The woman was dressed in purple and scarlet and glittered with gold and jewels and pearls, and she was holding a gold winecup filled with the disgusting filth of her prostitution; on her forehead was written a name, a cryptic name: “Babylon the Great, the mother of the prostitutes and all the filthy practices on the earth.” (Rev 17:4–5, NJB)

In discussions of the ancient Near Eastern setting for the Old Testament, various aspects of Mesopotamian society and culture are nominated as the precursors of certain features of Israelite practice.

As one deeply involved in the politics of his day, whether in Palestine or in Rome, and as a student of Thucydides and of Plato (particularly of the latter's Republic), Josephus was much concerned with examining the qualities of the ideal leader of the state, convinced as he was, with Plato, that the wrong kind of leadership could and did bring about its downfall. Since one of the most important qualities of a great leader is to be able to discern the qualities of people and, above all, to select a worthy successor, the fact that Moses, the greatest leader that the Israelites had ever had, chose as his successor Joshua led Josephus to the conclusion that Joshua possessed the qualities of an ideal statesman. As Josephus puts itin an editorial comment (Ant. 3.49) which has no biblical basis, Joshua possessed five crucial qualities: he was extremely courageous, valiant in endurance of toil, highly gifted in intellect, highly gifted in speech, and distinguished for piety in worshiping God. Again, when summarizing his qualities upon Joshua's death (5.188), Josephus singles out four qualities—his supreme intelligence, his supreme skill in speaking lucidly (σαφώς) to the multitude, his stout-heartedness and great daring, and his utmost dexterity in directing affairs (Πρνλανεσαι) in peacetime and his adaptabilityto every occasion. If we combine these two accounts we see that Josephus stressed in Joshua the qualities of wisdom, eloquence, courage, endurance, flexibility, and piety.

The interpretation of Adam and Eve's sexual life was a matter of some concern for early Jewish and Christian exegetes. As Louis Ginzberg observed, several Jewish pseudepigraphical works as well as the writings of many of the early Church Fathers “presuppose that not only the birth of the children of Adam and Eve took place after the explusion from paradise (Gen 4:1ff), but that the first ‘human pair’ lived in paradise without sexual intercourse.” The reasons for such an exegesis are not difficult to discern. The Garden of Eden was not simply a story about the primeval world; it could also function as a metaphor for the world-to-come. Hence the Garden was a paradigm for the ideal world of the eschaton, a world one should attempt to actualize or bring into existence now. Because Christians believed that the next world was devoid of marriage (Luke 20:27–40), it followed that the Garden was as well. In addition to this reason, Christians were also exhorted to abstain from marriage as a concession to the apocalyptic ferment of the present world (1 Corinthians 7).

We are called together here to mark the beginning of a new school year with a symbolic act—a convocatio. As cultural anthropologists tell us, such ritual symbolic acts function simultaneously to induct participants into the common lifeworld of a community and to hold up to them shared values and visions. The convocation address provides an opportunity to reflect critically on the ritual act itself and on the shared visions and values it embodies. Such exploration can uncover tensions and contradictions in how the community sees itself and the world, contradictions that provide openings and challenges for change. By reflecting on these tensions I seek to display the first step in a feminist theological practice. The inclusion of the previously excluded as theological subjects, I argue, calls for a paradigm shift from a value-detached scientism to a public rhetoric, from a hermeneutical model of conversation to a practical model of collaboration.

The slapdash, seamy character of the second half of Josephus's Antiquities frequently obscures the author's purpose; the recovery of this information is therefore often neglected, though scholars are becoming increasingly aware of the task's importance. A good example of this scholarly neglect concerns the little narrative complex of Ant. 13.1-79, covering the period from Judas's death in battle against Bacchides in 160 BCE to the appointment of Jonathan as high priest (152 BCE) and the death of Demetrius I in 150 BCE; the complex concludes with two stories about Jewish affairs in Egypt (13.62-79). These stories have been clumsily introduced into a narrative which is otherwise a close paraphrase of 1 Maccabees, and are not commonly understood to have any relation to their context other than a vague chronological aptness: both stories are said to have occurred, like most of the high priesthood of Jonathan, in the reign of Ptolemy VI Philometor (13.79). I shall argue that the stories have not only a chronological but also a close thematic connection to their context, and that the narrative, properly understood, expresses a propagandists motif not hitherto noticed in Antiquities. Furthermore, this motif may have important implications for our understanding of Antiquities as a whole, and perhaps important historical implications, as well.

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.”

Who was a Jew in antiquity? How was “Jewishness” defined? How did a non-Jew become a Jew, and how did a Jew become a non-Jew? In their minds and actions the Jews erected a boundary between themselves and the rest of humanity, the gentiles, but the boundary was always crossable and not always clearly marked. A gentile might associate with Jews and observe Jewish practices, or might “convert” to Judaism and become a proselyte. A Jew might avoid contact with Jews and cease to observe Jewish practices, or might deny Judaism outright and become an “apostate.” Or the boundary could be blurred through the marriage of a Jew with a gentile.

In 592 bce, at the midpoint between the two Babylonian invasions of 597 bce and 587 bce, Ezekiel, who was exiled to Babylon after the first invasion, finds himself transported back to Jerusalem in a divine vision (Ezekiel 8–11). In the first part of this vision, Ezekiel 8, Ezekiel sees Jerusalem in a state of religious collapse, as God shows the prophet four strange cultic abominations: the image of jealousy (8:3–6), elders burning incense in a room of reliefs (8:7–13), women wailing over Tammuz (8:14–15), and men worshiping the sun (8:16–18). Of these four cultic abominations, the character of the last two, the mourning over Tammuz and the worship of the sun, is clear. Less certain is the nature of the first cultic abomination, the image of jealousy. Still, there has recently emerged in the literature a consensus that the image (semel) in question is an ʾăšērâ, the wooden cult object associated with the goddess Asherah. However, there has been no agreement among scholars concerning the cult act referred to in Ezek 8:7–13, where elders burn incense in a room of reliefs.

In their recovery and interpretation of the evidence for women's religious involvement in antiquity, feminist historians of religion employ terms like “image,” “reflection,” and “symbol” as constants in their vocabulary. This terminology indicates the importance feminist scholars attach to the ways in which women's activities are presented and the ways in which they are interpreted. Interpretation becomes the more difficult as one approaches the religions of the ancient Mediterranean world, not only because of the relative paucity and elusive nature of the evidence for women's participation in these religions, but also because the two great bodies of canon in the West—the literary artifacts of the Greco-Roman world and the canon of biblical literature—reflect a dual process of “canonization.” Certain cultural constructs and dominant metaphors have become embodied in the text themselves, while a tradition of “canonized conventions” has been modeled by these metaphors to “evaluate a priori what we see.” The interaction of conceptualization, representation, and interpretation of appearance, moreover, is such that there cannot be an “innocent eye.” Nelson Goodman observes: “The eye always comes ancient to its work. …Not only how but what it sees is regulated by need and perspective. …It does not so much mirror as take and make.” Moreover, the use of the term “image” itself reflects a process by which a particular representation is shaped and subsequently held up as the way in which something is conceptually “seen” or meant to be “seen,” and which is not necessarily or even possibly a “true” reflection.

The rise of asceticism and its impact on Roman society in the fourth century have increasingly attracted the notice of scholars. Recent studies, such as Peter Brown's The Body and Society, have called attention to the transformation of civic and social values brought by the spread of ascetic piety. What is less frequently noted, however, is the degree of Christian resistance to asceticism which emerged in the late fourth century. The ascetic enthusiasm of men such as Jerome and Ambrose was not representative of that “silent majority” of Christians who married, raised children, and remained committed to civic and social life. It may even have been the case, as this study will suggest, that the majority was not as silent as it would appear. One need only recall the controversies surrounding Helvidius, Jovinian, and Vigilantius to be reminded that asceticism encountered vocal opposition in the West during the late fourth century.

Because the title of this article is ambiguous, I will begin by sharpening the issue of the justification of prayer. The point, in the first place, is to see how Calvin and Barth, as Reformed theologians, answer the question, “Why pray?” A second interest emerges in the discussion: prayer provides a case for illustrating the significant differences in the reasoning of Calvin and Barth on matters of ethics. In particular, the case of prayer indicates the way that Calvin's ruledeontology allows an important (albeit circumscribed) role for teleological appeals in the justification of prayer. Barth's act-deonotological theory consistently eschews such appeals. And this fact leads to a third interest of the paper: what are the strengths and weaknesses of the Reformed tradition for discussions of “spirituality” and ethics? If “spirituality” entails, as some would argue, a notion of “spiritual exercises” aimed at the cultivation of certain dispositions/virtues requisite to the vision of God, can Reformed theology have a “spirituality”? I argue that it can, but only if it is possible to preserve the teleological dimensions of Calvin's justification for acts such as prayer, which (as he would have it) is the “chief exercise of faith.”

The Greek terms Ἰουδαῖος/Ἰουδαία and their Latin equivalents Iudaeus/Iudaea have rarely posed serious translation problems for scholars. Whether in masculine or feminine form, singular or plural, regardless of declension, these terms have usually been taken as straightforward indicators of Jews, at least when applied to individual persons. Only recently A. T. Kraabel has suggested that these terms, uniformly translated “Jew” or “Jews,” might have other significance, in particular as indicators of geographic origin, that is, “Judaean(s).”

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:

The opening chapters of Eusebius's De vita Constantini contain several comparisons of Constantine with great figures from the past. The first two, Cyrus and Alexander (Vit. Const. 1.7-8), are predictable names in a work that bears many features of conventional royal panegyric. But Eusebius's choice of Moses for a third comparison (Vit. Const. 1.12) departs from conventional norms and shows that the subject of his bios is not going to be measured simply by traditional imperial standards. The following analysis of Vit. Const. 1.12 begins with a consideration of Eusebius's choice of subjects to compare with Constantine. We will see that the literary construction of the comparison with Moses derives from biblical typology as much as it does from a typical classical synkrisis. Embedded in the typological construction is an allusion by Eusebius to a widespread opinion that the story of the Exodus was a myth. This aspect of the comparison has not received the attention which it deserves. I will argue that the mythic reference works against the rhetoric of the comparison as a whole. Its anomalous presence requires an explanation. This paper identifies various sources of the mythic charge, and defends the hypothesis that the critic foremost in Eusebius's mind was the pagan philosopher Porphyry. It ends with the conclusion that the triumph of Constantine was a valuable antidote to the critique of Exodus as myth.

The following study on aspects of the form of apologetic literature in the early church and Judaism grows out of a previous analysis of themes in the apologist Athenagoras that reflect the manner of praising kings in the Greco-Roman rhetorical tradition. My argument was that, although Athenagoras's Legatio is correctly read as apologetic literature, the task of the orator to render the judge well disposed to his cause is carried out by Athenagoras by calling on familiar epideictic strategies known to us primarily from Menander's (or Ps.- Menander's) codification of them in the third century. Meanwhile, Robert M. Grant has reoriented my discussion of Athenagoras by reading it against the background provided by Fergus Millar in the latter's detailed investigation of the activities of the Roman emperors in meeting the appeals and requests of the people of the Roman empire. Here the fact that Athenagoras's apology is entitled “Embassy” is seen as significant in the light of the importance of embassies in presenting appeals and requests to the emperor. It seems natural to look at the kinds of addresses that ambassadors gave in such circumstances for more precise clues to the literary character of the Christian apologies. The following study is intended as a contribution to the inquiry that has been opened up by that suggestion.

The Examiner reported that throughout the day hundreds of would-be spectators and scalpers charging three and four dollars for tickets gathered on Chicago's downtown streets. The evening plenary session was repeated twice; each time “three thousand men and women were on their feet waving handkerchiefs, clapping hands, and cheering.” Julia Ward Howe “kissed her hand in benediction of the Parliament”; the “Jewish rabbi and the Catholic Bishop asked God's blessing upon its work which is now a part of history.” Christian and Hebrew, Buddhist and Moslem, the Examiner announced, all “spoke for a universal religion, advocated it in fact, and fervently hoped for some such … happy consummation as the outcome of this great and historic gathering.”

Porphyry of Tyre, the disciple of Plotinus who composed his massive work Against the Christians under Diocletian, has attracted much attention in recent years as perhaps the most formidable intellectual opponent of the early church. Modern scholars continue to be impressed by Porphyry's knowledge, resourcefulness, and the evident respect shown him by such figures as Jerome and Augustine. Because his literary remains are both fragmentary and disputed, moreover, any new information about Porphyry's views is of considerable importance. Just such a discovery provides the occasion for this essay. Among the papyrus codices found in an ammunition dump near Toura, Egypt, during World War II, were several previously unknown works of Origen and Didymus the Blind.

Schubert Ogden is often considered a process theologican because, drawing upon the philosophies of Alfred North Whitehead and Charles Hartshorne, he holds a “process” view of the nature of reality and of God. But the strategy used in his philosophical theology makes Ogden a sort of “transcendental” theologian as well. I refer to Ogden's argument in The Reality of God that a necessary condition of the possibility of scientific and moral activity is the kind of confidence in the meaning and worth of life that must be seen as an implicit faith in God. This faith might be characterized as innate or a priori because Ogden portrays it not as derived from, but as presupposed by, all our experience; indeed, Ogden claims that such faith is the necessary condition of the possibility of even “secular” scientific and moral experience. Thus one might see this part of his philosophical theology as pursuing a transcendental strategy of argument.

Understanding the role played by emotion in relation to culture and nature is relevant to theories of religion and to issues of theological method. The extent to which one grants emotion independence from cognition may well determine whether one views religious experience as an avenue available to free one from culture or simply as the product of culture. In theories of religion the role played by emotion may determine both the integrity granted the subject's account of her or his experience and the appropriate methods for interpreting the general significance of the account. In regard to theological methodology, the role played by emotion will likely indicate whether experience is viewed as a relative consequence of construction and critique or the authoritative starting point for construction and critique.

Norman Perrin died in November 1976. In 1984 a memorial issue of the Journal of Religion in his honor was published. Among the tributes to him in this issue was an especially searching article by his friend Erich Grässer of the University of Bonn entitled, “Norman Perrin's Contribution to the Question of the Historical Jesus” (pp. 484–500). The considerations raised in this paper about the relation of history to faith, not only in Perrin's work but in our modern period generally, lead me to the following reflections on this continuing problem.