This chapter discusses the evidence for the existence of creeds before Nicaea and the purpose for which they might have been employed. The rival accounts of the origin of the Nicene formula are compared, together with the variants in the wording and the different accounts of its origin. The biblical texts that lie behind each verse of the creed are examined, and Beatrice’s argument for a pagan origin of the term homoousios is weighed against other theories. The anathemas require particular study, since the anathema on the term ktiston (“created”) is not preserved in all sources, but is crucial to the argumentation of Athanasius, who claims that it has the authority of Eusebius. The chapter then asks how the Nicene Creed was regarded after the end of the council, and whether subsequent creedal formulations were meant to reinforce or supersede it, and how it attained the form that is now regularly employed in churches.

It was not until the aftermath of the Council of Ariminum (359) and its Constantinopolitan confirmation (360), which officially professed a Homoian creed, that a pro-Nicene reaction took shape and galvanized the West. In the decades that followed a series of Latin bishops wrote apologetic-like discourses, defending the Nicene faith (against the authority of Ariminum) by providing renewed interpretations of the Nicene Creed and the relations of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.  Following in the tracks of Hilary of Poitiers and Marius Victorinus, a small handful of writers such Gregory of Elvira, Ambrose of Milan, Zeno of Verona, and Augustine gradually carved out a pro-Nicene doctrine of the Trinity and adjoining biblical hermeneutics that had completely rid itself of Photinian elements. By the Council of Aquileia (381), neo-Nicenes formed a hegemony, but one which did not dominate the theological and political landscape until the mid-380s.

This chapter examines the physical surroundings and circumstances of the first ecumenical council at Nicaea. The first part summarizes what we know of the city of Nicaea, what it looked like in the early fourth century, and if it had the necessary infrastructure to host a large gathering. The chapter also considers why the council was moved to Nicaea from Ancyra as well as why Nicaea was favored over the nearby imperial capital of Nicomedia. The next part focusses on the location, character, and size of the venue of the council, the palace of Nicaea. After a more general discussion of the complex, the author attempts to shed light on the physical form of the hall in which the bishops gathered by reviewing the evidence for audience halls known from other imperial and private palaces. Both the possibility of the council taking place in a large basilica-like setting and an alternative of the bishops convening inside a rotunda are considered. Finally, there is a brief comparison of the setting of the Nicaean council and contemporary Christian meeting places.

The Council of Nicaea was a landmark event, yet uncertainty surrounds almost every aspect of the council and its proceedings. No Acts survive, the signatory lists are incomplete, and the organization of the council’s meetings and the identities and motivations of those who participated remain controversial. Rather than propose another hypothetical reconstruction, the aim of this chapter is to reconsider the different interpretations made possible by our limited evidence and the particular questions that have divided scholarly opinion. Who attended the council? Who took the leading roles in the council’s deliberations? And who proposed and supported the crucial decisions, such as the inclusion of the contested term homoousios into the Nicene Creed? Not only are such questions essential to understanding the council and its legacy, but our search for answers offers the opportunity to look beyond the emperor Constantine and the most famous episcopal protagonists, and consider the significance of Nicaea for some of the less prominent figures who contributed to the drama. While their voices are difficult to hear, these more humble individuals had their own parts to play and shared the contemporary awe at a spectacle that symbolized the changing status of Christianity within the fourth-century Roman empire.

During the formative period of disputation over the theology of Arius, the emperor Licinius ruled over the eastern Roman provinces. The emperor Constantine was directly involved in the doctrinal controversy only after his victory over Licinius in 324. But Constantine’s engagement in imperial politics had already shaped his thinking about theology. In imperial successions sons were sometimes promoted but also sometimes overlooked. Emperors introduced a new five-year cycle for calculating taxes and often held annual consulships. Emperors identified with deities such as Jupiter and Hercules. At the Council of Nicaea, Constantine was hence ready to debate with bishops over the theology of Father and Son, the annual date of Easter, and the simultaneous divinity and humanity of Jesus Christ. One bishop who attended the council was Eusebius of Caesarea, whose panegyric equated the emperor with the Son of God. Constantine himself strengthened the association by funding churches in honor of Jesus’s nativity and resurrection in the Holy Land and by publicizing a story about his own vision of a cross in the sky. The Council of Nicaea had been a crucible for the formation of both a theology of God and a political philosophy of a Christian emperor.

How the long-standing genre of historical manuscripts show how writers worked with a broad and important sense of their place within a tradition.

On the history and major movements in the editing of medieval texts, with a detailed case study that permits a step-by-step explication of how one can go about editing a text that exists in more than one instantiation.

The essay seeks to identify in what way there is particularity to a Jewish theology of religions, as compared with the emergence of the field of theology of religions within a Christian context. Concern of Christian authors is with the problem of salvation and the common typology of exclusivism, inclusivism, pluralism reflects this concern. This typology does not translate well into a Jewish context and we must identify the concerns that lie at the heart of a Jewish theology of religions. The primary concern is that of the legitimacy of the other religion. The issue is negotiated first and foremost through the lens of idolatry (Avoda Zara) as well as through other lenses, such as the question of religious truth. The concerns of a Jewish theology of religions are illustrated through three case studies: Maimonides, R. Menachem Meiri and Rav Kook.

A basic premise of the Hebrew Bible is that God enters into relationship with humans. The beliefs that God exists independently of us and that we can acquire some knowledge of that fact would appear to make theological realism the most suitable Jewish theological orientation. While theological realism has had a number of proponents among modern and contemporary Jewish thinkers, it is a minority position that has long been overshadowed by other approaches to Jewish theological language. This chapter introduces the wider discussion of theological realism within philosophy of religion and Christian theology, places the work of Jewish proponents of theological realism within both the larger and the Jewish contexts, and then surveys the main alternatives to theological realism among Jewish thinkers including the “theo-realism” of Buber and Heschel, and Wittgensteinian, poetic, fictionalist, and apophatic approaches to Jewish theology. The chapter concludes by pointing to new resources in the theory of reference that can help bolster the case for Jewish theological realism.

Although ‘film’ remains in common usage as a generic term, digital technology has made it inaccurate when applied to work no longer shot, edited or distributed on chemically coated celluloid. The ‘photochemical era’ has ended, and rapid developments in the distribution and consumption of audio-visual products have reduced distinctions between what is viewed in the home and what is seen in public. This Companion takes as its remit feature-length productions, both those commonly perceived as ‘delivering’ the plays, and those that appropriate them as the starting-point for work that makes no such claim. These are all to some degree adaptations, but some are more adapted than others: consequently the first group of chapters focuses on the various ways in which screen versions of Shakespeare’s works have figured in a changing media environment.