During the period of his greatest poetic achievement Coleridge was deeply concerned with two fundamental religious questions: the origin of evil and the relation of faith and reason. To his quest for solutions which would satisfy both “head” and “heart,” the poet brought a wide knowledge of patristic writings. As Aids to Reflection shows, the most permanent and profound theological influence upon Coleridge was that of the great Platonist Church Father, St. Augustine. Evidence in Coleridge's early theological lectures, notebooks, and letters, as well as his retrospective account in the Biographia Literaria of his religious conflict at Stowey, indicates that the foundations for this later Augustinian influence were laid in the years 1795–1798.

In its bearings on the preparation for the work of the ministry the question, Is Hebrew worth while? is a live one. Like most questions, it has more than one side. I may declare at the outset my own conviction. In the practical work of the ministry Hebrew is not only worth while, but in these times comes near being essential if the work is to be done in a thorough way. Hebrew should, therefore, not only be a part of every seminary curriculum, but should be required for graduation.

In the essay “Creed or Chaos?” written in the midst of the turmoil of World War II, British mystery novelist Dorothy L. Sayers defended the relevance of the creeds produced during the doctrinal debates of the fourth and fifth centuries to the lives of modern Christians. The theological dogmas contained in such documents as the Nicene Creed (325) or the Chalcedonian Definition (451) are not, she notes wittily, “a set of arbitrary regulations invented a priori by a committee of theologians enjoying a bout of all-in dialectical wrestling,” but were “hammered out under pressure of urgent practical necessity” to resolve theological controversies that had real impact on the discipleship of ordinary Christians. To put matters at their simplest, the trinitarian controversies revolved around the question of whether Christ was divine, and so capable of saving humankind from sin and death. The christological controversies, at least in their earliest stage, debated whether Christ was really human, truly the God-made-man capable of healing wounded humanity and providing aviable role model for Christians to follow in the living of a redeemed life. At stake in both controversies was a convincing explanation of the central Christian tenet that “Jesus saves” for those who profess to be his followers.

A recent article by George B. Murray draws the attention of philosophers and theologians to a problem in the thought of Teilhard de Chardin which they often tend to overlook. The “synthetic theory” of evolution held by the majority of contemporary biologists, Father Murray points out, is not to be found in Teilhard's scientific writings. Instead, Teilhard proposes a theory of orthogenesis, a word and concept now almost universally rejected by biologists. This discrepancy between Teilhard and the best contemporary biological thought is often ignored by those who find his writings a promising approach to the reconciliation of science and Christianity or to problems of science and philosophy. Father Murray gives a very useful analysis of probable reasons for Teilhard's insistence on retaining the word “orthogenesis” in the face of opposition from fellow-scientists and in spite of the fact that his modifications of the meaning of orthogenesis might have been more readily acceptable had he described them by a different name. However, much more important than the reasons why Teilhard insisted on the use of the word “orthogenesis” is the question, which Murray does not discuss, of the importance and place of orthogenesis in Teilhard's thought, whether it is legitimate for philosophers and theologians to accept the general outline of Teilhard's theories and leave this technical scientific question to the scientists, or whether Teilhard's whole system of thought stands or falls with a discredited theory of biology.

A quarter of a century has now elapsed since the foundation of Toynbee Hall in the east of London inaugurated the “University Settlement” movement in the vast and then almost inchoate capital of the British Empire; and the present time seems therefore appropriate for an attempt to form some estimate of the past results and future possibilities of the movement, which soon spread to other towns of England and Scotland. Yet such an undertaking is beset with serious difficulties. Throughout the whole history of the settlements there is indeed apparent an essential identity of purpose, an underlying uniformity of motive; but the individual institutions have been the outcome of the action of various bodies of persons whose aims, as formally expressed, seem often very diverse; different groups have laid the main emphasis on different objects and methods, and what has been counted as triumphant success by one group has been deemed of relatively small importance by another. Further, the wide range of the activities of the settlements, the multifarious nature of their interests and work, render it practically impossible for any one observer to comprehend the whole in his single survey; and the selection which he must needs make tends almost inevitably to be determined, and it may be even unfairly biassed, by his own personal predilections. Within this narrower range, moreover, there is no certain standard by which to measure success or failure; the value of the work accomplished by a settlement is not to be judged solely, or even chiefly, by the statistics of its classes and clubs. If it has realized its objects, however imperfectly, it has exercised upon the surrounding community, in conjunction with all other institutions that in any way and by any means make for good, a subtle and permeating influence which has resulted in a progressive amelioration of social life; but, for the very reason that this achievement is the result of a number of co-operating forces, the share of the settlement therein cannot be isolated or defined with any exactitude.

The career of a man who devotes his life to reflection upon philosophy and religion, whose active work consists in teaching these subjects and in writing about them, is little likely to furnish incidents meet for flamboyant biography. But it may well be a source of profound influence, destined to affect the culture of a people or an age long after events that splash noisily upon the momentary surface have sunk into oblivion. Now Caird constituted an exceptional force, particularly in that native home of English-speaking philosophy and religion, Scotland; as such he merits memorial in these pages. Moreover, we must remember that, although, to his great regret, expressed to me often, he never visited the United States, his spirit has wrought strongly on this continent. Years ago, when I was a young Fellow at Glasgow, I received a letter from an American philosopher which concluded with words that have always stuck in my memory, “We look to Glasgow for light and leading.” Here Glasgow happened to be a synonym for the brothers Caird.

Kakuso Okakura died in Japan September 2, 1913. He was an “Admirable Crichton” in his way, a man of vast learning, which covered both sides of the world. He was graduated from the Tokio University in 1880 with honors in philosophy and English literature, to which he might have added honors in Oriental philosophy and literature had not the drift of education in Japan at that time been all in the direction of the Occident. He always kept in close touch with the Occidental world, and was for ten years the head of the Department of Chinese and Japanese Art at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

Loss acquires meaning and generates recovery.1

I have done much rebuilding. To reconstruct is to collaborate with time gone by, penetrating or modifying its spirit, and carrying it toward a longer future.2

The Genevan Reformation was subjected to a trenchant ethical critique during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries by Roman Catholics, Lutherans, Anabaptists, and Radicals who identified both Calvin and Beza as unscrupulous, dishonest, and immoral. By contrast, modern scholars have paid little attention to such matters. They have either stated explicitly that both men were upright and honest in their lives and ministries or implied it. A handful of scholars have, however, alluded to dishonest conduct on their parts. The present article takes up this topic in detail, looking particularly at Geneva’s ministry to France. It contends that duplicity characterized Calvin and Beza’s French ministry between 1536 and 1563. It commences by examining their understanding of mendacity, which provides the standard for our analysis of their ministry. After outlining what Calvin and Beza did to support and strengthen Calvinist churches in France, the article sets forth and explains the system Calvin devised to hide their ministry from the French Catholic government and probably from the Nicodemites as well. This system depended on lies, deceit, and simulation.

Luke 14:26 has commonly been viewed as an example of hyperbole. This article applies modern studies on hyperbole that hold as its principle criteria both a scalar property and an evaluative/expressive function. We apply these criteria, analyzing Luke 14:26 in terms of encoded language, co-text, and context. We argue that hyperbole arises from the choice to use “hate” rather than “love more than” but also that the hyperbolic usage relies on a cause for effect (emotion for emotional response) metonym.1 In terms of language, we show that “hate” has variant meanings that may be different in their degrees of encoding. In terms of co-text, we argue that Luke’s use of “hate” and Matthew’s use of “love more than” are relevantly chosen; in other words, they are suited to and to be interpreted against their co-texts.

Precisely a hundred years ago Preller called attention to a curious passage in the Confession of St. Cyprian describing certain Greek mysteries and printed the text adding a few brief notes. This Cyprian was a famous magician who was converted to Christianity, the prototype of Dr. Faust, and is often confused with his namesake, the bishop of Carthage. His legend became very popular, there are Greek, Latin, Syriac, Coptic, and Arabic versions, and it has been much discussed. The Confession, so called because in it Cyprian speaks in his own words, was originally independent and later, but before Eudocia's metaphrasis, was inserted between the first book, the Conversion, and the third book, the Martyrdom, of the Greek version. The Empress Eudocia who married Theodosius II in A.D. 421 put the legend into verse, presumably in her old age; she included the Confession, which also was known to Gregory Nazianzen who in A.D. 379 delivered a sermon on St. Cyprian.4 This is valuable because it determines the time in which the Confession was composed, somewhat before A.D. 379. Thus it is roughly contemporary with the Neoplatonic circle of the Emperor Julian and was written at a time when paganism was still a living reality, a fact which adds to the importance of the passage.

The basis of theistic belief is fortunately broader than the theistic arguments. People believe in God before they argue in favor of His existence, and the fortunes of theism are not inseparably bound up with any of the arguments framed in its support. No one, however, who is interested in the rational basis of theology can be indifferent to the fate of an argument which, whatever the philosophical objections to be brought against it, has in all ages of the world made a powerful appeal to human reason.

The researches of the last three decades have conclusively shown that toward the end of the third century B.C. a profound change occurred in the spiritual life of the Jews. Literary prophecy, which had been declining since the time of Haggai and Zechariah (ca. 518 B.C.), now definitely came to an end. The noble tradition had been in its death throes for no less than three centuries. In vain did the Joels, the Obadiahs, and the Deutero-Zechariahs seek to save it from complete eclipse. Its hour had passed. In the meantime, new forces were arising to contend for its place in the spiritual leadership of Israel.

Since the Enlightenment ennui and despair have been among the most dominant themes in western literature. In the twentieth century there scarcely exists a single major work of fiction which views man's nature and destiny under the aspect of hope or fulfillment. Why this should be so is the subject of interminable discussion which, generally speaking, locates the deeper cause in the breakdown of virtually all genuine religiousness with an attendant rise of meaninglessness and emptiness. This development in turn is linked to the various revolutions, particularly the Industrial, that have combined to undermine traditional occidental modes of thought and living. While some critics hold that it is merely a question of modern society becoming gradually accustomed to the blessings so precipitously conferred upon it by technology, thus comparing its present growing pains to those of an adolescent, few seem to disagree on the prevailing exhaustion and anxiety. In addition to the note of doom struck by the best intellectuals of our day — and its fashionableness is no argument against its truth — it would appear that the unreflecting masses independently of being exposed to this literature do not know how to redeem their leisure time, have lost a great deal of capacity for spontaneous participation, and seek despairingly if not eagerly for something vital to which they can relate themselves and through which find renewed structure in their lives.

Scholars in all fields should hold themselves morally responsible for what they publish and teach. One would think that everyone would take this for granted, but Hilary Putnam, for one, has earnestly warned that we dare not. As he writes, “To-day, as we face the twenty-first century, our task is not to repeat the mistakes of the twentieth century.” He sounded this warning at the conclusion of his analysis of Jacques Derrida's philosophical works. Putnam regrets that philosophers reside among the all too numerous scholars whose publications and instruction aided and abetted the development of the “political tragedy” exemplified by the regimes of Hitler and Stalin. Derrida the philosopher counts among current scholars whose thinking raises the specter of repeating those mistakes of the twentieth century and their horrendous aftermath. Taking the renewal of philosophy as the theme for his Gifford Lectures of 1990, Putnam characterized the writings of Derrida as not only philosophically unsound, but also as dangerous and irresponsible.

Some years ago a rectangular ceramic panel appeared at auction in London and made its way to Boston (fig. 1). The object was purchased by Cornelius C. Vermeule III, who placed it on loan to the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. The technical term in English to describe the fabric of this kind of ceramic is “African Red Slip” ware—abbreviated ARS. The term was coined by John Hayes, a scholar who has done important work in classifying these wares. In Italian, the name that is used is “terra sigillata chiara” or “light terra sigillata,” to distinguish it from “terra sigillata,” its counterpart in Italy and Gaul. The latter has a deep-red color and a high-gloss surface, while the African variety is less shiny and light orange in color.

In 2 Corinthians 8, Paul appeals to the principle of “equality” (ἰσότης) in order to encourage the Corinthians to contribute to the collection for the poor in Jerusalem. What is this “equality” of which Paul speaks and to which he exhorts his readers? Is it a principle of fairness, an equitable balance between the “haves” and the “have-nots” that might find expression in spirited generosity and charitable initiatives? Or is it “a regulative principle of mutual assistance,” which sets in motion a process of equalization between those who have surplus and those who have need? Or does Paul intend something more radical, more democratic? Is Paul asserting that all believers in Christ Jesus are “equal” and on this basis (ἐξ ἰσότητος) should engage in redistributive action, “so that there may be equality” (ὅπως γένηται ἰσότης)?