In a letter from Cyprian, bishop of Carthage in the middle of the third century, written while he was in hiding during the Decian persecution to the imprisoned confessors in Carthage, there is mention of two crowns, two colors and two flowers. The letter can be dated to the middle of April 250. Cyprian wanted to console those in prison that they would not be failures if they failed to be martyred. Those who were not martyred could receive equal renown through their confession as those who were martyred. As much as martyrdom was highly prized among African Christians, Cyprian wanted to assure the imprisoned confessors that it was not the only way to please God. In the past (ante), in a time undoubtedly before persecution, one could be clad in white for good works, just as now one could be clad in crimson for martyrdom. For those who were not going to die a martyr's death and win the crimson crown for suffering or the flower of warfare, Cyprian seemed to say that the confession of their faith could now be counted as a good work for which the reward was the white crown or the flower of peace.

It was the Primitive Christians of the “purest ages” who inspired and encouraged the Methodist leader, John Wesley, to create a movement based on his vision of the ancient Church. Wesley was convinced that Methodist doctrine, discipline, and depth of piety came nearer to the Primitive Church than to any other group. Methodism, he argued in his sermon for Laying the Foundation of the New Chapel in 1777, was the “old religion, the religion of the Bible, the religion of the Primitive Church.”

In the spring of 1868, sixty-eight students gathered to become the first matriculants of the Illinois Industrial University. They had responded to a summons by the state legislature to engage in a bold new mission of publicly funded mechanical and industrial education, a move which would, Illinoisans hoped, bring lavish prosperity to their fellow citizens and themselves. Like other colleges of the period, utilitarian and democratic rationales motivated the I. I. U. leadership to establish their school. Quoting their commission by the Morrill Act, the trustees said the university's “chief aim” was to educate “the industrial classes” by teaching “such branches of learning as are related to Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts, and Military Tactics, without excluding other scientific and classical studies.” And yet, there was an even more radical and compelling vision among the I.I.U. faithful, one which was distinctively theological: “The hope of the Trustees and Faculty,” they said, “is that the Institution will produce … men of Christian culture … able and willing to lend a helping hand in all the great practical enterprises of this most practical age.”

Surveying the short history of pentecostalism in 1925, Frank Bartelman—a consummate “insider historian”—reckoned that although the Azusa Street revival had become “full grown” in Los Angeles, California, it was “rocked in the cradle of little Wales.” In pentecostal historiography much ink has been spilled connecting the causal dots of precedence. From whence did the movement come? Los Angeles? India? Topeka, Kansas? Historians of pentecostalism are cognizant of the 1904–05 Welsh revival; they readily acknowledged that it in some way influenced the Apostolic Faith Mission in Los Angeles. My goal here is not necessarily to argue one way or another but rather to resurrect from the dustbin of history a significant event that deserves its own due. This is a story, argues historian Rhodri Hayward, that “has been largely forgotten.”