In his interpretations of the books of the Hebrew Bible, written mainly in Caesarea Maritima, Origen often depicts the “letter” of scripture as a veil that covers the spiritual meaning of the text. He imagines the work of the spiritual exegete as an act of unveiling. Drawing on several biblical veils (including Moses' veil and the bride's veil in the Song of Songs), Origen constructs a hermeneutic theory that privileges a rational, spiritual, and “unveiled” interpretation of the text over a carnal, literal interpretation, which he most often associates with Jews. After examining the ancient association of veils with femininity and aidōs (shame), this article argues that Origen's consignment of Jews to a “veiled” reading functions as anti-Jewish slander insofar as it associates Jewish interpretive practices with shame, dishonor, femininity, and fleshliness. Origen's interpretation of the veil contributes to his understandings of gender, sexuality, sexual renunciation, and Christian identity. Despite Origen's rhetorical disavowal of the veil as literal, fleshly, Jewish, and feminine, a reading of his exegesis of biblical veils attests to his unrenounced desire for the “veil of the letter” and the “body” of the text.

An 1894 biography of St. Francis of Assisi was a milestone in the lives of two young urban missionaries. They were “Sisters of the People” at the dynamic and progressive Wesleyan Methodist West London Mission in Soho, a poor and overcrowded central London district. Sister Mary Neal and Sister Emmeline Pethick would eventually distinguish themselves nationally, Emmeline as a militant suffragist in tandem with her husband Frederick Pethick-Lawrence, and later as a feminist and peace activist; Mary as a music educator and folklorist. French protestant clergyman Paul Sabatier's scholarly but lyrical biography of Francis enthralled the mission's leaders, including the superintendent, Hugh Price Hughes. Francis's rejection of his family's wealth, his insistence on absolute poverty for himself and his followers, and his devotion to the poor presented a compelling model of Christian service, one that the two young Sisters found especially exciting. They resigned the Sisterhood in 1895 to live cheaply in workers' housing just north of their old turf. This decision launched them into a national community of Franciscan-inspired settlers, philanthropists, “simple livers,” and collective farmers—offering us a new perspective on fin de siècle social activism.

For several decades, agency has been a central concept in the historical study of Christian missions, yet it remains more frequently invoked than analyzed. This article explores the formulation of evangelical protestant beliefs about human agency in the context of efforts to evangelize the world. It does so by examining the fraught relationship between a Sierra Leonean Christian missionary named Daniel Flickinger Wilberforce and the United Brethren in Christ, an American denomination that first championed and later disfellowshipped him. Wilberforce experienced a fleeting American celebrity during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, largely because his story could be told to promote competing interpretations of African agency. This article details the temporal and spatial components of evangelical conceptions of heathenism and human agency, their use by Wilberforce, and their collision with notions of human nature grounded in scientific racism. It draws on private and public interpretations of Wilberforce's story, including his dramatic fall from favor among his evangelical supporters, to argue that historical constructions of agency informed and were shaped by missionary activity. The recovery of Wilberforce's story, and of the debates that swirled around him, advances a new way of studying the relationship between agency and Christian missions.

The religious history of World War II in the U.S. has long been dominated by the theme of pluralism. The trials of mobilization and battle fostered inter-religious cooperation. Against a backdrop of Nazi intolerance and godless communism, these collaborative experiences would, in the postwar years, help mute religious conflict and amplify a “Judeo-Christian” consensus. This framing, while compelling, has deflected attention from the distinctive modes with which religious Americans interpreted the war. The work of the National Catholic Community Service (the Catholic arm of the United Service Organizations) illustrates the ways Catholics framed the war as a religious matter. In seeking to build Catholic bridges across the separations of wartime, Catholics amplified the unique moral and spiritual means of their tradition. Two themes—sacramental presence and moral exceptionalism—dominated Catholics' efforts to Catholicize the war. Exploring these efforts reveals the religious arenas within which Catholic soldiers, war workers, and their families were invited to work out their sense of the war and their responsibilities as Catholics and Americans. The stories—often strikingly indifferent or even hostile to the pluralist “consensus”—shed new light on the war and on the history of religious difference in the U.S.

During the Cold War and in the aftermath of the Brown v. Board of Education decision, the Calvinist and political fundamentalists of North America opposed the integration of American society and the extension of civil rights to African-Americans. Both were viewed as contrary to God's plan for humankind and omens for the end times. At the same time, these militant clerics spread reformed theology and eschatology to non-white societies across the globe. An important missionary field was Africa, where American and British racial mores influenced the cultural and political struggle. western, capitalistic and democratic principles, white minority-rule, and British imperialism faced African nationalism and communist aid to independence movements. Accordingly, the contrast between militant theology and liberal, modernist Protestantism was interjected into the conflict. Two American crusaders, Carl McIntire and Billy James Hargis, made Africa an important battleground to defend segregation and western influence. Both pursued individual ministries and had differing theological agendas towards race. The International Council of Christian Churches, an organization that McIntire led, spread God's word to black Africans, while Hargis' Christian Crusade Against Communism worked with Rhodesia's white minority government. Their efforts provide insight into the militant theological and political crusade in North America and how they projected their Calvinist ideals into the international arena and into Africa.

In Institutional Dream Series (Sleeping in Public), 1972–73, Laurie Anderson slept in eight different public places in order to measure their institutional impression. In her experiment Anderson used dreams—ostensibly her own—“to see if the place can color or control my dreams.” The short answer was—yes. Institutional Dream Series is an exploration of the self as medium. In sleeping and recording her sleep on the beach at Coney Island, in the halls of night court, at the bureau of immigration and naturalization, and in the women's bathroom at Columbia University Library, Anderson's performance suggests that vulnerability to bureaucratic structures and organizational schemes is not something to be avoided but studied. For there is pleasure, fear, and wisdom to be found in such exposure.

Laurie Maffly-Kipp's insightful address about the perils and promise of church history concludes with an invitation “to begin a conversation” about how “the ‘church history’ of this new century can be both creatively forward-looking and respectful of the lineages that have brought us here.” I offer here some brief remarks on her address as a small contribution to that conversation.

Laurie Maffly-Kipp's address to the American Society of Church History proffers the challenge of engaging seriously with the “church” in church history. She notes that scholarship on Christianity has increasingly focused on broader cultural themes in lieu of a more strict concern with churches as institutions in their own right. Maffly-Kipp's challenge reminded me of a particular context in the history of Christianity: the eighteenth-century city-state of Ogua (or, more familiarly, Cape Coast), in present-day Ghana. In the 1750s, the family of a local youth sent their child, Philip Quaque, to study abroad in London under the auspices of the Anglican Church. The young Quaque spent the next eleven years of this life cultivating expertise in Anglican liturgy, Christian theology, and British mores. Before returning home in his early twenties, he was ordained to the Anglican priesthood—the first African to have done so.

We live in apocalyptic times. But, for a chilling sense that the end is at hand, one cannot beat the Middle Ages. So when I reflect on “the burdens of church history” as a medievalist, I find it bracing to ponder some ways that the era's most thoughtful prophetic writers brooded on church history. They were at least as concerned as we about complicity in an institution they saw as compromised at best, and at worst, in the service of Antichrist. St. Hildegard (1098–1179), though orthodox enough to have been declared a Doctor of the Church in 2012, wrote scathing letters to the most powerful prelates of her day and preached sermons against their negligence. No less scathing was William Langland (fl. 1365–1385), author of the sprawling allegorical vision of Piers Plowman. Langland decided to revise his poem after its prophecies about the dispossession of clergy played a role in the Great Rising of 1381, in which the archbishop of Canterbury was murdered. Wisely, he concealed his identity; we know his name almost by accident.

Last week, sandwiched in between updates on Beyoncé's trip to the West Coast and sighting of the latest super moon, the Huffington Post featured an article by power preacher Lillian Daniels entitled “Spiritual But Not Religious? Please Stop Boring Me.” Daniels lamented her situation on long plane flights, where she had to endure the stories of fellow travelers who, upon finding out she is a minister, confessed their rejection of religious institutions in favor of finding spirituality in sunsets and walks on the beach. Inevitably, they would present their experience to her as a revelation: “Like people who go to church don't see God in the sunset! Like we are these monastic little hermits who never leave the church building. How lucky we are to have these geniuses inform us that God is in nature.” Daniels' article represents a backlash coming from the institutional end of the spectrum, but her plea for loyalty to religion-in-community was met by many who found her (apparently, according to the comments section) insulting, condescending, and close-minded.