Medieval accounts of disability by and large (though not universally) defend what is now labeled the “religio-moral” construction of disability: seeing an individual's disability as a punishment for that individual's sin.1 Unsurprisingly, such models are not much in favor among contemporary disability theorists for a number of reasons, among which we might include the unacceptable thought that an individual with disabilities somehow deserves those disabilities. Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) accepts some version of this theory, but one rather different from the standard one (or at least, from what is now generally understood as the religio-moral model). Aquinas sees physical impairments—things that constitute a subclass of what he labels “bodily defects”—fundamentally as punishments for original sin. He is (generally) very careful to distance his account of defects from notions of individual punishment. (When he is not, it is because of pressure from Scriptural sources—though as we shall see below he believes that by and large the Bible, too, explicitly rejects the view that disability could be a punishment for individual sin.) So whatever we think of punishment models more generally, Aquinas's certainly removes one of the least appealing aspects of such models as typically understood. And Aquinas is careful, too, to associate many features of the human condition—not just those identified as a certain subclass of defects – with corporate punishment for original sin. To this extent, his account of physical impairments tends to normalize such impairments, and to de-emphasize their distance from other features of post-lapsarian human existence. While I doubt that what Aquinas says about bodily defects would satisfy many contemporary disability theorists, it seems to me that parts of his accout—and not least this normalization strategy—may appeal to more theologically-inflected accounts of the human condition.

Any purely phenomenological description of the human being as in some sense “finite” must avail itself of a concept of finitude that does not rely, implicitly or explicitly, on the concept of God. Theologically motivated descriptions, however, face no such dilemma; they can and, indeed, must avail themselves of some concept of the human creature as a finite being created in God's image (Gen 1:27 KJV). For there to be a meaningful difference between these two descriptions, the concept of finitude common to both must have a different sense in each. These are some of the methodological requirements Heidegger lays down in Sein und Zeit §10: “The Delimitation [Abgrenzung] of Phenomenology from Anthropology, Psychology, and Biology.” Heidegger's strategy for distinguishing the analytic of Dasein, in which the concept of finitude (Endlichkeit) plays a foundational role, from what he refers to as “the anthropology of Christianity” consists in distinguishing between two concepts of finitude: (1) finitude as lack or imperfection, defined as ens finitum relative to God as ens infinitum, and (2) an original concept of finitude, which, not being defined relative to God, is purely phenomenological and constitutes the horizon of any and all understanding of Being.

The comparative study of Paul and the rabbis, an interest of students of the New Testament ever since Christian Hebraism, radically changed in the second half of the twentieth century. If “the study of relations between Judaism and early Christianity, perhaps more than any other area of modern scholarship, has felt the impact of World War II and its aftermath,” then, within this, Pauline scholarship has felt this impact the most. Various post-Holocaust studies read Paul not only in connection to early Judaism but specifically to rabbinic Judaism, which they saw as the epitome of both halakhic and Midrashic discourses. Turning to Tannaitic and Amoraic literatures expressed an urgent need to recontextualize Paul as part of traditional Judaism.

More than seventy years after Rudolf Bultmann delivered his famous lecture on the topic of “New Testament and Mythology” in 1941—initially on April 21 in Frankfurt am Main and again on June 4 in Alpirsbach—the program of demythologizing is still widely misunderstood, perhaps more so now than ever. Erroneous views have gradually accreted around Bultmann's original hermeneutic, so that now what is generally criticized under the name of “demythologizing” bears little resemblance to the intended program.

This article addresses two critical questions concerning Maimonides's views on human perfection at the end of his Guide of the Perplexed. The first is: For those who have reached the highest category of perfection—intellectual perfection, apprehension of the divine, the divine science—what prescription does Maimonides offer for perfecting that perfection, for solidifying the bond between them and God? I will argue: 1) that there is more than one method—that Maimonides indeed specifies two distinct methods—for stabilizing and intensifying the highest kind of perfection; 2) that the two methods yield two distinct ranks of perfect individuals; and 3) that Maimonides, in his attempt to perfect his own perfection, adopts the second method but achieves only the rank of those who employ the first.

Aquila of Sinope, the legendary second-century translator and convert to Judaism, appears in both Jewish and Christian tradition. Recent literature on his famous Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures is surprisingly limited, however. Dominique Barthélemy's landmark monograph on the Minor Prophets’ scroll gives some significant introductory attention to Aquila and the influence of Rabbi Akiva upon him, but the study's influential (if traditional) conclusions cannot be considered final. Lester Grabbe, in particular, has critiqued Barthélemy's portrayal of Aquila as a zealous follower (“un chaud partisan”) of Akiva and of his characteristic manner of exegesis (especially the inclusive sense he gave the accusative particle ’ēt). If there are real reasons informing this conventional depiction of Aquila, for Grabbe, “no isolated theory linking a particular translation with a particular figure of Jewish literature can truly claim serious attention,” without considerably more information about how the whole spectrum of Greek recensional activity interacted with all the diverse forms of ancient Jewish interpretation. Grabbe offers an important critique. At the same time, he requires a considerable advance in our knowledge. Indeed, given many irremediable uncertainties touching the precise information Grabbe would demand, it is not clear how far conclusions in this area can ever be entirely distanced from conjectures.

Scholarship in the humanities has seen a recent burgeoning interest in the processes of “appropriation,” a conceptual category that moves us away from the idea of one-way transmission or “influence” and allows us to explore the complex ways in which intellectual, literary, and material expressions or artifacts come to represent something “different from their original purposes.” Though the term has not acquired much currency in studies of medieval Jewish biblical scholarship, its fruitful deployment is amply attested in broader explorations of premodern exegetical literature. This investigation takes “exegesis and appropriation” as a revelatory integrating perspective on a neglected body of Hebrew scriptural scholarship: commentaries on the most important and influential work of Jewish biblical interpretation ever written, the Commentary on the Torah of Rashi (Solomon Yitzhaki; 1040–1105). The focus falls on “Rashi supercommentaries” (as glosses on Rashi's Commentary are usually called) from medieval Spain and on some striking religio-intellectual dynamics evident in their pages. The study thereby addresses Moshe Idel's call for scholarship to engage more with questions about “the meaning of the arrival of a corpus of writings in a new cultural environment.”

Origen's understanding of the epinoiai (aspects or concepts) of Christ is certainly one of the most fascinating and unique facets of his theology. By no means a marginal element in his Logos-Christology, a treatment, mention, or application of the epinoiai can be found in most of Origen's surviving texts. Scholarship on this topic has justifiably focused upon the two primary sources of the epinoiai in Origen's writings: Book I of his Commentary on John and Book I, Chapter 2 of On First Principles. While referencing these texts because of their systematic and definitional character, I intend to focus this article upon the substantial and multifaceted role of the epinoiai Christou in Origen's Commentary on Romans, the oldest extant commentary on this Pauline epistle. In doing so, my thesis is two-fold: first, I will argue that the epinoiai Christou play a considerable role in Origen's exegesis of Paul's epistle. If correct, this conclusion will be crucial for anyone seeking to gain a comprehensive account of Origen's concept of the epinoiai. Such is especially the case insofar as I will propose that the Commentary on Romans accentuates specifically the virtues as epinoiai, thereby offering a noteworthy glimpse into this particular aspect of Origen's epinoiai teaching. Second, I will argue that the results of Origen's application of the epinoiai concept to his exegesis constitute a compelling reading of the Pauline text that is worthy of contemporary engagement.

This study examines the text transmission of the figure of Martha of Bethany throughout the Fourth Gospel in over one hundred of our oldest extant Greek and Vetus Latina witnesses. The starting point for this study is instability around Martha in our most ancient witness of John 11–12, Papyrus 66. By looking at P66’s idiosyncrasies and then comparing them to the Fourth Gospel's greater manuscript transmission, I hope to demonstrate that Martha's presence shows significant textual instability throughout the Lazarus episode, and thus that this Lukan figure may not have been present in a predecessor text form of the Fourth Gospel that circulated in the second century. In order to gain the greatest amount of data on the Fourth Gospel's text transmission, I rely on several sources. Occasionally these sources conflict in their rendering of a variant; I have tried to make note of these discrepancies and look at photographs of witnesses whenever possible. Although this study is primarily focused on Greek and Vetus Latina witnesses, an occasional noteworthy variant (e.g., from a Syriac or Vulgate witness) may be mentioned when relevant to the subject at hand. The work of many established redaction critics, who have already hypothesized that Martha was not present in an earlier form of this Gospel story, will also be addressed.

Some time in the late-fifth or early-sixth century CE, a ritual practitioner—operating in the environs of Oxyrhynchus, Egypt—created a protective amulet that reads, “Hôr, Hôr, Phôr, Elôei, Adônai, Iaô, Sabaôth, Michaêl, Jesus Christ. Help us and this house. Amen” (Ὡρ, Ὡρ, Φωρ, Ἐλωεί, Ἀδωναί, Ἰάω, Σαβαώθ, Μιχαήλ, Ἰεσοῦ Χριστέ· Βοήθι ἡμῖν καὶ τούτῳ οἴκῳ. ἀμήν). Each of the names used in the first part of this amulet, known as P.Oxy. VIII 1152 (=PGM P6a), is familiar from other ritual objects from late antiquity (approx. fourth to seventh centuries CE). But the juxtaposition of these divine names on a single amulet presents us with a puzzle: did the ritual expert who created this artifact or his client perceive there to be a difference, tension, or even contradiction between Jesus Christ and the other names listed? Or, alternatively, would they have conceptualized all of these names as belonging equally within what they would have thought of as the “Christian tradition” or some other tradition?

Ancient polemicists claim that apocryphal texts contributed to the enduring popularity of the Origenist “heresy” in fourth- and fifth-century Egypt. The anchorite Sopatrus associates “apocryphal literature” with “discussions about the image,” shorthand for Origenist debates over the loss of the image of God in humanity, and urges his hearers to avoid both apocryphal books and the theological controversy they incite. In his festal letter of 401 CE, the archbishop Theophilus of Alexandria rails against Origenist teaching and urges Christians throughout Egypt to reject “Origen's evils” and disregard “Scriptures called ‘apocrypha.’” Shenoute's association of Origenist themes with “apocryphal books” in I Am Amazed demonstrates that non-canonical writings continued to occupy a central position in Origenist theological debates well into the fifth century.

In the late nineteenth century, the British writer Lewis Carroll published a nonsensical poem called The Hunting of the Snark in which an unlikely alliance hunts a fictional animal, which Carroll named the “snark.” Despite the alliance's intense search for the snark and their questions about how to describe and classify it (apparently, “a Boojum”), they do not find it. I want to suggest that any effort to locate “emotions” in the Hebrew Bible or the ancient Near East is comparable to hunting the snark. If we want our hunt to be successful, we will turn away from “the emotions” and toward something more like the psychological taxonomy that the emotions displaced in the late-modern period: namely, the taxonomy of “passions and affections.” “The emotions” are simply not to be found in the Hebrew Bible or in the historical contexts behind its emergence.

One of the most notable Catholic personalities in Modernism, the well-known current of thought headed in Italy by Ernesto Buonaiuti, Giorgio La Piana deserves more thorough consideration. Like many priests and laymen, La Piana owed an intellectual debt to Buonaiuti, with whom he shared a common interest in the early history of the church as well as in medieval theologian and mystic Gioacchino da Fiore, who prophesied the advent of a spiritual church. They also enjoyed a long-lasting friendship. What distinguished La Piana among his generation of scholars, who gave rise to the so-called “Modernist crisis,” was his choice to migrate to the United States, where he acted as a bridge between American and Italian culture. Notably, he translated George Foot Moore's works into Italian and Buonaiuti's essays into English for publication in the Harvard Theological Review. La Piana became a point of reference for some Italian scholars of the history of the church and religions who had studied under Buonaiuti (such as Alberto Pincherle, Mario Niccoli, Ambrogio Donini, Giorgio Della Vida, and Arturo Carlo Jemolo) and who had considerable problems with the fascist regime. It was often thanks to La Piana that they managed to make contact with the intellectual and academic worlds in the United States.

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)?

The study of Judaism within the modern university would not be possible without the legacy as well as the methodological approach of the small group of young scholars and students in Berlin who founded the Verein für Cultur und Wissenschaft der Juden in 1819. Although outside the walls of the German university, these scholars endeavored to make inroads within the discipline of Orientalistik while standing firm in their hope that the Hegelian spirit of the day might give Judaism its determinate recognition in the light of Absolute Spirit and give the Jews their citizenship.

Christ's brides were hell bound by the end of the Middle Ages, when women—in the figure of the witch—were increasingly seen as Satan's spouses. Such is the narrative arc of Dyan Elliott's significant recent study of sponsa Christi (bride of Christ), The Bride of Christ Goes to Hell. Elliott points toward the incarnational logic of Christianity in general and the type of physically immanent bridal mysticism that flourished among late medieval women in particular to locate some of the dynamic forces that helped make possible the theological ideas about witches that flourished from the fifteenth century onward. Elliott has done much to enrich our understanding of the development of an embodied version of the bride of Christ. Medieval and early modern Christianity held out an option, for women at least, to marry Jesus—to become a sponsa Christi—in a literal sense, a form of marriage sustained by such things as legal mechanisms, theological visions, particular emotions, religious rituals, and spiritual practices. But Elliott's argument, stopping as it does right before the tumultuous sixteenth century, lends itself to a reading that the literalized sponsa Christi was bound henceforth to the early modern witch craze. Desiderius Erasmus's 1529 treatise De vidua christiana provides us evidence that the literalized sponsa Christi developed in alternative ways in the early modern period, including the creation of a distinctive vision of the Christian widow who is, at times, bigamous. De vidua, then, can serve as the basis for expanding upon an alternative historical trajectory for the bride of Christ that Elliott mentions in passing in her study.

In his masterful translation and commentary on the Second Book of Maccabees, Daniel Schwartz devotes a short appendix to the historicity of the information provided in chapter 6, verse 7:

The short biblical story of the blasphemer (Lev 24:10–23) received a unique mystical and mythical interpretation in the Zohar. When carefully examined, the zoharic homilies of the story reveal the hidden influences of Jewish polemic anti-gospel traditions. This essay exposes the strong link between the biblical blasphemer and Jesus, as well as between the blasphemer's mother and the Virgin Mary. In fact, the zoharic commentary on the blasphemer's biblical story provides a significant understanding of the Zohar’s ambivalent attitude towards Jesus as Son of God—and of the Virgin Mary as linked to the Shekhinah.

When I shared an earlier draft of this article with a colleague who spends much more time in the modern theological world than I do, his reply was simple: “So, angels are a thing? And people want to talk about them?” Angels receive fairly short shrift in most twentieth- and twenty-first-century theology, but in late antique Christianity they certainly were “a thing,” if by “a thing” we mean an essential part of religious discourse, manifest in textual and material sources that testify to the significance of angels in theological speculation, popular piety, and ascetic practice.

Perhaps the most extraordinary story about Jesus to survive from antiquity is one of the least often told. It runs as follows: Towards the end of his life, Jesus's reputation has spread out from Palestine and reached the terminally ill Abgar V (also known as Abgar the Black), toparch of Edessa, the capital city of the kingdom of Osroëne. Abgar writes to Jesus requesting that he visit Edessa and heal him. In return he offers sanctuary from the Jews and shared rule of his city. The story preserves the text of both this letter and Jesus's reply, in which he declines to visit (citing his upcoming engagements in Jerusalem), but promises to send a disciple in his stead. After Jesus's death, the apostle Thomas, moved by divine impulse, sends Thaddaeus, one of the seventy (Luke 10:1–24), to Edessa. Escorted to Abgar's court, Thaddaeus cures him along with one Abdu son of Abdu. The newly converted Abgar gathers his citizens to hear Thaddaeus preach, and the story ends with the Christianization of Abgar's kingdom.