Pelli and Beccaria in the 1760s produced the first comprehensive critiques of the death penalty. They did not come from nowhere. For centuries, philosophers, jurists, and religious leaders produced ideas and arguments that would feed into the abolitionist cause, in a way unpredicted by their authors, none of whom were abolitionists. The starting point (ironically, as it became the standard-bearer of retributivism) was the Lex Talionis of the Code of Hammurabi, which aimed at controlling private vengeance, while advancing the principle of crime–punishment proportionality. Plato introduced the idea that punishment must be forward- rather than backward-looking, and dismissed the latter as vengeance. Jesus’s words and actions problematized the practice of capital punishment. Thomas More was the first to argue against the death penalty for a specific crime, namely, theft, while natural jurists such as Pufendorf ruled out Grotius’s assertion that capital punishment was permissible according to the law of nature. Beccaria combined social contract theory and proto-utilitarian considerations, the latter coming into play through the agency of Enlightenment philosophers, English, Scottish, and French. The advance of abolitionism was and is far from inevitable, as illustrated by the obstacles faced in England (for a time) and North America (perhaps lasting).

The Lex Talionis (‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth …’ ) was introduced by Hammurabi of Babylon, as a measure to control private vengeance and concentrate punishment in the hands of legitimate authority. It also carried the message that punishment should be proportionate to the crime, a principle that was pressed by progressive thinkers in later ages, such as Montesquieu. As the law was formulated, an offence committed merited an equivalent punishment: one eye for an eye, not two. Over time the Lex became the standard-bearer of backward-looking retributivism, which carries the idea that offenders deserve to be punished simply because of the offence they have committed. As such, it was an obstacle in the way of any burgeoning abolitionist thought, in particular because it prescribed ‘a life for a life’. The abolitionist Giuseppe Pelli attacked the Lex head-on. In doing so he drew on the diverse critiques of the Lex of a succession of earlier (non-abolitionist) thinkers. The Lex Talionis has staying power. It embodies a basic human conviction that retaliation is due for injuries suffered. As such, it is outside the law; it will coexist with, and survive, any legal environment.

Christians faced the specific problem of reconciling capital punishment with the belief in the sanctity of human life. ‘God made man in his own image’ (Genesis). However the Church, from the time of Constantine, found it advantageous to ally itself with the State in order to forward and exploit its influence and authority. This alliance involved the Church in a cruel penal system: in fact, it introduced a new capital crime, heresy. Such disquiet as there was largely went underground. When dissent was expressed, Jesus was called up as an advocate for the cause, not as a missionary for penal reform (his Kingdom was not of this world), but because of his life, teaching, and vision of a New Age. Of our two Italian abolitionists, the devout Catholic Pelli repeatedly invoked the Christian God and the Sermon on the Mount. Earlier it was a Protestant, Sébastian Castellion, who caused a stir. Castellion campaigned fiercely against the criminalization of heresy, following the brutal execution of Michael Servetus, burned at the stake in 1553 in Calvin’s Geneva. Castellion, however, was striking a blow for freedom of belief rather than for the abolition of capital punishment as such.

Unlike with Judaism and Buddhism, Cohen did not participate in the Christian religion, but he was raised in a predominantly Christian city and nation. Just as Cohen found no conflict between his Zen and his Judaism, he does not experience his Judaism as an obstacle to his appreciation of Christianity. His work frequently draws on Christian imagery, especially the figure of Jesus, and texts, especially the book of Revelation. “Suzanne,” the first song of his to be recorded, has an entire verse built around the story of Jesus walking on the water. “The Butcher” is about Jesus’s sacrifice as the Lamb of God, while “Last Year’s Man” refers to Revelation in the line, “Babylon the bride.” And since Christianity is rooted in the Hebrew Bible, Cohen’s references to these texts are also relevant to Christianity. This chapter explores Cohen’s use of Christianity in his work and discuss the ways in which it reflects on this religious tradition.

This chapter offers an overview of the fascinating and complex world of Islamic Christology by using the Qur’an and Hadith, the primary sources of Islam, as a starting point. It condenses the wealth of literature that Muslim exegetes, philosophers, and mystics have produced on the Islamic representation of Jesus and Mary, examining what they consider to be authoritative Islamicized forms of Christian beliefs.

St. Thomas Aquinas developed his account of the instrument doctrine by carefully attending to the work of St. John Damascene, in particular Book III of his On the Orthodox Faith. The Damascene himself was drawing upon a long tradition of reflection on Christ’s humanity that reaches as far back as Origen. In this chapter, John’s account of the doctrine and its basis in Maximus the Confessor’s writings is assessed, and five synthetic propositions are brought forward to summarize the doctrine. These propositions are nearly the same as what we find in Aquinas’s mature Christology. This chapter shows that far from being unique to Aquinas’s own Christology, the instrument doctrine is a basic patristic desideratum.

This chapter explores the spread of Christianity in Late Antiquity, focusing on archaeological evidence and methodological challenges in tracing its expansion. It examines how Christianity transitioned from a marginalised faith to an institutionalised religion, emphasising regional differences in its adoption across the Mediterranean and beyond. The chapter discusses a variety of materials, including early Christian inscriptions, artefacts, funerary practices and architectural remains such as churches, baptisteries and monasteries. Sites like the house church at Dura Europos and early Christian catacombs provide crucial insights into the religion’s early development. The study also highlights the role of missionary activity and the influence of state policies, particularly after Constantine’s legalisation of Christianity in the fourth century. A major argument is that Christianity spread unevenly, with urban centres adopting it earlier than rural areas. The transition was not uniform, as some regions experienced periods of resistance or syncretism with existing religious traditions. The chapter underscores the difficulty of identifying Christian material culture due to the overlap with pagan symbols. The chapter rounds off by calling for a more critical approach to interpreting archaeological evidence and suggests that future research should focus on regional case studies to refine our understanding of Christianity’s complex expansion.

This chapter examines the development of early Christian iconography, tracing how visual representations evolved between the third and fifth centuries. It explores a wide range of materials, including paintings, relief sculptures, mosaics, inscriptions and artefacts such as sarcophagi, lamps and glassware. Historical texts are also incorporated to provide context for the meanings behind Christian imagery. The chapter argues that early Christian art did not emerge in isolation but was heavily influenced by Roman artistic traditions. Many motifs, such as the Good Shepherd and the story of Jonah, were borrowed from Graeco-Roman visual culture and reinterpreted with Christian significance. It also addresses the debate over the absence of explicitly Christian imagery in the first two centuries CE, suggesting that early Christians likely relied on religiously ambiguous symbols before developing a distinct visual language. The discussion then shifts to the impact of imperial Christianity in the fourth century, which led to more monumental depictions of Christ, often portraying him as a ruler rather than a humble shepherd. Finally, the chapter highlights the crucial role of funerary art in shaping Christian visual culture, noting that many early depictions survived in catacombs and sarcophagi, reinforcing beliefs in salvation and resurrection.

O’Casey was born into a Protestant family and his father worked as a clerk for the Irish Church Missions, an evangelical society that aimed to convert Catholics. This chapter argues that O’Casey radically reimagined Christianity, depicting characters that inadvertently travesty or re-enact Christianity’s meanings. More broadly, however, he treats the love of the divine as parallel to the love of freedom and country; rather than a strict code, such love is a life-affirming source of inspiration akin to art and poetry. O’Casey’s sophisticated understanding of the value of Christianity has little to do with sectarian differences or superstition, but inheres in caring actions, love of life, and a determination to feed the spirit along with the body.

Chapter 4, ‘The Efficacy of Empirical Vision’, argues that physical sight can and should lead to belief in John. Scholars often cite John 2:23; 4:48; and 20:29 as evidence for John’s own critique of physical seeing as a means of coming to belief. The chapter argues that close reading of John 2:23 and 4:48 reveals human hearts to be the true cause of unbelief and shows that physical sight is the catalyst for all unbelief and all belief. Neither does John 20:29 condemn sight as a means of acquiring belief. Rather, it suggests that mediated seeing – via the text of the Gospel – can be as efficacious for belief as an actual encounter with Jesus. The chapter concludes that sight is complex, but that no critique of the positive relationship between sight and belief exists in John.

Chapter 1, ‘My Lord and My God’ in John 20:30–31’, asserts that the cause, content, and consequences of belief all suggest that Jesus is God. In John 20:27–29, Thomas sees Jesus and calls him ‘my Lord and my God’. After Jesus blesses those who believe without seeing him, John claims that he has written down signs in this book so that his readers can come to believe that ‘Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God’ and ‘receive life in his name’ (John 20:30–31). The proximity of both statements is not coincidental but reveals that 20:30–31 describes the same fullness of belief as Thomas’s exclamation. What emerges is that John’s portrayals of the ‘signs’, the titles ‘Christ’ and ‘Son of God’, and the resulting ‘life in his name’ are fundamentally theological. True belief will always make Thomas’s declaration.

This chapter articulates God’s purpose, which could be identified with the term ‘election’, but which here I break down into three themes – incarnation, creation and eschatology. If God’s character is not to change, God’s way of bringing about that purpose must be entirely consistent with the nature of that purpose. Thus the incarnation is both the means and the end of God’s purpose. God’s ultimate purpose is for us to be with God: God achieves that purpose by being with us. The incarnation is God being with us: the eschaton is us being with God. Creation is incarnational, because the purpose of creation is to be the theatre of God’s relationship with humankind, and because Jesus demonstrates what creation is and where it belongs in the story of God. The gospels portray the incarnate Jesus as the one through whom creation turns into heaven, and the flaws in existence are overwhelmed by the foretaste of essence.

A brief conclusion summarizes the argument as a whole, asserts that God is physically visible in Jesus’s body, considers the impact of this conclusion on Johannine scholarship, and suggests further areas of research.

Recognizing God in Jesus may be the goal of belief, but one must ask whether God himself is available for recognition. Chapter 2, ‘Divine Visibility’, argues that John’s Christology affirms the visibility of God by reconciling the notion of an ‘unseen’ God to the visibility of the Father that Jesus presents. It proposes that John 1:18a is best read as ‘no one has ever [fully] seen God [yet]’. Three pieces of evidence support this claim, chief among them a survey of Early Jewish, biblical, and Rabbinic literature revealing that one may not assume that all – or, perhaps, even many – Hellenized Jews embraced Platonist notions of invisibility. If one reads John’s God as ‘unseen’, rather than as ‘invisible’, the visibility of God in Jesus becomes possible and the tension between the seeing and not seeing God passages can be resolved.

This chapter examines the figure of Jesus in the letters of Paul, where Jesus is most often called Christ or messiah. The analysis briefly considers the linguistic puzzles around Paul’s use of the word “Christ,” then trace the contours of Paul’s particular account of Jesus as the Christ: his being sent by God, dying for others, effecting the resurrection of the dead, subduing all rival powers, and handing over kingship to God.