Charges of social irresponsibility have frequently been hurled against the medieval mystics, in their own day as in our yet more activist age. Mysticism and monasticism, to whose discipline the mystics owed much, have often been condemned for selfish withdrawal from public obligation. A major cause of this unjustifiable indictment is doubtless traceable to a predominant area of ignorance within the Western World. This is the growing unawareness of the balance maintained in the Christian tradition between contemplative worship of the Divine and active service of the human.

Among the multitudinous and pressing problems faced by the Christian Church during the early medieval centuries one of the greatest was the feeding of the poor. Subjection to war, to famine, to the general anarchy of the times, had doubled the misery of the people and made them even more dependent upon public charity. Quite early it became evident that this must be an organized charity, that the problem was not being met by individual Christian action. A homily of Chrysostom (347–407) deplores the laxity of his contemporaries: “It is with you all that the treasure of the Church should be, and it is your cruelty that causes her to be obliged to possess and to deal in houses and lands.

Since the outbreak of the Second World War we have witnessed what may best be described as a “Renaissance of Christian Thought.” Christian belief is more respectable among intellectuals than it was a generation ago. Philosophers, novelists, and poets who present the case for Christianity are widely read and taken seriously even by fellow-intellectuals who do not share their beliefs. Among the Christian intelligentsia there has been a striking rebirth of theology, and Christian theologians are read more widely outside clerical circles than they have been for perhaps a hundred years. The names of Barth, Brunner, Nygren. Maritain, Tillich, and Niebuhr are known at least vaguely to the same sort of people who could not have named a single theologian a generation ago. Both the quality and range of the revival are impressive. Christianity appears to be attracting first-rate minds, and Christian speculation is ranging all the way from social and political theory to ethics, philosophy, and history.

It is customary to describe and interpret the history of Christianity as church history. To be sure, most church historians do not emphasize the special importance of the “church” in the Christian life they study and analyse; indeed, they deal with the idea of the church, with ecclesiological doctrines and with ecclesiastical practices as if they represented special phases of the Christian life. But, nevertheless, the fact that all aspects of Christian history are subsumed under the name and title of the “church” indicates that the character of Christianity is held to be inseparable from that of the “church”; the very custom of regarding Christian history as church history indicates that the Christian mind is marked by a special kind of self-consciousness induced by the awareness that the Christian faith is not fully actualized unless it is expressed in the special social context suggested by the term “church.”

One of the most important results of the New Testament study that has gone on during the past generation is its realization that the theology of the New Testament is unintelligible outside the context of its eschatological message. The precise meaning of that message is still the subject of much investigation and controversy, but its importance has become a matter of general agreement among New Testament students. Much less general is the realization of the implications of this insight for other areas of theological concern. Rudolf Bultmann's recent essay on mythology and the New Testament has served to raise again the question of the relevance of New Testament eschatology for systematic theology. That question has far-reaching implications for the study of the history of theology as well, implications with which historical theology has not yet come to terms. The relation between primitive Christian eschatology and the development of ancient Christian theology is a problem deserving of more study than the standard interpretations of the history of dogma have given it, for it can help iiluminate the origins of such dogmas as the Trinity and ancient Christology. Among the historians of dogma, only Martin Werner has taken up the problem in great detail, and his discussion of it has not yet issued in any new historico-theological synthesis.

Modern research dealing with the radical fringe of the Reformation has by-passed the problem of that Italian evangelical movement which is usually assumed to have been connected with northern “Anabaptism.” Students of “Anabaptist” history, however, while they have sought to clarify the distinctions within the movement as well as the features common to its component parts, have laid the groundwork for a reconsideration of the precise position of the Italian radicals. One approach to the problem might focus attention on the question of the relationship of Italian reformers to the “Anabaptist” movement in general. However, it has become increasingly obvious that the term “Anabaptism” was applied to a great variety of individuals and groups which had in common little more than their condemnation of infant baptism. As new criteria have been set up for separating the parts of this confusing mixture, there stand out most prominently at the center of the “Anabaptist” movement certain sects which modern German scholars call the “Taufer,” viz., the Swiss Brethren, the Hutterite Brethren, and the Mennonites; and we shall follow their usage here. The Täufer differed from the Protestant state churches principally in their conception of the nature of the church and, in their stress on discipleship. The latter emphasis implies man's ability to lead a life patterned after the life of Christ, while their conception of the church as a closed community of voluntary believers underlay their insistence upon the need for adult baptism. This insistence, which carried with it a denial of the efficacy of infant baptism, was the point in their teachings that aroused the opposition of contemporaries, signifying, as it did, their non-conformity to established practices and institutions.

In spite of all the hermeneutic research, the allegorizing of the Alexandrians, and above all the exegetical work of Origen, remains a strange phenomenon of the early church. Historians have often smiled indulgently, if they have not scoffed, at those childhood steps of biblical interpretation within ancient Christian theology, from Thomasius more than a century ago up to our present. The possibility of a complete understanding is hindered by the lack of many of Origen's texts in the original language. Many of his commentaries are lost. And yet there are certain indications from which we can learn that Origen did have his sound reasons for his exegetical undertaking. For this, one has to examine the tenth chapter of his Commentary on John.

In history books, in newspapers and in religious journals, and most impressively of all, in ponderous encyclopedias, has been carried down to us for a hundred years, a strange and wondrous story. The story concerns a religious group called Millerites who flourished in America in the early 1840's and who believed that the end of the world would take place on October 22, 1844.

American Christian churches in the first three quarters of the nineteenth century were in general strongly conservative in social and economic outlook, and solidly supported the individualism of the time. But after the Civil War the swiftly and often painfully changing social scene stimulated widespread interest in economic and social matters and contributed to extensive rethinking of traditional views on the part of many Christians. Important reformist, progressive, and radical Christian social movements rose and agitated the churches. Hence, when socialism grew with startling rapidity in the first decade and a half of the twentieth century, the attention of Christians was powerfully drawn to the new development. In that period when awareness of the social problem throbbed in the atmosphere of the time, that period of muckraking and trustbusting, progressivism and the sociological novel, the Socialist Party found rich soil in which to grow. The socialist vote grew from slightly over 400,000 in 1904 to some 900,000 in 1912, while party membership increased from 25,000 to 120,000 in the same period. By the latter date there were over one thousand socialists in elective positions across the land, most of them in minor posts, but with fifty mayors and twenty legislators included in the total. This rapid growth raised in a new and urgent way the problem of the relationship that should exist between Christianity and socialism.

Among the significantly great historical achievements of the American Young Men's Christian Associations has been the planting of Associations in foreign countries. Paralleling the notable missionary outburst of the late nineteenth century among the North American churches, this distinctive program of the YMCA was inaugurated in the last years of the 1880's with the sending of Association secretaries to Japan and to India.1 Nourished in the student Y.M.C.A.'s and particularly evangelized at the pioneer student conferences held under the auspices of Dwight L. Moody in Northfield, Massachusetts, beginning in 1886,2 the missionary fervor aroused significant interest in many Associations. By 1916 there were 157 North American secretaries in 55 foreign countries, 140 of them in Asia.

The history of medieval crusading may be conveniently divided into two chapters. The first of these chapters would end with 1291 when Acre was lost by the Christians and would cover the period extending backward to 1095 when the first crusading expedition was launched. During this period the western Christians conquered and lost the Holy Lands. They also established themselves in Greece and the Greek archipelago. The second chapter would come down to 1395, the year of the battle of Nicopolis, or possibly 1444, the year of Varna. During this period, though there is considerable talk and some action for the recovery of the Holy Land, the struggle has really become one for the defense of Europe against the invading Turks.

Celio Calcagnini's active career falls in a period marked by many men of note and by a number of significant events. He touched some of these directly or indirectly. He was involved in an imperial and in a papal war, in an imperial election, in the controversy stirred up by Luther, in the divorce question precipitated by Henry VIII. He fanned into flame the conflict over the imitation of Cicero. He took an interest in Egyptian hieroglyphics. Independently of Copernicus, Calcagnini made a curious and not altogether ridiculous contribution toward creating an attitude of mind favorable to the new conception of the solar system for which Copernicus was to become famous. He was personally acquainted with the painter Raphael, with Jovius, with Manardi the physician, with Ziegler, the poet Ariosto, the humanist Erasmus. In his home-town of Ferrara he enjoyed a place of honor as university professor, as apostolic prothonotary, as an excellent dinner host. He was considered to be one of the most learned men of Italy. Yet his importance was always that of a bridesmaid rather than of a bride. It has its uses, however, to look at a wedding from a bridesmaid's angle. To see an era reflected in the career of a minor actor may prove rewarding.

The object of this article is to suggest an interpretation of Roger Williams' thought different from that which is found in most of the literature on the founder of Providence, and to point out some neglected and important aspects of his system of ideas. To summarize it briefly, this interpretation holds that far from being a humanist Roger Williams believed in the radical depravity of man and the necessity of Grace; that far from being a rationalist Williams was a Biblicist; that far from being an optimist in history, Williams was a Millenarian; and rather than being a democratic Baptist Williams believed in the prophetic ministry free from any congregational limitations—in short, that rather than being a man of the Renaissance and the Enlightenment Roger Williams was a Puritan. The orthodox attitude to Roger Williams is misleading because it either distorts, or overlooks, or denies a primary religious concern in his thought and life, as a review of the historiography will readily show.

The schism in the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1844, and her reunion in 1939, fall into a pattern remarkably similar to that of the great schism and reunion of the United States. The antislavery movement possessed religious overtones of the same evangelical temper characteristic of Methodism; and the centralized—constitutional, if you will— structure of Methodism exposed it to federal-versus-regional stresses similar to those that divided the nation. There is the significant difference that the Northern and Southern Methodists parted amicably, and did not become involved in partisan bitterness until after the adjournment of their last General Conference together, but otherwise the parallel is complete: general acceptance of the principle of emancipation by the founders both of church and nation; with the renascence of slavery, the recession of this view, marked by a series of compromises in General Conference as in the Congress; the rise, and unpopularity, of militant abolitionism; a dramatic revival of partisan concern, marked by an acute constitutional debate growing sectional irreconcilability: schism; conflict—and an eventual resolution of the breach in terms of the tacit recognition by the North of the principle of segregation.

A good many Protestants—mostly buccaneers, sailors and traders—entered Latin America under the Spanish and Portuguese domination. In most cases, they were promptly detected, captured and tried by the Inquisition. Under the ordeal, a majority recanted, mainly in order to avoid punishment, but some, who remained loyal to the end, were burnt at the stake.

It has been customary, until quite recently, to regard the Brownist and Barrowist movements in England as the first phase in the history of Congregationalism. The two classic histories of Congregationalism, the one appearing just before and the other just after the turn of the century, both building upon the monumental work of H. M. Dexter, begin the story of Congregational continuity with these Separatist groups. Albert Peel, who devoted much of his life to searching among the literary remains of Elizabethan Separatism, threw Congregational beginnings a bit further back, namely to the Plumber's Hall congregation and Richard Fitz's Privy Church. He came to the conclusion that: “There is no valid reason for moderns to deny to Fitz's congregation, and probably to others contemporary with it, the title of ‘the first Congregational churches’. “However, the first name to be associated with twentieth century Congregational scholarship is Champlin Burrage. His amazing “finds” in English libraries have clarified many obscurities of early Congregational history and led later scholars to a re-evaluation of its beginnings. He was the first to make the distinction between Separatists and Congregationalists although he still saw in Robert Browne the founder of Congregationalism. His terminology was “Barrowist Separatists” and “Congregational Puritans” which was further refined by Perry Miller into “Separatist Congregationalists” and “non-Separatist Congregationalists”.

North American thinking and writing in missions have in general been characterized by immediate practicality. Missionaries, administrators, and professors of missions have been chiefly concerned with strategy and tactics, with methods and techniques, with program promotion and education of the church members. Scholars have devoted their attention principally to the analysis of successive current situations and trends and the interpretation of their significance for the mission. Getting something done well in order to meet a pressing need has appeared more important than a study of the theological presuppositions or implications of the action.

The study of church history in the Pacific Northwest—that is, in Oregon, Washington, Idaho, and British Columbia—would seem, at first glance, to be less rewarding than similar study in another region. The Pacific Northwest has never been the center of great religious excitement, or the place of origin for consequential and sustained doctrinal viewpoints. The region did produce one of the important latter-day Indian cults, the Ghost Dance, or Messiah craze, and the region does harbor “Psychiana,” in Moscow, Idaho. At one time there were religious communistic societies in the area, best known of which is probably the Aurora colony, in Oregon. But by and large, the Pacific Northwest cannot be styled a center of religious originality.