The foundation of Christian belief,' states Paul Tillich, ‘is not the historical Jesus, but the biblical picture of the Christ.’1 This statement is only now beginning to elicit the serious comment that one might expect from the statement of so great a theologian as Paul Tillich. Tillich's penetrating analysis of the meaning of Jesus as the Christ is a profound contribution to the Christian understanding of the Incarnation. Donald Baillie was surely right, too, in expressing his enthusiasm for Tillich's christological interpretation of history when he stated that there seemed to him to be ‘deep truth … in the idea that Christology stands for the Christian interpretation of history as against other interpretations’.2 Even Tillich's claim that ‘to practise Christology does not mean to turn backward to an unknown historical past or to exert oneself about the applicability of questionable mythical categories to an unknown historical persoanality’,3 contains a refreshing and valid emphasis upon Christology as living existential faith rather than arid theoretical speculation. Yet Christianity has always maintained that its foundation is Jesus of Nazareth in whom the Word of God became flesh. Tilliach's Christology must therefore stand or fall on this christological question which he regards as quite subordinate: the question of the historical basis of the biblical picture of the Christ. If the foundation of Tillich's Christology is “not the historical Jesus, but the biblical picture of the Christ”, how much importance Tillich does actually allow the historical dimension in his Christology must be carefully examined.

Dilthey, in his famous essay, ‘Die Enstehung der Hermeneutik’, first published in 1900, taught us that Matthias Flacius Illyricus, the mid sixteenth-century Lutheran theologian, was the author of the first significant treatise on hermeneutics. Conceding a classic Protestant opinion once articulated by Flacius, he consigned medieval interpretation to what must have seemed a justified oblivion: he simply ignored the period between Origen and John Calvin. Calvin, Flacius, and especially Friedrich Schleiermacher were the main contributors to the rediscovery of the interpretive force of history and language, which Dilthey surely felt was best appreciated by his own philosophy of culture. Hans-Georg Gadamer later tried to show that Dilthey himself was weak on language and misinformed about history, falling prey to the movement that Gadamer opprobriously called ‘historicism’. Gadamer's own view of the development of hermeneutics—with its subjection of historical knowledge to ‘our own present horizon of understanding’, its accent on language, and its debt to Martin Heidegger—shifted the chronology of hermeneutics even closer to the present According to Gadamer, the ‘hermeneutic problem’ was specifically created by the alienation of exegesis and understanding from ‘application’, the importance of which was discovered only by Romantic philosophy and best redressed with the help of a language-obsessed philosophy of being. But as was the case for Dilthey, the crucial moment in the development of hermeneutics remained the discovery of the role of language in ‘meaning’, in the broadest sense, so that texts could only be understood in the grand context of a philosophy of life or, in Gadamerian terms, in the context of a philosophy that functioned as present interpretation.

This article argues that Herman Bavinck's organic worldview allows him to use classical and modern thinkers in an eclectic yet theologically principled manner. To vindicate this claim, the article observes Bavinck's self-conscious comments regarding the task of Reformed catholicity, his use of Schleiermacher and Augustine to construct a theological account of self-consciousness, and his resituating of Thomistic motifs within an organic framework in his epistemology. In so doing, the article suggests that Bavinck's catholicity is broader than previously observed, thus generating a different way of interpreting Bavinck's use of thinkers who are often thought to be in tension.

The theses offered here for discussion constitute a response to theses published by my Princeton Theological Seminary colleague, George Hunsinger. The debate carried out between us has to do not only with the question of how Karl Barth's theology is to be understood, but also with how his theology is to be taken up today in order address pressing issues of concern. As the debate has unfolded, it has centred upon three areas of questioning: 1) the genetic-historical question of how Karl Barth's theology developed, whether his mind changed on important issues and in what way; 2) the question of whether Barth's later christology (in volume IV of the Church Dogmatics) would require modifications to be made in his earlier treatment of the doctrine of the Trinity (in CD I/1), his christology (in CD I/2) and of the being and perfections of God (in CD II/1); and 3) the question of the logical relationship between God's eternal act of election (as treated by Barth in CD II/2) and God's triunity. The last question does indeed take me beyond Barth, but it does so in a way that does full justice to the christological commitments found in his doctrine of reconciliation. The position I set forth here is one I have held to with a high degree of consistency since 1994 – which means that it antedates the publication of my book on Barth's theological development in 1995. Since that time, I have been engaged in a process of further elaboration and clarification.

The leaders of the Protestant Reformation not only intended a revival of personal piety; they aimed as well to reshape the corporate forms of religion. They did not convert individuals to the Protestant faith only to abandon them to a state of religious detachment. Rather, the Protestant Reformers labored to rebuild the church and felt themselves called to be agents of its restoration. They steadfastly believed that the Holy Catholic Church had been instituted by God for the nurture and fellowship of souls and that outside of this body there exists ‘no ordinary possibility of salvation’. Accordingly, the founders of Protestantism laid great emphasis upon the nature and function of the church. Ecclesiology was a notable and principal part of their theology.

An investigation of the second story of creation and the Fall in the light of their exegesis by Phyllis Trible. The strengths and weaknesses of Trible's approach are considered and an evaluation of Genesis 2–3 as a paradigm of Ancient Israel's social and religious history is offered.

The picture of the hilltop city in Mt. 5.14b is an image within an image. It is one of those pictures employed by Jesus which is almost too familiar to us; its meaning appears on the surface to be perfectly simple and obvious, so that although frequently cited in support of various arguments, it is rarely subjected to scholarly scrutiny. It will be argued here that, far from being a casual illustration or simple cliché, it in fact constitutes a profoundly theological statement on the part of Jesus.

Nowhere in the literary remains of antiquity is there another document quite comparable to Gregory of Nyssa's fourth homily on the book of Ecclesiastes: certainly no other ancient text still known to us—Christian, Jewish, or Pagan—contains so fierce, unequivocal, and indignant a condemnation of the institution of slavery. Not that it constitutes a particularly lengthy treatise: it is only a part of the sermon itself, a brief exegedeal excursus on Ecclesiastes 2:7 (‘I got me male and female slaves, and had my home-born slaves as well’), but it is a passage of remarkable rhetorical intensity. In it Gregory treats slavery not as a luxury that should be indulged in only temperately (as might an Epicurean), nor as a necessary domestic economy too often abused by arrogant or brutal slave-owners (as might a Stoic like Seneca or a Christian like John Chrysostom), but as intrinsically sinful, opposed to God's actions in creation, salvation, and the church, and essentially incompatible with the Gospel. Of course, in an age when an economy sustained otherwise than by chattel slavery was all but unimaginable, the question of abolition was simply never raised, and so the apparent uniqueness of Gregory's sermon is, in one sense, entirely unsurprising. Gregory lived at a time, after all, when the response of Christian theologians to slavery ranged from—at best—resigned acceptance to—at worst—vigorous advocacy. But, then, this makes all the more perplexing the question of how one is to account for Gregory's eccentricity. Various influences on his thinking could of course be cited— most notably, perhaps, that of his revered teacher and sister Macrina, who had prevailed upon Gregory's mother to live a common life with her servants—but this could at best help to explain only Gregory's general distaste for the institution; it would still not account for the sheer uncompromising vehemence of his denunciations.

The essay begins by noting some of the things Karl Barth might have said to defend himself against Stanley Hauerwas's criticisms, in the otherwise largely appreciative discussion in With the Grain of the Universe, of Barth's anthropology and pneumatology and the consequent problems in his ecclesiology. I then discuss some issues that Barth himself might have wanted to raise with regard to Hauerwas's own ecclesiology, especially in reference to its comparative lack of emphasis upon divine action and the difference that makes to an account of the church's witness. I argue that Barth and Hauerwas differ to some degree in their understanding of the gospel and of Christianity, with Hauerwas emphasizing rather more than Barth the necessity and centrality of the church's work in the economy of salvation. Barth, on the other hand, sees the need rather more than Hauerwas of situating the church's activity within a well-rounded account of the work of the Word and the Spirit. I offer some concluding remarks to suggest that this particular aspect of Barth's ecclesiology is worth preserving as an effective way of responding to modernity.

As a faithful young Puritan minister John Owen used to visit his people in the parish of Fordham teaching both adults and children the basic doctrines of Protestantism from two catechisms which he himself composed. In the larger one it is asked: Do we know God as he is? The answer is: No; his glorious being is not of us, in this life, to be comprehended. The same concern is apparent at the end of the section on the Trinity. Question: Can we conceive these things as they are in themselves? Answer: Neither we nor yet the angels of heaven are able to dive into these secrets, as they are internally in God; but in respect of the outward dispensation of themselves to us by creation, redemption, and sanctification, a knowledge may be obtained of these things, saving and heavenly.

The word with which we are concerned is variously trans-lated in the E.VV. as ‘Parable’ (e.g. Ezek. 17.2), ‘Proverb’ (e.g. Ezek. 12.22, 23), ‘By-word’ (e.g. Ps. 44.15; so Ezek. 14.8 should be more appropriately translated). The last two groups are obviously related and it would be reasonable to suppose that ‘By-word’ would be a particularised meaning of ‘Proverb’, i.e. the use of a person (individual or group) in a proverbial way, as an example of disaster. The relation of this kind of meaning to that of ‘Parable’ is not so obvious, except in so far as there is a common idea of likeness. But this is less obvious when some of the instances of Māšāl—‘Parable’ are noted. Thus the term is used for Taunt song: Isa. 14.4; Hab. 2.6; Mic. 2.4; its use in the Balaam story seems at first to mean little more than an oracle and its use in Job 27.1, 29.1 appears to mean ‘Theme’.

The notion of a post-mortem disembodied existence of the soul followed by resurrection on the last day has been part of traditional Christian theology for centuries. Though some modern theologians are unhappy with this doctrine and have tried to re-interpret it or reject it altogether, it cannot be denied that traditional Christian theology has always taught this. This view was held by many of the Church Fathers and by the Reformers. Today it is still the official teaching of the Roman Catholic Church and some Protestant Churches.

Although it is evident to every student of the New Testament that Matthew has a special interest in the Church, the use of the term ‘body of Christ’ to describe the Church has been peculiarly associated with Paul. For this reason it seems well to begin by discussing briefly what Paul meant by the concept of body in order to have a working definition of it. We will then endeavour to ascertain whether this idea is also present in Matthew.

To answer in the affirmative Barth's question ‘Is theology a science? is to acknowledge both that such a question has a history and that the predicate ‘scientific’ is a contested one. T. F. Torrance in Theological Science and subsequent publications, seeks to proceed with a minimalist conception of science, as a study whose methods are directed by ‘faithfulness to object’. Paul Feyerabend, in Against Method and subsequent publications, contends that such a minimalism amounts to an admission that there is no such thing as ‘the scientific method’, and that therefore the predicate ‘scientific’ lacks coherence and substance. According to Feyerabend, philosophers like Michael Polanyi (an important influence upon Torrance) are simply not bold enough to see their work through to the radical conclusions which it demands and he provides. For Feyerabend, science's reference to qualities such as ‘objectivity’ and ‘rationality’ are simply a smoke-screen for decisively influential vested interests of power and wealth – it is these which ultimately determine what we mean by science, and these which therefore must be unmasked in the cause of humanism. However, in the course of this dialogue we reveal that Feyerabend is too careless a thinker, given to rushing prematurely and too willingly to unwarranted and simplistic dichotomies. Thus Torrance's notion of the ‘scientific’ emerges intact, but not without Feyerabend's stimulating challenge raising important questions, not least to theology as a science. For here, above all, ‘human’ factors are likely unduly to influence scientific knowledge. Thus Feyerabend also points to areas where Torrance's project needs further development and closer scrutiny.

The sixth volume of the Basel theologian's monumental Dogmatics (Church Dogmatics, Vol. III, Part 2) is not only, like the earlier volumes, a significant work, but like the fifth, and even more than it a work full of surprises. I have no hesitation in associating myself with the judgment of my Danish colleague Prenter,2 who calls it “the culmination so far of the whole powerful work”. Barth devotes several pages of this volume to a notable discussion of my own anthropology, published fifteen years ago (Man in Revolt). In it he puts to me the question whether we mean the same thing or not (p. 155 ff.). There arises thus for me not merely the occasion but also the necessity of abandoning our mutual practice of not reviewing one another's works. The following pages are not intended to provide a survey of the whole work but only to bring out some specially important points. Naturally, then, they will be fully understood only by those who have some knowledge of both works. I have already given a brief affirmative reply to Barth's question in the second volume of my own Dogmatics (p. 95) after a hasty glance through his Doctrine of Man which came into my hands only after the completion of my own MS., but feel myself now obliged to state more precisely the reasons for this assent and to add some qualifications.

Contemporary theology exhibits a lively interest in using the traditional doctrine of the munus triplex (the threefold mediatorial office of Christ as prophet, priest and king) to unify our understanding of the person and work of Jesus Christ and ground it in the Old Testament witness. This article explores Karl Barth's contribution to this trend and draws from it a set of reflections for the church today. Scholarly consensus suggests that Barth offers an exceptionally robust development of the munus triplex in shaping the formal structure and material content of his doctrine of reconciliation. In this article I contend that his use of this concept is actually quite superficial in nature. As scholars are wont to point out, Barth incorporates the munus triplex into eye-catching summary statements throughout CD IV – but these statements are more ambiguous than they might at first seem. A closer examination of the details of his account of the work of Christ, and particularly his hamartiology, demonstrates that the munus triplex does not substantially inform his treatment of these subjects, and that his own unique christological concerns provide the determining influence. While Barth was eager to align his position with that of Reformed orthodoxy, focusing on the munus triplex ultimately distracts the reader from his primary concerns. Much the same is true for the church today – when used as a sufficient interpretative device for offering an account of the person and work of Jesus Christ, the munus triplex suffers the fate of many an artificial schema for biblical interpretation, distracting us from the breadth and depth of the biblical witness by offering an overly tidy, artificially organised account of the material. Nevertheless, when modestly employed, it remains a significant though limited conceptual device for understanding Christ's person and work, which the church should employ in several ways so as to integrate the Old and New Testaments in its proclamation of the Gospel.

Abiblical scholar is sometimes asked, “What effect has the Bible had?” To my embarrassment, I have not been able to draw on solid results of research to answer this very reasonable question. It has been all but ignored by the exegetical guild.

‘Whatever became of sin?’ – the title of American psychiatrist Kark Menninger's book – encapsulates the problem with which I begin. That there is appalling suffering today, organized crime on a scale which almost defies analysis – and certainly detection! – moral evil in a variety of repugnant forms and so-called ‘natural’ catastrophes which threaten the very continuation of human life on our planet, is beyond dispute. But ‘sin’? Is sinfulness still an accepted category in our society for eidier religious believer or nonbeliever? It is hard to accept that when Professor Kerkhofs (from the University of Leuven, Belgium), surveyed the attitudes on sin and guilt of European Christians in 1985, 40% of those interviewed admitted that they had never experienced any feelings of regret about their actions! There is a double tendency prevailing with regard to responsibility for acknowledged wrongdoing: increasing sense of diminished responsibility for crime seeks either to scapegoat a certain sector of the populace as blameworthy, or attempts are made to cope with criminal damage – for example, injuries sustained by drink-driving – by assessing it in exclusively (reductive) monetary terms.

In 1965, Prof. Bolaji Idowu, President of the Methodist Church of Nigeria, castigated African Christians for being content with imported western theologies which were imperfectly understood and meaningless in the African context. He also lamented the fact that after almost two hundred years of Christian experience in Africa, African Christians have neglected the fundamental task of relating the Gospel message to political, social, and cultural milieux of African peoples. Africans must, Idowu claimed, produce indigenous theologies which will satisfy the deepest, emotional and spiritual needs of Africans.1 When Idowu wrote in 1965, expressions like ‘African Theology’, ‘African Christian Theology’, ‘Theologia Africana’, were hardly, if ever used, though some attempts were made to relate the Gospel message to the diverse social, political, and cultural situations in Africa. In the political sphere, violent winds of change were blowing throughout the continent; the rapid growth of Independent churches was an indication that some African Christians were, at least, dissatisfied with the imported theologies, Church structures, patterns of ministry and liturgical forms, which had been introduced by western Christian missionaries into Africa.