Ecclesiastical exclusiveness has been among the persistent historical characteristics of the Christian church as, in its various forms and by varying degreees, it has insisted on monopoly in the mediation of salvation. The Cyprianic theme of extra ecclesiam nulla salus has not lacked occasion for re-utterance throughout the centuries, whether by the pen of Augustine, Boniface VIII, Luther or Calvin, though meanings, of course, have changed in differing theological and ecclesiastical circumstances. The church as custodian of the sacraments and chief locus of the work of the Holy Spirit, the church as supreme, universal institutional authority under the rulership of the vicar of Christ, the church as proclaimer of the Word and its promises and thus the home of saving faith—these are among the designations historically utilized to support the exclusivistic affirmations.

The Council of Basle was officially charged with three basic concerns: the reform of the Church in head and members; the extirpation of heresy, particularly Bohemian Hussitism; and the attainment of peace among Christian Princes. Yet, the Council was most absorbed by, and is most remembered for, a fourth, unscheduled concern. From its outset, the prime determinant of the actions and decisions of the Council proved to be the problem of living and working with the Papacy. In retrospect it is easy to see that this problem was insoluble. One could not expect the efficient functioning of the Church if there was doubt or confusion about the will of God, and the presence of such doubt and confusion was certain so long as even two agencies could gain support for their contentions that they were directly recipient to the Holy Spirit. Singularity of headship was absolutely necessary to the orderly processes of the Church. Yet the contradiction of this essential singularity was implicit at Constance in the accommodation, by one another of the curialists, the protagonists of an absolute, papal monarchy, and the conciliarists, who sought divine guidance through periodic General Councils. This accommodation, in turn, was necessary if the doubt and confusion engendered by the Great Schism was to be resolved. At Basle, this contradiction was wrought into a conflict which attracted a variety of opportunists who could further their ancillary or extraneous ends through a posture of service to one side or the other, and in so doing they obfuscated the issues and prolonged the struggle.

The study of church-state relations in the age of Constantine may be approached in many ways. Imperial church building is one of these avenues of study and interpretation. Lactantius long ago complained of the building mania of Diocletian and other members of the Tetrarchy. Eusebius lauded the churches of Constantine as signal proofs of his magnificence and as the discharge of a sacred debt. Procopius later condemned the extravagance of Justinian's building programs, although without specifically mentioning churches. And many modern writers have taken the churches of Constantine as evidence for both a personal and a public commitment to Christianity. Only a few historians, however, have asked whether there was an overriding plan or purpose to this activity, e.g., Glanville Downey has suggested the likelihood of a plan in the case of Justinian. Thus arises the question, was the construction of churches the instrument or at least the reflection of an imperial policy toward Christianity?

During the past decade, interest has been steadily growing in Nicholas of Cusa, but recent research has been more devoted to his ideas than to his life. As a mature and very successful man, he displayed a curious mixture of ability and obtuseness, utter and selfless devotion to the highest ideals and extreme pettiness. This paper will deal with his period as Bishop of Brixen, from his arrival in the diocese in 1452 to his departure in 1460. It was an episcopate undertaken with high hopes of far-reaching church reform, and almost everything in it went wrong. I shall try to show just what it was that went awry.

It is now almost a century since a German theologian first discussed the life and work of Johan Eberlin von Günzburg, the Swabian folkpreacher who doffed his Franciscan habit to follow Luther. In the ensuing period, the published writings of this minor Reformation character have been submitted to microscopic analysis, pertaining to his theological, sociological, political and philological style by a variety of German scholars. So far, however, there has been no assessment of Johan Eberlin's significance against the background of Christian Humanism as it applied to the German Renaissance. With two recent exceptions there has been almost no reference to this fascinating figure in the Reformation literature available in the English language. I intend here to remedy this injustice and to throw some light on a personality of considerable historical interest by reviewing the internal evidence of his most important work—that part of his Fünfzehn Bundsgenossen (Fifteen Confederates) which comprises his utopia.

“Indeed to lay in a state of ancient knowledge the studious master must go straight to the Greeks: to Aristotle, Theophrastus, Plotinus: to Origen, Chrysostom, Basil. Of the Latin Fathers, Ambrose will be found the most fertile in classical allusions: Jerome has the greatest command of the Scriptures.” Thus does Erasmus assess the Fathers in 1514, in the second edition of De Ratione Studii. They are a group of ancient writers coming within the horizon of those who enthusiastically “searched out, read and discovered the Greek and Roman literary classics in the two centuries between the death of Dante and the death of Machiavelli.”

There are only two moments during the Byzantine era at which the African Church emerges into something like daylight: on the morrow of the reconquest, in the middle years of the sixth century, and again almost a century later, under the emperors Heraclius and Constans II. Both in the controversies over the ‘three chapters’ under Justinian, and in those over monothelitism in the seventh century, the African Church took the lead in resisting what seemed, in the eyes of its leading churchmen, attempts by the Court to subvert the Chalcedonian orthodoxy.

In the middle of May, 1527, a religious debate took place at the castle of the manorial Lords of Liechtenstein at Nicolsburg, Moravia, which aroused widest attention and strong passions. On the one side was Dr. Baithasar Hubmaier, highly respected by the Lords of Liechtenstein and by a large section of the city of Nicolsburg which Hubmaier not so long ago had congregated into a peculiar Anabaptist (mass-) church of his own creation. He was supported by his fellow believers Martin Göschl, formerly auxiliary bishop in Moravia, and Hans Spittlemayer, previously Catholic clergyman but now a coworker with Hubmaier.On the other side of the debate was Hans Hut, the outstanding Anabaptist missioner-apostle of South Germany and Austria, his friends and fellow-believers Oswald Glaidt, Hans Nadler, and several more, all of whom disagreed strongly with the way Hubmaier had guided the “radical reformation” in the city of Nicolsburg. We do not know exactly the topic of this debate and most likely will never know it with certainty. The Chronicle of the Hutterian Brethren claims that the topic had been the issue of the “sword,” that is, the question whether or not a Christian may serve as a soldier or as a civic magistrate who, too, is bound to use the “sword” to enforce law and order. It is said that Hubmaier defended the sword even for “radical” Christians while Hut was passionately opposed to it.

The publication thirty years ago by M. M. Knappen of the diaries of Richard Rogers and Samuel Ward called attention to the puritan diary as a means of understanding puritan character. These were two examples of rather frequently kept journals in which pious diarists of the late sixteenth and early seventeenth century made a careful account of both their moral successes and failures together with those events in their lives which were signs of God's judgment or favor. Such records provided for the authors a basis upon which meaningful decision could be made as they looked after the affairs of their mortal lives.

The apt phrase, “a nation with the soul of a church” was coined by G. K. Chesterton in answer to his question, “What Is America?” the title of the autobiographical essay in which he relates how he came to appreciate what the United States was all about. Being irked, and then amused by the kinds of questions asked him when he applied for entrance into the United States, he was led to ask what is it that “makes America peculiar?” He concluded that it was the fact that

America is the only nation in the world that is founded on a creed. That creed is set forth with dogmatic and even theological lucidity in The Declaration of Independence… It enunciates that all men are equal in their claim to justice, and that governments exist to give them that justice, and that their authority is for that reason just. It certainly does condemn anarchism, and it does also by inference condemn atheism, since it clearly names the Creator as the ultimate authority from whom these equal rights are derived.

Historians of art and of German culture alike traditionally have interpreted the Reformation period as one of crisis and ultimate decline in the area of the visual arts. This view, while perhaps correct in broad outline, should be accepted only with certain qualifications. The German Reformers, and Luther in particular, were not as hostile to aesthetic expression as has sometimes been alleged. In Lutheran Nuernberg there occurred very little iconoclasm; in fact, Medieval and Renaissance art works were more fully preserved there than in many Catholic areas where they were later replaced by Baroque creations. It is true that, following the Reformation, few new commissions were given for works of ecclesiastical art. It is also no doubt true that the economic position of the artist was thereby gravely endangered, as examples cited later in this study will indicate. The evidence suggests, however, that the picture was not uniformly bleak.

Baptist historians have frequently asserted that the first Calvinistic Baptist Association in New England was the Warren Baptist Association founded under the aegis of James Manning in 1767. Most historians are aware that an earlier association, founded in the 1690's, existed among the Six Principle General or Arminian Baptists in New England, but with the great Calvinistic reorientation in the Baptist movement following the Great Awakening this association ceased to be of any significance outside Rhode Island. Little notice has been taken, however, of the Six Pinciple Calvinistic Baptist Association which developed on the borders of Connecticut, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island in the 1750's to unite and serve a group of Separate-Baptist churches formed in the aftermath of the Awakening. And yet this association, short-lived though it was, merits attention. It represented the first spontaneous effort of the Separate- Baptists to seek unity and order in the confusion which followed the break-up of the Separate movement after 1754. Although it proved to be a false start, it nevertheless prepared the way for the Warren Association whose importance is acknowledged by all Baptist historians. And it is particularly interesting that the basis of the organization was agreement on the belief that the ritual of laying on of hands was essential to church membership.

With the convening and accomplishments of the Second Vatican Council liberal Catholicism seems triumphant in the Catholic Church. Despite continuing controversy over such agonizing problems as birth control, it would appear that the Church has forthrightly and definitely decided to reconcile itself as fully as possible to modern society. From this present perspective, the historian may well need to reexamine certain aspects of the rise of liberal Catholicism and to reassess the work of certain of its pioneers and the frustrating obstacles they encountered. No longer on the defensive, the partisans of liberal Catholicism may want to reclaim those they have ignored or rejected. One curious figure who seldom if ever has been given credit for his role in the emergence of liberal Catholicism is the Abbé Henri Grégoire, priest and politician during the French Revolution and patriarch of the schismatic Constitutional Church.Liberal Catholic historians have tended to shy away from too much attention to this puzzling and perhaps embarrassing figure, leaving him to the attacks of conservative Catholics or the enthusiastic devotion of neo-Jansenist sectarians. Secular liberals who have generally preferred to face a Catholic Church which was unequivocally reactionary have pretended to see Grégoire as an excentric of little significance.

Puritan authors as a class are not noted for their economy with words, and in this respect Samuel Willard is no exception. His “works” consist of somewhat more than 6,000 pages of exegetic sermons, catechetic lectures, hermeneutic discourses, and polemic tracts on scriptural topics. He published nothing of a speculative nature, and his expression of church doctrine is—throughout—such as Calvin and his English and American posterity would approve.

For a man who had achieved deserved fame as a master of English allegory and had thereby become the subject of a host of biographies, Bunyan would be dismayed if he knew that, three hundred years after his initial if temporary release from the Bedford prison, the thing he had strived for most in his writings had been ignored—his attempt to clarify for his readers what he believed to be the central truths of the Christian faith. Historians have diligently sought for every piece of evidence available to fill in the unknown facts of Bunyan's life, while scholars of English literature continue to examine the style of writing of the unlettered Tinker. Yet no one has ever dealt satisfactorily with the thought of this man.

Few religious thinkers in modern times displayed a keener foresight and perception than John Henry Newman. The extraordinary talent he possessed in that regard rarely showed to better advantage than during Vatican Council II when repeated approbation was expressed in both the formal debates and in the private discussions of the bishops, the periti, and others in attendance at Rome for the theological views that Newman had held—often at the price of grave misunderstanding—a century or more ago. The two particulars which perhaps received more notice than any others were the ideas set forth in his famous essay in The Rambler for July, 1859, “On Consulting the Faithful in Matters of Doctrine,” a new edition of which was published as recently as 1961, and the Essay on the Dcvelopnient of Christian Doctrine, written while Newman was still an Anglican, and which was published in November, 1845, a few weeks after he had been received into the Roman Catholic Church.

It is generally accepted that even though rationalism was predominant during the eighteenth century, a significant mystical trend was simultaneously present. Thus it was not only the Age of Voltaire, Diderot, and Holbach, but also the Age of St. Martin, Eckartshausen and Madame Guyon. With increased Western influence on Russia, it was natural that Russia too would be affected by these contrary currents. The reforms of Peter the Great, animated by a utilitarian spirit, had brought about a secularization of Russian culture. Father Florovsky aptly summed up the state of mind of the Russian nobility as a result of the Petrine Revolution: “The consciousness of these new people had been extroverted to an extreme degree.” Some of the “new people,” indifferent to their previous Weltanschauung, Orthodoxy, adopted the philosophy of the Enlightenment, “Volter'ianstvo” (Voltairism). But “Volter'ianstvo” with its cult of reason and belief in a remote creator of the “world machine,“ did not permanently satisfy those with deeper religious longings. While conventional Orthodoxy, with its emphasis on external rites, could not fill the spiritual vacuum, Western mysticism, entering Russia chiefly through freemasonry, provided a satisfactory alternative to “Volter'ianstvo.”

American influences on Canadian Protestant Churches before Confederation do not present any simple historical pattern. As any student of Canadian history would expect the responses of the Canadian Protestant denominations vary widely, not only from one denomination to another but from one region to another. Indeed, regionalism seems to be the most important factor in determining the degree of American influences, both positive and negative, on Canadian Protestantism. Canadian historians have examined or at least noted separate aspects of American influences, particularly in a denominational context, but no one has apparently attempted a survey approach to the wide range of such influences—wide both geographically and topically.

In the American self-consciousness from its beginning to the present there has existed a firm conviction that this nation is destined, either by divine decree or circumstances, for a unique place among the peoples of the earth. One form of this is the assumption that the United States will provide the great example which others will want to follow. The classic expression of this was given by John Winthrop aboard the Arbella, but equally valid ones can be found in the words of modern Americans. Winthrop said:

We shall find that the God of Israel is among us, when ten of us shall be able to resist a thousand of our enemies, when he shall make us a praise and glory, that men shall say of succeeding plantations ‘The Lord make it like that of New England.’ For we must consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill, the eyes of all people are upon us.

Clergymen led the movement within American Protestantism known as Social Christianity or the Social Gospel. A small minority, primarily in the larger cities, began the shift away from individualistic views of salvation and ethics in the 1870's and 80's. By 1910 they had grown sufficiently in numbers and influence to secure official endorsement by the major denominations of a broad construction of Christian responsibility for the welfare of society.