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Nearly all the main pillars of the structure of Judaean society were destroyed in AD 70. Jerusalem, the Temple and the priesthood were in ruins. Pagan writers wrote little about Judaea except when the province appeared a military threat to the empire; when at peace the region was neither strategically nor economically significant. This chapter discusses the nature of Jewish society in Palestine in the fifty years between AD 70 and the outbreak of the Bar Kochba War. It is likely that all Jews hoped, in vain, for the rapid rebuilding of the sanctuary in Jerusalem. Evidence for Jewish settlement in the countryside of Egypt and Cyrene comes to an abrupt halt, although a few Jews were attested again in Egypt from the late third century. In place of the great heterogeneity of the era before AD 70, rabbinic Jews began a process of religious self-definition parallel to the contemporary development within Christianity.
In language and law the Roman family appears very different from the contemporary family: no word for the nuclear family unit, the nearly complete lifelong dependence of children on their pater, and the nearly complete independence of wife from husband. Domus was the word commonly used in classical discussions of family and household, but it, too, does not correspond with the contemporary primary meaning of 'family'. Roman law offered a means to allow fathers to entrust their wives with effective management of the patrimony by bequeathing the estate to their children but lifetime usufruct to their wives. For every kind of support offered by kin beyond the household, examples can be found of both agnatic and non-agnatic relatives providing it. Clearly, the Roman, propertied family differed from the family of the industrial age because of the drastically lower life expectancy, the importance of inherited property and the pervasive presence of slaves in the household.
Roman Britain illustrates the possible limits of literacy in the provinces. Most of the graffiti scratched on pottery derives either from military sites or from towns, just as most of the names written on tiles and bricks before they were fired are Roman names, most of them probably soldiers. Writing played a number of important roles in the life and working of the Roman army in Britain, yet it seems hardly to have penetrated the countryside, except in the form of milestones and at rural sanctuaries like Uley. Documentary evidence provides the surest guide to literacy levels in any society. A degree of uniformity in the way in which the Roman military used writing, whether on papyrus or wooden writing tablets, is perhaps the least surprising aspect of the unity. This chapter discusses the extent to which the empire itself was sustained by and generated texts. Non-military uses of writing are known primarily from Roman Egypt.
Before Latin literature had staggered its first imitative steps, Greek education and culture had been diffused by Alexander's conquests not simply across the eastern Mediterranean but as far as Afghanistan and India. This chapter discusses the Greek philosophy of the empire. It is important to note that many sophists and philosophers saw each other as rivals in the provision of tertiary education. Mannered style and Atticist language suggest that Achilles, Longus and Heliodorus of Emesa may have been practising sophists. Many of the subjects were popularized in didactic poetry, usually, following the Hesiodic tradition, in dactylic hexameters. The Latin literary world presents a fundamentally different picture from the Greek, and at least part of the explanation may be found in the different place in it of sophistic rhetoric. The absence of sophistic declamation by members of the élites of the Latin West becomes much less puzzling if that function is conceded to Greek sophistic.
Voluminous writings of Galen are the major source of information on Roman medicine. This chapter redresses the traditional imbalance by looking first at the general background and broader medical developments before describing the achievements of four major medical men, Soranus, Aretaeus, Rufus and Galen. Far from displaying a monolithic and dull academicism, medicine in the first two centuries of the Roman empire was the focus of a lively debate and discussion, and the concern of a great variety of healers, not just of the devotees of Hippocrates. The topic of acute and chronic diseases was also treated at length by an author of a different theoretical standpoint, Aretaeus of Cappadocia. To think of medicine in the Roman empire solely in terms of the surviving medical texts, the productions of only a few authors, is to underestimate the possibilities of healing available, and to attribute an exaggerated importance to the mere chance of survival.
In the light of the problematic nature of the sources and of previous research, any portrayal of the development of administrative posts can only be tentative. In the period from Augustus to the end of Nero's reign, four principal areas developed within the part of the administration entrusted to equestrians, imperial freedmen and slaves: offices around the emperor; positions which were mainly connected with the city of Rome; offices whose responsibilities extended beyond the city of Rome itself; and numerous other administrative posts in Italy. At the start of the reign of Vespasian, one can distinguish with relative certainty about seventy areas of work, with widely differing importance and scope, which were concerned with the administration of the empire alongside the areas entrusted to members of the Senate. While the number of administrative departments in the provinces had increased considerably, from the time of Vespasian onwards, there were only a few new offices created at the heart of the empire.
Rural patronage is likely to have been widespread in defining social relationships in the countryside, to judge by the evidence from the later empire and by modern Mediterranean studies. To the modern historian the élite Romans' perception of their social order seems incomplete, unsatisfactory and self-serving. The hierarchy and legitimacy of the ordines, and the privileges accorded them, were accepted as self-evident, with no thought given to how the Roman conception of the social order was projected and legitimated outside its centre. For members of the élite of the Roman empire, men like Aelius Aristides and Dio, the empire's social order was largely unproblematic. Elite imperial authors believed wealth to be a vital constituent of a Roman's standing. The economic and social structures in the towns were more conducive to upward mobility. By the end of the second century, however, men from the provinces came to dominate in the senatorial and equestrian ordines.
This chapter discusses the financial activity of the senators, knights and other nobles, and that of the intermediaries, money-changers and professional bankers. Money-changers and professional bankers had existed for a long time alongside élite financiers. In Italy and the western areas of the empire, the major distinguishing feature of the money-changers/bankers, the argentarii and coactores argentarii, was their participation at auctions, so as to provide credit for the purchasers of the objects on sale. In the Roman world of the first and second centuries, no category of financiers limited themselves to loans for consumption. But this does not mean that the majority of loans were productive, nor that the banks were the privileged helpers of production and commerce. Throughout the Roman period, loans and orders of payment never circulated freely. References to the financial affairs of the upper classes are brief and fragmentary for all periods.
The account of geographical and social conditions in Cyrenaica, its Augustan organization and Julio-Claudian development given in CAH X2 619-40 is taken for granted. As early as the second century BC so it is currently proposed, a series of sculptured reliefs found a little outside the walls of Cyrene presented Libyan religious ideas in a form strongly hellenized, but in many features patently non-Greek; and examples of the series were being produced also in the Roman period. By the time of Marcus Aurelius, Cyrene too seems restored to vigour. The new Roman influences were balanced by a new strengthening of the Greek tradition. Cyrenaica, in fact, by the end of the second century was showing a vitality which can fairly be reckoned as consonant with her natural resources, and a culture which is a striking combination of Greek, Roman and Libyan elements.
The question of revelation in Christian theology is finally no less than the question of theology's own ultimate source and norm, of the conditions for the possibility of theology itself as a human activity. Insofar as theology is a matter of engaging logos and Theos, articulate human reflection and God, the question of the route to and conditions for such an engagement naturally arises. To answer this question by appeal to the category of revelation is at least to point to the inherent contingency of the circumstance and the knowledge arising out of it. There could be no procedure less fitting in an essay on Barth than that of seeking to establish some general definition of 'revelation' in terms of which to venture forth. Yet to reveal too much too quickly of the particular sense which this term bears in Barth's theology would make for an untidy chapter in which everything happened at once. For now, then, concerns of style and structure encourage the unveiling only of this: something revealed is something disclosed or given to be known to someone which apart from the act of revealing would remain hidden, disguised and unknown.
However highly one values Barth's material contributions to theology, one could argue that his main significance lies not so much in what he contributed to the 'scientific self-examination of the Christian Church with respect to the content of its distinctive Talk about God' (CD I/I, p. 3), but in the way in which he taught his readers to conceive the task of theology and its presuppositions and procedures. One could even claim that the presentation of Barth's theology and its continual revision is a consequence of the new conception of the task of theology which shapes his theological 'forms of thought'. What makes Barth's material contributions to theology so significant is that they are part of a new way of understanding the task of theology which can be most clearly seen by contrasting it to what was taken for granted in the 'forms of thought' of modernity and its theology. Today those 'forms of thought' are no longer taken for granted, neither in theology nor outside theology. This provides a new stimulus for engagement with Barth's understanding of theology, its development, its elaboration, its problems and its promises in a situation which is no longer self-consciously modern, but is characterized by an uneasy oscillation between seeing itself as postmodern and/or late modern.
'The ontological determination of humanity is grounded in the fact that one man among all others is the man Jesus' (CD III/2, p. 132). Within the framework of a general human effort at understanding humanity, this principle of Karl Barth's theological anthropology is at first glance very provocative. For Barth, in fact, means that if we want to know who and what the human being is, we are not in the first place to look to ourselves. Nor are we to begin with what the empirical sciences say about the human being; nor are we to orient ourselves to the phenomena of human existence past and present in an attempt to interpret the experiences which are there expressed. All this, according to Barth, can and must be thoroughly considered, acknowledged, and brought to light. It is, however, unsuited for establishing theologically what it is that constitutes the essential character of the human. We are not to learn who and what the human is by observing human beings and their history in general, but rather to do so in the concrete human person to whom, according to Christian faith, God bound himself and entered into human history.
This principle of theological anthropology is particularly provocative today because it does not at first appear to show how it can be connected with what we already know generally about the human being. And without such a connection, all statements of theological anthropology are in danger of hanging isolated in space, simply incomprehensible outside of theological discourse. If this were to be the case then in the opinion of many, theological anthropology would gamble away a significant opportunity with which it is faced in a time shaped by secularism and atheism. This is the opportunity of being able to explain, even in our time, that precisely when human existence is at issue at least the question of God is unavoidable.
The doctrine of the Trinity is what basically distinguishes the Christian doctrine of God as Christian, and therefore what already distinguishes the Christian concept of revelation as Christian, in contrast to all other possible doctrines of God or concepts of revelation
(CD I/1, p. 301).
Karl Barth's approach to the doctrine of God is manifest materially in his discussion of the doctrine of the Trinity, as also in the way in which he relates this doctrine to those of revelation, election, creation and reconciliation. To get to the heart of Barth's understanding of God, however, one is required to recognize its formal significance and, more specifically, the fact that his theology takes place within a church dogmatics. In contrast to so many major theological expositions in the history of thought, Barth refuses to treat the doctrine as if it had a self-contained locus within a 'systematic theology' or exposition of Christian doctrine. How Barth treats the doctrine of God and how he conceives the whole task of dogmatics are irreducibly interrelated. It is this interrelationship which constitutes perhaps the most distinctive facet of his whole approach and with which one must begin.
From beginning to end, Barth's Church Dogmatics is nothing other than a sustained meditation on the texts of Holy Scripture, in all the richness and diversity with which these texts elaborate their single theme: a divine-human action constitutive both of divine and of human being, a particular action that is nevertheless all-inclusive in its scope. There are, of course, many parts of the Church Dogmatics that practise an 'explicit' biblical interpretation or hermeneutics: from passing references to particular verses to extended expositions of whole chapters or books, from consideration of particular concepts such as 'witness' or 'saga' (or 'legend'), to the construction of what might be called an 'ontology' of Holy Scripture. This material can be roughly differentiated from other material where the biblical texts appear to be in the background, or are perhaps absent altogether. Yet to regard biblical interpretation as just one among a number of items on Barth's agenda would be to allow the seamless garment of his theology to be torn to pieces.
Christian theology of religions is an area within systematic theology that has lately undergone considerable development. The area has taken on greater definition in recent years as Christian communities throughout the world come to grips with a heightened awareness of other religious traditions, and with a growing desire on the part of Christians to pursue interreligious dialogue and other forms of positive engagement with Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and others.
Theologians practising this sub-speciality commonly address such questions as these: Are any of the teachings of other religious traditions true? How should judgments about this issue proceed? Do other religions point their adherents in the right direction? Can Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and Buddhists be saved? Can they be saved by following the teachings of their religions? How should Christians relate to Jews, Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists, and others? Should they attempt to persuade non-Christians to become Christians? Should they engage in dialogue with the adherents of other religions? What purposes does such interreligious dialogue serve? Drawing upon a long and substantial tradition of inquiry about these issues within Christian doctrine and theology, the agenda of the theology of religions has taken on an increasingly systematic shape as more and more theologians within the Christian churches turn their attention to these questions.
In a letter written to Eberhard Bethge in 1968, Karl Barth reflected on how his political commitments did and did not emerge in his theological work. Noting that attention to these was not always prominent, Barth still referred to 'the direction I silently presupposed or only incidentally stressed: ethics - co-humanity - servant church - discipleship - socialism - peace movement - and, hand in hand with all that, politics'. In this chapter, I describe and develop some of the themes Barth mentioned. I will not make a case for the full coherence of these themes in Barth's mature theology because I am not sure that there is an account of this sort, i.e., of Barth's full-fledged and finished 'political ethics'. But my discussion will include a portrayal and an alignment of Barth's political ideas that display both how they might make sense together, and how they might yet exist in conflict or tension. Maybe that is enough to introduce and make clearer the 'direction' of which Barth speaks.
My study points out how Barth (1) affirmed both Christian political responsibility and its theologically required independence from political ideologies and ‘natural law’ approaches as such. Responsibility without independence leaves Christians captive to the ideologies and approaches, and hence unable politically to witness in freedom to God’s sovereign grace. In his understanding of the political order, Barth (2) often focused on the divinely ordained role of the state in protecting citizens from one another and guaranteeing the freedom of the church to preach the gospel. These safeguards are founded on the rule of law backed by threat of coercion.
The doctrine of the Holy Spirit is, as Adolf von Harnack once observed, the 'orphan doctrine' of Christian theology. Unlike the doctrine of the Trinity or the doctrine of Christ's person, it has never been stabilized by a conciliar decision of the church, although it is as vexing, contested and uncertain as any doctrine the church has ever known. An omen of things to come emerged as early as the Council of Nicaea (ad 325). Diverted by dissension over other questions, the council produced a creditable statement of the church's belief in God the Father, and especially of its belief in the deity of God the Son (which was, of course, the chief point at issue), but then closed rather weakly by stating its belief, 'and in the Holy Spirit' - with no further elaboration at all.
The deficiency was partly remedied by the ensuing Council of Constantinople (ad 381). Words were added to the Nicene Creed which have remained normative for the church ever since. The Holy Spirit in whom the church believes, the Creed now stated, is ‘the Lord and Giver of life, who proceeds from the Father; who with the Father and the Son together is worshipped and glorified; who spoke by the prophets’. This statement, however slight, acknowledged the Holy Spirit’s full and unabridged deity, indicated something of the Spirit’s place within the Holy Trinity, and affirmed that the Spirit communicates God’s Word to us through select human intermediaries. Unaddressed, however, were many matters that would divide Christendom throughout its history right down to the present day. To speak only very generally, these were matters having to do with revelation and salvation, with ecclesiology, ministry and sacraments, with eschatology and society, with justification, sanctification and glorification, and above all, as perhaps the overarching issue, with the unity and distinction between the saving work of the Spirit and the saving work of Christ.
Karl Barth is a systematic theologian in the respect that nothing written in one place is said without implicit or explicit reference to other theological themes. We shall therefore not understand him when he speaks of salvation if we fail to bear in mind something of what he has said about revelation and the Trinity, and above all the doctrine of election. While there may not be a single dogmatic 'centre', in the sense of a single organizing idea, to Barth's theology, there is an overall unity to his conception of God's action. It is that focus on action which supplies both the possibilities for, and the impassable limits of, any systematic theological construction. The realities of and limits to our knowledge of God's action provide the parameters for all human theological speech.
It is further the case that Barth fought a lifelong battle against what he called abstraction: the treatment of any topic out of relation to the fact that the divine action which provides the basis and possibility of theology is action in relation to the world. In Christ, God moves into free and loving relation with the world, particularly the human world, so that any theology that does not bear on ethics broadly conceived – that is to say, any theology without bearing on a life lived before God – is not Christian theology. This second feature in particular has a broad bearing on our topic. First, because Barth is an evangelical theologian – a theologian rooted in the gospel of Jesus Christ – everything that he wrote, certainly in the Church Dogmatics, is concerned with salvation: with the end to which human life is directed.