Kant, it has been said, brought a ‘Copernican Revolution’ to religion and theology no less so than he did to physics. According to Karl Barth, for example, Kant's theology diverges radically from tradition. While rejecting the traditional proofs as foundation for a knowledge of God (his existence, etc.) as wholly inadequate, he, nevertheless, remained a theist. Unwilling to believe in God in the absence of good reasons for doing so, however, he offered an alternative justification for such belief. Religious belief, he insists, is based on practical considerations rather than on theoretical ones. Kant, therefore, did not consider it as necessarily irrational to hold a thing as true even though it be a theoretically insufficient holding to be true. According to him it is simply that in such a case the belief that ‘something’ is true does not constitute knowledge. And it is this displacement of knowledge in the religious sphere by faith that essentially constitutes the revolutionary change in theology.

Contrary to this generally accepted view of Kant's thought, I shall in this paper argue the essentially unrevolutionary character of his understanding of theology. There is, I shall maintain, a basic continuity in Kant's thoughts on religion with the theologies of the past. The faith of which Kant speaks, I shall attempt to show, is a cognitive faith—a source of beliefs that can quite legitimately, even if only in a weak sense, be referred to as religious knowledge. His theology, therefore, is, like the theology of his predecessors, ultimately an inferential knowledge of the divine.

One of the most pressing tasks for the Christian theologian at the present time is the construction of a theology of the religions which can adequately account for the continuing diversity of religious belief and practice, and which offers a distinctively Christian approach to religious pluralism. In the last few decades this topic has increasingly commanded the attention of prominent writers (e.g. P. Tillich, W. Pannenberg, J. Moltmann). Not only has it become the subject of numerous monographs and articles, but it seems to have established itself as an indispensable theme within any comprehensive (systematic) presentation of the Christian Faith.

It is impossible to read the first fifteen chapters of Exodus alongside the royal psalms and Zion hymns in the Psalter without noticing that very different perceptions of Israel's beginnings co-existed in the pre-exilic period. The Moses-Egypt tradition is about a wandering people, deprived of land and status, living under the promise of the protection offered by a nomadic clan-god; whilst the David-Zion tradition, fundamental to so many psalmists, concerns an established nation, a royal state cult which ratifies claims to land and status through its deity ‘housed’ in a Temple. And yet the Exodus tradition is used in a handful of psalms: the question thus arises — what purpose does it serve? Furthermore, why should the psalmists use such an anomalous tradition in this way?

The reception of Jacques Derrida in the academic community has frequently been a source of controversy. Whilst America has often been hospitable to his thought, the situation in British and even French universities has occasionally been openly hostile. Derrida arouses an intensity of emotion illustrated by the two hundred and four academics at Cambridge University who attempted to block the award of an honorary degree in 1992. Like the reaction within other disciplines, the theological response was, and remains, fissured. Leading the critics, Brian Hebblethwaite lent vocal support to Derrida's detractors. Nevertheless, Hebblethwaite's published criticisms of Derrida at the time lack either theological or philosophical arguments. Instead, his assessment reveals a knowledge of Derrida gleaned almost exclusively from secondary sources, with the exception of a lone reference to Derrida's debate with John Searle in Limited Inc.

Jorgen Moltmann has remarked that Reading the Bible with the eyes of the poor is a different thing from reading it with a full belly. If it is read in the light of the experience and hopes of the oppressed, the Bible's revolutionary themes — promise, exodus, resurrection and spirit — come alive.

These words go to the very heart of the matter of our concern in this essay — the hermeneutics of Liberation Theology. It is a subject of vital importance for the Church today. For Liberation Theology is developing creative and challenging insights, principles and procedures in the field of Biblical interpretation. There are several reasons for this.

Despite the excessive claims sometimes made for the unity and consistency of Calvin's thought, there is no evidence to suggest that he ever varied his views on the distinctive marks of the church. From the first edition of the Institute to the last, the formula remains unchanged: ‘Wherever we see the Word of God purely preached and heard, and the sacraments administered according to Christ's institution, there, it is not to be doubted, a church of God exists.’ It has long been recognized that the notion of the two marks of the church is not original to Calvin, but derives from the Augsburg Confession of 1530, in which the faithful teaching of the gospel and the proper administration of the sacraments are said to designate the assembly of all believers (art. 7). Like Luther and Melanchthon, but unlike the framers of the Scots and Belgic Confessions, the French Reformer does not make discipline an explicit mark of the church. Nevertheless, so central an element is it in his ecclesiology that it is always found in the closest relationship with Word and sacraments. The Word is not only to be preached but ‘reverently heard’; it is a ‘royal sceptre’ to which all hearts and minds are to be brought in willing submission. Similarly the sacraments are, through the Spirit, manifest signs of God's work within us, ‘softening the stubbornness of our heart, and composing it to that obedience which it owes the Word of the Lord’.

There is a certain ‘Looking glass’ quality to the title of this study—by which I mean that Lewis Carroll's White Knight, whose analysis of the relationship between names and titles is the classic one, might well have insisted that this is only what it is called, whereas in fact it is about an interpretation (namely my own) of an interpretation (namely that of the writer of 2 Kings 20 and that of the writer of the parallel but not quite identical material of Isa. 38-39), which is there offered not apparently of the Babylonian Exile but of certain incidents of importance in the reign of king Hezekiah of Judah around the end of the eighth century b.c. The introduction of the Babylonian Exile into this is not my own, since it is already inherent in one moment in the two narratives; but the understanding of the section in terms of interpretation of the Exile is something which needs to be discussed. It is here that I believe we may see the distinctive character of the narratives in their present forms.

By using the idea of theology as symbolic engagement, I propose the ‘in-between’ as a liturgical category that engages with multiple tensions in Christian theology. The concept of the in-between becomes the primary lens through which to analyse not only the relationship between ecclesial and social liturgies, but also the interstices between the two. I then apply the concept to construct theological imagination in the ministries of ushering, intercessory prayer and the sending. The article concludes with a story of the worship of the GKI Yasmin church in front of the presidential palace in Indonesia, which demonstrates the prophetic dimension of the in-between.

In 1929, after many years of consultation and compromise, the two largest Presbyterian denominations in Scotland — the established Church of Scotland and the voluntary United Free Church — were united. The Union was an impressive achievement, marking the end of the bitter divisions of eighteenth and nineteenth century Scottish Presbyterianism. In particular, it represented the healing of the wounds of the Disruption of 1843, when the national Church of Scotland had been broken up as a result of conflicts between Church and State over patronage and the Church's spiritual independence. With the Union of 1929, the leaders of Scottish Presbyterianism, and especially John White of Glasgow's Barony Church, succeeded not only in uniting the major Presbyterian Churches, but also in establishing a cooperative relationship between Church and State. The Church of Scotland, itseemed, was again in a position to assert national leadership.

This paper extends the scope of earlier studies of Karl Barth's relationship with Charlotte von Kirschbaum by exploring his marriage to Nelly Barth and the deterioration in their relationship in the 1920s. It traces the development and character of Barth's relationship with Kirschbaum, and the Notgemeinschaft (emergency community) they formed with Nelly. The paper makes use of Nelly Barth's unpublished letters to her family in which she accounts for her reluctance to divorce her husband in the early 1930s. The second half of the paper explores the impact of Barth's relationship with Kirschbaum on others and goes on to suggest ways in which this had consequences for his theology, particularly in his thinking in Church Dogmatics III/4 about the relation between man and woman.

It has now been over 160 years since Johann philipp Gabler (1753–1826) was first credited with having ‘founded’ biblical theology as a discipline in its own right. Some ten years ago, as his 1787 inaugural address at Altdorf was being remembered, several scholars wrote articles which attempted to explore ways in which Gabler's proposals for biblical theology may be retained or, at least, may be interpreted as still relevant for current reflection. As these publications demonstrate, Gabler's methodological proposals have been capable of being interpreted with differing shades of emphasis. Behind such variance may well lie the likelihood that in coming to terms with the significance of forebearers out of the past, contemporaries in the biblical disciplines have found themselves articulating their own nuanced understandings concerning what ‘biblical theology’, if it denotes a task at all, should involve. The present article is no exception, as here I would like to propose a particular way of understanding Gabler. I shall thus (1) rehearse briefly some of the more basic antecedents to Gabler's formulations; (2) describe the contours of his proposals, beginning with his Altdorf address (Antrittsrede); (3) attempt to situate him within the context of late 18th-century German theology; and (4) comment briefly on the significance of his ideas in relation to the task of biblical theology.

The parable of the Tares is introduced by Matthew into the third of the major discourses he attributes to Jesus, a discourse for which he relies heavily on both Mark 4 and Q (Matt. 13.16f = Luke 10.23f; Matt. 13.31f 33 = Luke 13.18f, 20f). While lacking any full parallel in either of these sources, the parable does recall in varying ways several other synoptic traditions, (i) The Markan parable of the Seed growing Secretly/Patient Husbandman (Mark 4.26–29) occupied in the Markan sequence the position now occupied in the Matthaean scheme by the parable of the Tares. Moreover, the occurrence of verbal reminiscences of the former in the latter has not infrequently impressed interpreters: anthrōpos, katheudein, sītos, blastanein, chortos, karpos, therismos, prōton. While some of these might be attributable to correspondences natural in the coverage of similar subject-matter, not all of them are necessary to such coverage (e.g. katheudein), not all of them are common words (e.g. blastanein), and the aggregate of all of them cannot easily be written off as coincidence, (ii) The parable of the Sower, with its appended interpretation (Mark 4.3–8, 14–20 = Matt. 13.3–8, 18–23), provides a precedent within this discourse for an explanation based on a series of 1:1 allegorical correspondences (see particularly, in the case of the Tares, vv. 37–39, which provide the basis for a summarising explanation in vv. 40–43: hōsper…).

Paul's ‘view of the law’ is his reading of a text – the composite text comprising the five books from Genesis to Deuteronomy. His ‘theology of justification’ is a scriptural hermeneutic, antithetical in form and itself constructed from selected scriptural texts, which aims to show how the true meaning of scripture is its testimony to God's unconditional saving action, now realized in Christ. The dynamic of Pauline scriptural interpretation comes most clearly to light within the context of other contemporary readings of the same scriptural texts. Through their common concern with the interpretation of scripture, Pauline and non-Pauline writings constitute a single intertextual field, rather than indicating an immediate ‘parting of the ways’ between two monolithic entities labelled ‘Christianity’ and ‘Judaism’.

Jonathan Edwards's doctrine of imputation has long been misunderstood. This essay sets out to redress the balance on this aspect of Edwards's hamartiology, drawing on both nineteenth- and twentieth-century analyses of Edwards's theory. I argue that what previous commentators have failed to see is that Edwards's doctrine was not an aberrant version of either Augustinian realism or Calvinistic federalism. Instead, it was an attempt to forge a via media between the two, utilising the notion of a real union in Adam from Augustinianism and the representational aspect of federalism to form a new theory of imputation which, though indebted to the traditional alternatives, is independent of both.

Widely recognised for his work in hermeneutics and theological method, the christological implications of David Tracy's thinking have been less explored. This article engages in a close reading of David Tracy's major work: critically correlating his theological epistemology with his christological statements; offering suggestions for the future development of christology. Theology, for Tracy, is the critical engagement of the Christian tradition in a specific culture. Theology, today, requires the responses of the early faith communities mediated by the church in scripture and tradition. Its corporate purpose of reform is achieved through personal encounter. The meeting of a particular, complex individual with the event of Jesus Christ brings forth change in the individual, and a new reading of the event. Christian theology is held together by its focus on Jesus Christ and its recognition of the scriptures as normative. Writing is, nonetheless, always ambiguous, thus multiple readings of scripture must be recognised and welcomed. Today's theology must be concretely embedded in history and the cosmos: for, too often, the victims of history have been silenced in Christian readings. There may be concreteness when there is recognition that facts may be actualised in individuals as well as in concepts. Theology's use of personal experiences may, therefore, be adequate for the tradition, and intelligible through coherence with general grounds for truth. Theology today, Tracy argues, must hold together all appropriate reflection on Jesus, known as Christ; just as the tradition has always allowed for multiple understandings such as Word-as-Logos and Word-as-Kergyma. In incarnation, cross and resurrection, in communal and personal encounter, reflection on Jesus empowers other-focused action through a spirit of hope. Future christologies, in this reading, must ultimately recognise that universality is a network of responses to the event of Jesus Christ. Particular encounters reflect the genuine multiplicity of today's interpretations of the tradition in specific cultures.

In 1932 R. Grosche, editor of the newly founded magazine Catholica, attributed to Karl Barth the chief honour of ‘having made the Catholic-Protestant controversy again possible in the form of theological discussion’. For the Catholic critics of Barth the full possibilities of this discussion were first realised in 1951 in a brilliant work by Urs von Balthasar, whose central thesis was rated by Barth himself as ‘incomparably more powerful than that of most of the books which have clustered around me’ (C.D. IV. 1, 768). Now, in his latest part-volume, Barth expresses his gratitude to three other Catholic authors of excellent books on his theology, one each in German, French, and Italian, all showing a ‘thorough familiarity with the text’, and even more important, ‘an earnest wish to comprehend and a real comprehension’ (K.D. IV.3.1, viii). Hans Küng's Rechtfertigung reconciling the Catholic doctrine of justification with Barth's own, and raising a storm of interconfessional debate, has since become virtually a part of the continental theological vocabulary. Henri Bouillard's three-volume 900-page analysis, surpassing even von Balthasar's research in objectivity and breadth, and stimulating sheer envy for its French-reading public, appears to be the introduction to Barth's theology for the foreseeable future. And Emmanuele Riverso worthily represents even Italy's traditionally conservative Catholicism with a lengthy critique ranking with most Protestant attempts to date. Among the multitude of questions which this whole remarkable phenomenon raises for the Protestant spectator, several are basic: how does catholicism see Barth's dogmatics, what does it say to what it sees, and why should it to a greater extent than Protestantism be so obviously interested in seeing anything at all there?

The purpose of this study is firstly to examine the principles behind Calvin's exegesis of the messianic elements in the Psalms, and then to consider briefly how far in the light of recent studies in Israelite sacral kingship we can apply them to our own understanding today. At the outset, however, it is necessary to defend the adjective ‘messianic’ in regard to Calvin's exegesis of the Psalms. It has been objected, particularly by Mowinckel at the beginning of his He that Cometh, that the term ‘Messiah’ can only rightly be used for a royal eschatological figure in the literature of later Judaism. As, according to Mowinckel, the royal figure in the Psalms is in no strict sense an eschatological one, the adjective ‘messianic’ cannot be strictly applied to it. It is not our intention here to combat this judgment of Mowinckel on exegetical grounds, but to point out that his criticism is not valid for what Calvin was seeking to do in his commentary.

One of the fascinating features of theology in our day is the revival of interest in Schleiermacher in the same century which has witnessed the most radical questioning of both his method and point of view.