Historians who try to understand encounters between red men and white men in the seventeenth century are immediately confronted with a problem: Indians were not literate, and they left no records of the sort we are accustomed to studying. For centuries the only information about aboriginal populations in the Americas was derived from European narratives, conditioned by viewpoints that harbored an outsider's values. Archaeology added some indigenous references, but the evidence has usually been too meager for adequate generalization. Historians have pursued the goal of avoiding white men's biases and viewing Indian cultures as having an integrity all their own, but that goal has remained an ideal, causing more despair than hope of eventual success. As far as the history of early New Mexico is concerned, the situation is worsened by the fact that most church and government archives were burned during the fighting of 1680–1696.

In every diocese in the late seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, there was a clerical elite whose most visible members were the clergy attached to the local cathedral. They included the bishop, the bishop's major judicial and administrative assistants and the cathedral's dean and chapter. What were the general career patterns of these men in the late Stuart and early Georgian periods? From what geographical, social and educational backgrounds were they recruited? What economic rewards did their appointments carry? One might answer these questions by citing contemporary writers and by relating case histories of the clerics involved, but contemporary writers are not always accurate reporters, and individuals are not always representative members of the group as a whole. What is needed is a more systematic investigation of the late Stuart and early Georgian cathedral clergy than has so far been made—one that can establish general patterns for the group as a whole by actually looking at the group as a whole. Collective biography makes it possible to delineate general patterns for an entire group and to relegate the individual example to its proper function—that of illustrating hypotheses that have already been demonstrated by more systematic means. This article attempts such an analysis: it is a prosopographical study of the cathedral clergy of Lincoln Diocese under the late Stuarts and early Hanoverians.

Scholars agree that European Christians in the thirteenth century were enthusiastically devoted to the Virgin Mary. Even when they debated Mary's immaculate conception or her assumption body and soul into heaven, medieval Christians are not thought to have wavered in their desire to rely on her intercessory powers. While today some argue that Mary's virginal maternity set an impossible ideal for women and that her place below the Trinity sanctioned women's subordinate role within Christianity, medieval women supposedly did not assess Mary negatively. Given these widely held assumptions about thirteenth-century attitudes toward Mary, any uncertainty about honoring Mary warrants investigation. Any thirteenth-century Christian who rarely sought Mary's direct intercession but instead asked Christ to intercede with Mary deserves study. Attention especially ought to be given when questions about devotion to Mary are found in an unexpected place: the writings of a female saint renowned for her orthodoxy.

The secularization process in western society, first clearly discernible in the Italian Renaissance, reached a certain plateau at the beginning of the twentieth century. Whatever else might be meant by “the secularization process,” it meant at least, and means in these pages, the gradual deposition of religion from almost every structure and dimension of society except, perhaps, the most private and personal. To thoughtful individuals possessed of mature religious convictions secularization sometimes seemed to portend the end of religion generally: not by law or sword, but simply by social absorption. To meet this challenge, not by denouncing the secularization process nor modernity in general, but simply by sharing their own thoughts on religion and what its role might or should be in the newly secularized western world, a group of prominent London-based men formed in 1904 the London Society for the Study of Religion. The pages which follow are a study of this Society's origins.

The concept of Fortune (Tychē) had lain at the very center of traditional pagan thought about history. Herodotus thought that the gods intervened in history to control the course of men's fortunes. His successor Thucydides completely rejected any notion of divine intervention in history, but nevertheless used the word tychē twenty-eight times in his speeches, and eleven times in his narrative sections. He did not imply anything which we today would call supernatural by his use of the word, simply unforeseen chance occurrences which disrupted human plans. Polybius' use of the concept of Fortune was particularly notorious, and a vast literature exists on the question of what this historian in fact meant by the term, and whether he thought of Fortune in different ways at different stages in his own intellectual development.

The non-intrusion controversy in the Church of Scotland grew out of a demand of the evangelical group in that Church that the intrusion of ministers on unwilling congregations be stopped. The patrons, who had been accused of intruding unsatisfactory ministers on parishes, insisted that the presentee must be accepted by the parish unless valid objections were raised to his theology, literary style, or moral character. On the other hand, the more zealous of the Scottish clergy and laity vehemently insisted that the presentee, in addition to possessing those qualifications, must be personally “acceptable” to the congregation. In fact, many insisted that when the presbytery was moderating in the call, the question of the presentee's “acceptability” outweighed all other considerations.

In a 1999 speech at the Yale Law School, former Christian Coalition executive director Ralph Reed was asked to explain how school vouchers could be constitutional. The questioner argued that voucher programs that allowed government money to be used at religious schools would violate the constitutional separation of church and state. In reply, Reed argued, in part, that the voucher system was really nothing new. He failed to see the difference, he said, between the program he was advocating and an earlier program under which the federal government had paid for hundreds of thousands of individuals to go to religious schools. That program, he said, was the G.I. Bill.

In 1909, the philosopher Arthur Drews unleashed a brief but furious debate when he published Die Christusmythe, in which he denied the historicity of Jesus Christ. This article seeks to understand the origin and significance of the “Christ Myth” controversy, focusing not simply on its scholarly content, but also on the historical contexts in which it unfolded, in particular the increasingly public and popular nature of theological debate in late Wilhelmine Germany. The article examines Drews's long-standing commitment to a monist religious philosophy inspired by his mentor Eduard von Hartmann, as well as his decision to intervene in the increasingly contentious debate around Protestant liberal theology's view of the “historical Jesus.” It also describes Drews's campaign to spread his views to a broader public through a series of lectures and debates, many of which were organized and promoted by the German Monist League. Although the actual theses of Die Christusmythe were not particularly original or well argued, the ensuing controversy placed Protestant liberal theology in a difficult position, which opponents were quick to exploit. While a wide range of Protestant theologians attempted to refute Drews, others moved away from a reliance on the historical Jesus. This shift was in part a response to intellectual difficulties in liberal theology that Drews helped expose, but it can also be seen as a reaction to the unseemly spectacle of university professors defending themselves against autodidacts and dilettantes, a situation that led some theologians to ground their positions on intellectual terrain less susceptible to such attacks.

Among the outstanding figures of the period of the “flowering of the Czech Reformation,” Peter Chelčický occupies a prominent, and in some respects à unique, position. Although not as well known as John Hus, from certain points of view Peter is more important, certainly more original, than the great Czech Reformer, insofar as in his radical biblicism he went far beyond the latter. Moreover, his influence lived on in the Unity of Brethren and affected the course of history more than Utraquism did. His unyielding and unequivocal insistence on the separation of church and state, and to a somewhat less degree his pacifism, raised him to the rank of a pioneer of the future types of Christianity.

As Wendy O'Flaherty has argued persuasively in her recent book, Dreams, Illusion, and Other Realities, it is possible to falsify the hypothesis that one is dreaming—by waking up; but it is not possible to verify that one is awake by falling asleep. The thought that one cannot verify the fact that one is awake but only only falsify the fact that one is asleep (by waking up) delivers something of a jolt to Western “common sense,” which typically takes for granted the distinctness of such categories as “real” and “unreal,”“conscious” and “unconscious,”“dream” and “waking life.” Yet, as O'Flaherty points out, we know that we cannot see ourselves seeing an illusion, just as we cannot verify the “reality” of ourselves in the moment when we are engaged in testing our reality.

On 11 November 1417 the Great Western Schism ended with the election of one pope accepted by almost all of western Christendom. The thirty-nine terrible years of disunity were over, and the members of the Council of Constance had good reason to rejoice. Among those at Constance who did not live to see this happy day was Cardinal Franciscus Zabarella, who had died in late September and who up to his death had been considered a leading candidate for the papacy. During the council he had indicated in several sermons and addresses how much the unity which they had sought for so long meant to him and his contemporaries. He expressed these ideas and sentiments on the occasions when, little by little, various groups were united with and took their places at the Council at Constance in the years 1415–1416, reintegrating the fragmented western church. These sermons reflected the hopes and dreams of the members of the council.

During the 1520s the city council of Zurich, with the full cooperation of Zwingli, created a Reformed community in which all powers of discipline were placed in the hands of the city magistrates. Both Zwingli's theory of the Christian community and the council's actions to create such a community had their roots in the late medieval communal idea which viewed the city as a “sacral community.” This corporate ideal led to the blurring of the distinctions between the civil and ecclesiastical communities.Zwingli's theory also had roots in the thought of Marsilius of Padua, Occam, and Zwingli's contemporary, Erasmus.

From as early as 200 C.E., the church made the spring paschal celebration its primary occasion for baptizing new converts. A week of intense preparation climaxed for the candidates in their reception of baptism early on Easter Sunday. During the fourth century, the preliminary preparation of candidates during Lent included attendance at lectures that gave doctrinal instruction. The catechumens who were ready to receive baptism at the coming Pasch turned in their names to be enrolled for the period of teaching. This registration for the final period of catechetical instruction occurred near the beginning of the year, not long after the feast of Epiphany on 6 January—celebrated in the Eastern church since the fourth century as the feast of the baptism of Christ. The proximity of these two events—a celebration of Christ's baptism and the enrolling of candidates for baptism at the next Pasch—made the time around Epiphany a propitious time for preaching sermons on baptism. Since many catechumens in the fourth century delayed their baptism until old age, many of these sermons took the form of exhortations to baptism in order to encourage the hearers not to postpone baptism but to enroll for the immediate season.

Recent Puritan historiography has stressed the characteristics peculiar to the New England churches during the 1630's and 1640's. Historians have noted that while the Puritan church was the central religious institution in a religiously oriented society, it did not have the same importance for its members that the Roman Catholic church, for example, has for its communicants. Since the Puritans believed that God had irrevocably predetermined who would be saved and who damned, they did not need their churches to insure salvation. On the contrary, rather than being a means of gaining salvation, Puritan theory clearly defined the church as a fellowship of those already saved under covenant with God. By excluding all others the New England Puritans attempted to narrow the apparently inevitable gap between the visible and the invisible. In a world where salvation belonged to a minority and where man could do nothing to change his spiritual state, the Puritan church, these historians continue, was not an institution which included all those living within a certain geographical area, such as a parish, or even all the obviously pious within such an area.

According to Pope Leo XIII, it could almost be said that Thomas Aquinas “presided” over the deliberations at Lyons (1274) and Florence (1438) when these councils confronted the Greek church.1 This judgment, which would be true at best and in part only for the later council, both enshrines and encourages a misreading of Thomas's short treatise Contra errores Graecorum. In fact, the Contra errores is neither as well informed nor as technically argued as other Latin polemics of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. It is a treatise limited in form and argument, motivated by another, poorer treatise.

Hours before dark on a lazy summer afternoon in the mid-1990s, cars arrived in a long unbroken line that connected a rural two-lane highway to an unpaved parking lot. Seasonal thunderstorms and churning steel-belted radials combined to turn the meadow for overflow parking into a muddied mess. Still, some six thousand emerged from those vehicles and made their way toward a rustic fairgrounds stage. After displaying a ticket, they chose a spot, set up a few lawn chairs, and settled in for a long evening of entertainment and worship—making little to no distinction between the two. Each fan paid twelve dollars apiece to attend this gospel music event held just outside Boone, North Carolina, a small tourist community in the remote mountainous region of the state. All in all, few could complain about the price; the evening program featured five major groups, four with songs in Southern Gospel Music's Top 80 Hits monthly chart.

Arnold Toynbee has described our western civilization in the twentieth century as a rationalistic and secular culture. In the sense that an awareness of the importance of science is the starting point of the thinking of our day the generalization seems true. We prize the realism of the objective, analytical approach of science. In a turbulent and swiftly moving age we have substituted relativism for older values once confidently assumed to have universal validity. We have seen scepticism, born of twentieth-century events, erode an old and dynamic belief in progress. We observe Protestantism, its old orthodoxy shaken, striving to make the Christian tradition meaningful and significant for a materialistic generation. We watch the protagonists of democracy striving to hold fast to essential human values and to protect basic freedoms in an age of fear and power.

Jane Addams was not a theologian or a minister; she held no university position. However, in her role as head resident of the Hull-House settlement she became a social theorist of democracy and one of its most influential interpreters. Her primary interest was not in religious institutions, but in the moral and ethical concerns of public life in American society. Was it a good society? Did the people share in a common life? Were the least of them nurtured and protected? In 1892, Addams declared, “This renaissance of the early Christian humanitarianism is going on in America, in Chicago, if you please, without leaders who write or philosophize, without much speaking, but with a bent to express in social service and in terms of action the spirit of Christ.”

Medieval civilization was centered on theology. Theology inspired its arts, and theology shaped its research in science, law, medicine, and philosophy. The dancers at the court of the queen of sciences were mostly male, and one wonders what their female contemporaries thought or knew of the theological issues that were fundamental to the culture of the period. By the end of the Middle Ages it is probable that there was a high literacy rate among women of the middle and upper classes. Although it is unlikely that these women remained ignorant of the major debates that enlivened the conversations of educated men, evidence of their participation in theological endeavors is scant. Since women were excluded from the universities and formal training in the techniques of scholastic argument, it was virtually impossible for them to develop careers as professional thinkers.