significance in the general picture of the fourth century. Incidentally the writer will venture to point out various passages which suggest that Themistius had some knowledge of the Christian scriptures, especially the New Testament.

“In manu enim illius et nos et sermones nostri, et omnis sapientia et operum scientia, et disciplina.” Liber Sapientiae vii:16.

When the English nominalist and Dominican friar Robert Holcot († 1349) reaches the sixteenth verse of the seventh chapter in his Wisdom commentary, he seizes the opportunity to underscore his main theme which he had so passionately presented on the preceding pages as well as in his Sentences commentary: Wisdom is a gift of God: man's claim therefore that he can have a natural knowledge of God is false.

The edition of the “De Virginitate” of Athanasius by Eduard von der Goltz (Texte und Untersuchungen xxix, 1905) is one of the most important contributions made in modern times to the knowledge of the text of Athanasius, because of its full discussion of the variant readings of the manuscripts. The work, however, was handicapped by incomplete knowledge of the Patmos MS. (P), which von der Goltz regarded as the best, and by almost complete ignorance of the two Vatopedi MSS. quoted by him under the symbols W1 and W2, but in the present article designated A and K, since that nomenclature was adopted in the first article on their contents in the Journal of Theological Studies, vol. v, 1903, pp. 108 ff.

A visit to Athos and Patmos in 1925 has made it possible to build a little further on von der Goltz's foundation, and to correct some of the errors inevitable to the conditions under which he worked. We shall here give:

(I) A fuller account of P.

(II) A list of corrections to be made in von der Goltz's collation of P.

(III) A collation, with von der Goltz's edition, of the text of the two Vatopedi MSS. A and K, and of a third MS. in the same library, which we call Q.

(IV) Some discussion of the general problem of the text of the “De Virginitate.”

In ancient Israel, the tribe of Levi was deemed to have a special connection with the service of God. Numerous biblical texts speak of the Levites as the priestly tribe or attribute to them certain special functions connected with cultic worship. But why exactly had the Levites been selected for such honors, and how did their selection come about? Several biblical narratives appear to have been designed in order to answer this question. Thus, the selection of the Levites is at one point connected with their zealousness following the Golden Calf incident (Exod 32:25–29), while elsewhere God's choice of the Levites seems to follow as a natural consequence after the death of the Levite Aaron (see Deut 10:8) or, possibly, to be the result of Moses' words in his final blessing of this tribe before his death (Deut 33:8– 10).

In 1962, papyri of the fourth century B.C. were discovered by Beduin in a desolate canyon north of Jericho on the rim of the Jordan rift. These documents, known by their place of discovery as the Wâdī Dâliyeh Papyri, were inscribed in Samaria during the half century before the conquest of Alexander the Great. The papyri are without exception legal documents, not a few executed before the governor and prefect of Samaria. Among the surprises to be found in the new documents is the appearance twice of the name Sanballat, or more properly Sin'uballiṭ. In each instance Sanballat is listed as father of the governor of Samaria, once on an official sealing inscribed in Palaeo-Hebrew script, once in Aramaic in the context of a document of about the mid-fourth century.

The story of Amalek's deed occurs twice in the Bible: in Exod 17:8–16 and in Deut 25:17–19. The account in Exodus is quite succinct: “Then came Amalek and fought with Israel in Refidim” (Exod 17:8); in contrast, the description in Deuteronomy paints a broader and more detailed picture: “Remember what Amalek did to thee by the way, when you were come out of Egypt: how he met thee by the way, and smote the hindmost of thee, all that were feeble in thy rear, when thou wast faint and weary; and he feared not God” (Deut 25:17–18). The Exodus version, although sparing in its description of the particulars, offers the more dramatic account of the war between Israel and Amalek.

In 1912, Ernst Troeltsch published a memorial review article for William James entitled “Empiricism and Platonism in the Philosophy of Religion.” This article which deals with James' The Varieties of Religious Experience is still the clearest succinct statement of James' position within the context of the general problems of Western philosophies of religion.

“Christian Natural Law is the acceptance and reinterpretation according to Christian and ecclesiastical principles of Stoic Natural Law. …” Thus runs Troeltsch's classic and influential formulation of the view that Stoicism forms the “preparation of the gospel” with regard to the law of nature in Christian theology and ethics. Historians of political theory similarly assume that it was the Stoic doctrine of natural law that decisively influenced both the rationalization and universalization of Roman law and medieval political theory.

The biblical information concerning the figure of Nimrod is scarce. Post-biblical tradition has added supplementary details that cannot be found in the biblical text, however much they may be presented as results of exegesis of this text. This article first examines the biblical data about Nimrod and sees whether he can be identified with an extra-biblical, a pre-biblical, prototype. Second, it investigates the ways in which the few biblical data have given rise to post-biblical haggadic developments. K. van der Toorn has written the first part of this essay, P. W. van der Horst the second.

What does it mean “to be a man”? Whereas in most societies at most times the determination of “maleness” is straightforward (does he have male genitalia? what is his chromosomal make-up?), locating the cultural constructions of “manhood” is far more difficult. Many anthropologists have noted that in contrast to models that postulate a common psychology for all men, everywhere, all the time, constructions of manhood are varied and culturally dependent. For example, the highly aggressive behavior necessary for retention of manhood for a male resident of Andalusian Spain can be contrasted to the sanctioned behavior of males of Tahiti. Unifying these diverse constructions of masculinity, however, is the common idea that manhood is an acquired state that males must fight both to attain and maintain. Because manhood is an achieved state, it can never be taken for granted: a male must be constantly proving that he is a man. “[T]he state of being a ‘real man’ or ‘true man’ [is] uncertain or precarious, a prize to be won or wrested through struggle.” Similar constructions of manhood are evident today throughout the circum-Mediterranean.

Good historical fiction reveals not only the realities of a particular epoch, but also its cultural attitudes. An excellent example is Bernard Malamud's The Fixer, which succeeds in disclosing the nature of Russian anti-semitism by artfully weaving together enduring themes of anti-Jewish Christian mythology—the blood libel and accusations of ritual murder—to illustrate the fabric of Jewish life in early modern Russia. Perhaps almost unnoticed in his work, however, are references to the myth of Jewish male menses. Consider the following passages from The Fixer, in which the Jewish defendant, Yakov Bok, is confronted by this bizarre contention:

“You saw the blood?” the Prosecuting Attorney said sarcastically. “Did that have some religious meaning to you as a Jew? Do you know that in the Middle Ages Jewish men were said to menstruate?” Yakov looked at him in surprise and fright. “I don't know anything about that, your honor, although I don't see how it could be.”

Some three decades ago Michel Foucault sought to reestablish communication between “madness” and “non-madness” by going back to what he called the “zero point” in history at which the distance between reason and madness was first established. In Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, Foucault suggested that returning to this point of initial differentiation requires renouncing all that we as modern persons know to be true about madness and reason. If we are to locate “that realm in which the man of madness and the man of reason, moving apart, are not yet disjunct,” he wrote,

we must speak of that initial dispute without assuming a victory, or the right to a victory; we must speak of those actions re-examined in history, leaving in abeyance all that may figure as a conclusion, as a refuge in truth. … Then, and then only, can we… begin the dialogue of their breach, testifying in a fugitive way that they still speak to each other.