The theological climate to-day is markedly more genial than it was thirty-two years ago, when this our Society was founded. Then we were living in a theological ice-age. Theology had largely lost its appeal, alike for preachers and for scholars. The demand was for histories of religion, not for theology. The Bible commentator was considered to have done his duty if he explained what the sacred writer meant when he wrote what he did. In the Preface to his Commentary—dated May 1919—Peake wrote:

It (the present work) is not intended to be homiletical or devotional, but to convey with precision … the meaning of the original writers, and reconstruct the conditions in which they worked and of which they wrote. It will thus, while not explicitly devotional or practical, provide that accurate interpretation of the text through which alone the sound basis for devotional use and practical application can be laid.

The golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room. The old, old fashion! The fashion that came in with our first garments, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old fashion—Death!

The description of the doctrine of universal salvation by Brunner in his recent Dogmatik (1, 363) as a “ menacing heresy, endangering the Biblical faith ”, raises acutely a problem that has divided theologians since the days of Origen. Though formally condemned as heresy by the fifth ecumenical council, the doctrine has frequently found advocates of disconcerting eminence in the ranks of theology. It is impossible to ignore, for instance, a concensus of contemporary names such as Nicolas Berdyaev, William Temple, John Baillie, C. H. Dodd, Charles Raven and Herbert Farmer, all of whom have come out more or less openly in its favour. Nor can they all be labelled, and dismissed, as liberals. Is Brunner right, therefore, in saying that a doctrine of universal restoration is wholly incompatible with a truly Biblical theology?

In the second volume of his Church Dogmatics (1.2) Barth has a long and valuable note in which he gives us a concise summary of the views that have been held from the Fathers to the Reformers on this question of the nature of the inspiration of the Scriptures. He deals first with the Pauline passages 1 Cor. 2.6–16, and 2 Cor. 3.4–18, insisting in his exegesis on the fact that, whilst Paul no doubt knew the theories of the Talmud and the Alexandrian-Jewish school about the divine-human origin of the Torah, his assertion of a special inspiration of the Scripture is always and only in connexion with his view of the present confirmation of God of the Scripture through the work of the Holy Spirit. Barth continues:

According to 2 Cor. 3 everything depends for him (sc. Paul) on that; without this work of the Spirit the Scripture is and remains veiled, however great its glory and however it may have come about. This is the case in and through the veiling of the countenance of Moses (Ex. 34) which foreshadows the reading of Scripture to-day in the Synagogue: the divinely prescribed is there, the human beings reading it are there, but over their hearts is a veil; their thinking is hardened—the open book is for them in actual fact a closed book. Only their return to the Lord could remove the veil and open up to them the way into the Scripture (p. 571).

Any study of the nature of the Christian Ministry must begin by affirming the necessity of the Church. The New Testament knows of no“Church-less”Christianity. Furthermore, it is not only the invisible Church that matters for the Gospel, i.e.“the whole number of the elect that have been, are, or shall be gathered into one under Christ the head ”. The visible Church is also vitally relevant to the Gospel, consisting of“all those throughout the world that profess the true religion, together with their children ”. To identify the visible Church more particularly, the Westminster Confession of Faith proceeds:“Unto this catholic visible Church, Christ hath given the ministry, oracles and ordinances of God, for the gathering and perfecting of the saints in this life, to the end of the world; and doth by His own presence and Spirit, according to His promise, make them effectual thereunto.”

The distinction between clerical and lay appeared early in the history of the Church as a natural influence of pagan and Jewish practice, and is assumed by Clement of Rome, who, however, makes an important point when he treats the laity as an order: “to the high priest his proper ministrations are allotted, and to the priests the proper place has been allotted, and on levites their proper services have been imposed; the layman is bound by the ordinances for the laity.” In course of time the gulf widened between clergy and laity and the laity degenerated into mere spectators, the liturgy being in the hands of the clergy. The distinction is sufficiently plain in Tertullian and Origen. The conception of opus operatum, though not intended to exclude the co-operation either of the celebrant or of the receiver, had the practical effect of setting the people a great distance away; and lay communion in one kind, though this was not its motive, seemed to symbolise the separation.

Some years ago, on Christmas Eve, I was invited to explain the significance of Christmas to a group of Hindu students in one of the Institutions at Sevagram (Mr. Gandhi's Ashram). In the discussion which followed the address, the thoughtful Principal of this Institution said something like this: “Would it not be correct to say that the real difference between you Christians and ourselves is that you teach that forgiveness is possible, while we believe it is impossible and the idea immoral?”