Since the dawn of the Christian era the relationship between church and state has been one of the pivotal issues of western civilization. Men have offered a variety of answers to this problem. The much- persecuted Anabaptists of the 16th century presented one set of answers, radical for their age, which called for a decisive separation of the church from the state and complete freedom for the church to pursue its vocation in the world. The Anabaptists were a distressing annoyance to the civil authorities. This movement posed for the 16th century the acute problem: how should religious dissent be handled?

To introduce the theme of this essay, there are few statements more fitting than the caustic judgment of Albertus Magnus on those whom he considered the enemies of freedom in his day. Reproaching the petty obscurantism of the opponents of Aristotle's philosophy, he described these men, whose sole aim in reading books was to find something to condemn, as stagnant themselves in intellectual inertia, and seeking always to paralyze others into their own state. It was men like these, he said, who killed Socrates, and whose plots forced Aristotle to leave Athens with the words, “I shall not give the Athenians a second chance of sinning against philosophy.” In the world of learning, according to Albertus, such bitter, bilious men are like the liver in the body; “they try to inject their own bitterness into everyone else, and to prevent others from pursuing truth in the sweetness of society.”

At Ferrara and Florence, Western intellectuals met with the greatest Greek scholarly and theological delegation that ever came to Latin soil. The Greeks did not come empty-handed. They brought with them de luxe editions of Greek sacred and, above all, secular authors—coveted treasures for Renaissance Italians. To judge by the letters in which Ambrogio Traversari announced the arrival of the Greeks, Christian Humanists were as much interested in the codices of Plato, Plutarch, Euclid and Ptolemy, brought by the Emperor and Bessarion, as in the cause which brought the Greeks to Italy.

An interest in August Rauschenbusch may be motivated by the hope that perchance in the life of the father we could discover factors which would illuminate the social-gospel interests of his more famous son. The importance of Rauschenbusch in the early history of German Baptists in North America, particularly as founder and virtual head of the “German Department” of Rochester Theological Seminary for thirty-two years (1858–90), should alone, it could be urged, establish his significance for the religious history of that day. However, it is the primary and less ambitious purpose of this paper to place Rauschenbusch within the framework of the German and American religious situation of the mid-19th century on the basis, largely, of twenty-two of his unpublished letters and a smaller number addressed to him, running from April 12, 1845 to September 27, 1854. These were recently discovered in the archives of the Rhenish Missionary Institute, Wuppertal-Barmen, Germany.

Over a generation ago Lucien Febvre wrote a short article on the origins of the Reformation which he called “Une question mal posée.” Today the question remains just as “mal” as it ever was, and the modern historian who ventures forth into these eristic fields of study will find that time has in no way mitigated the full vigor of the historiographical and theological controversy that surrounds the Protestant Reformation. Some scholars have endeavoured to find the secret of the upheaval in the political machinations of unscrupulous princes and the dynastic ambitions of rival sovereigns. Others of a more social and economic bent prefer some variant of the school of economic determinism. The institutional historian tends to see the Reformation as part of the growth of the centralized national state while yet others say that the revolt was the result of corruption and abuse within the mother institution itself—the Catholic Church. Those who see the movement as part of the vast intellectual revolution of the era, hail the Protestant revolution as the “coming-of-age” of medieval Europe—the emancipation of the laity and the lay mind from the tutelage of the ecclesiastical. It is unnecessary to enumerate further. The only point which I have to contribute along these lines is to say that all of these suggested reasons fail to explain adequately three aspects of the Reformation which historians at least have tended to ignore.

The concept vita apostolica embraced three basic principles: imitation of the primitive church, poor, simple, and penitential, with interests and activities restricted to the spiritual domain; a passionate love for souls at home and far afield; and evangelical poverty in common, either predicated on mendicancy or mitigated by the work of one's own hands. It became, during the age of Gregorian reform and after, a compelling program instinct with the fervor, spontaneity, and humanity of the first community at Jerusalem (Acts, iv, 32; cf. Luke, x, 1–12). It postulated reform and criticism in a restless age of expanding economic and geographical horizons, a more rational political system, an increasingly complex social organization, a multiplicity of divergent intellectual currents, and corresponding new spiritual needs. Such a momentous evolution of society, challenging the status quo in all its parts, demanded a reappraisal of the resources and ends of the church, the most powerful and tenacious defender of tradition.

A preliminary word should be said about the propriety of the use of the late, twentieth-century term “pacifism” to apply to the peace doctrines of the sixteenth-century Anabaptists. As it has been used since World War I pacifism designates broadly an idealistic anti-militarist position whose goal is the elimination of war in history.

For the medieval world the Council of Florence provided the last great opportunity to close the gap separating Eastern from Western Christendom. Not only was it the most brilliant convocation of Greeks and Latins in the entire Middle Ages, but it marked the first occasion in centuries that East and West assembled in ecumenical council to debate the differences separating their two churches.

As the Council of Florence concluded its deliberations, the Greek Orthodox participants had a number of choices open to them. The Byzantine metropolitan and newly created cardinal of the Roman Church, Bessarion, elected to remain in the Roman West where his intellect and knowledge were so well appreciated, after a short visit to a Constantinople unreconciled to the idea of Union. The Metropolitan of all Russia, Isidore, likewise adorned with the red hat and invested by the Pope with legatine power over Russia, chose another solution. Proud Greek that he was, Isidore trusted his superiority over the Russians and decided to return to his see, bringing with himself the new faith. According to the Tale of Isidore's Council by the monk Simeon of Suzdal', the metropolitan explained to Pope Eugene IV the reasons for his confidence that Moscow would accept the Union: “They are all in my hands, all the princes and bishops,” Isidore told the Pope; “Not one of them dares argue with me; the Grand Prince is young and is under my will… their bishops are ignorant and they, too, fear me.”

When in the process of historical research the step is taken from a mere collecting of facts to a meaningful interpretation of these facts, we may speak of the maturity of this historical research. If that is true in general history, it is even more significant in the field of church history where ideas and spiritual principles dominate the scene. But the difficulties in this area are even more conspicuous than elsewhere. A perfectly objective church historiography is almost impossible due to the inevitable bias of the writer, his sympathies and his restricted ability to appreciate phenomena in widely different fields. In fact, no historiography can do without a set of categories and concepts of a specific nature, and the choice of these is definitely the work of the particular research person and his preferences.

The use of the word “denomination” to describe a religious group came into vogue during the early years of the Evangelical Revival. Typical of the mood which gave currency to the new term are John Wesley's oft-quoted words; “I … refuse to be distinguished from other men by any but the common principles of Christianity⃜ I renounce and detest all other marks of distinction. But from real Christians, of whatever denomination, I earnestly desire not to be distinguished at all⃜ Dost thou love and fear God? It is enough! I give thee the right hand of fellowship.” The word “denomination” was adopted by the leaders of the Evangelical Revival, both in England and America, because it was a neutral term which carried with it no implication of a negative value judgment.

In the spring of 1697 the Reverend John Higginson of Salem finished writing a laudatory “Attestation” for Cotton Mather's Magnalia Christi Americana. Higginson was enghty-one. He had lived in New England for nearly seventy years, and sixty of them had been devoted to the ministry. He had, he worte, “seen all that the Lord hath done for his people” in the Puritan colonies and rejoiced that a younger colleague had recorded it in a volume of history and biography, because he was sure that the book was, in substance, purpose, and scope “according to truth” and would be of “maninfold advantage and usefulness”. In elaboration of this he listed in his “Attestation” some ways in which he thought the Magnalia would serve “great and good ends”.

In 1754 the English colonies were concentrated along the Atlantic seaboard and the river valleys leading thereto. To the west of this more-or-less densely populated strip lay a vast wilderness permanently inhabited only by Indians and dotted with the isolated military garrisons and trading posts of the French. Because of conflicting claims and a faulty knowledge of geography, neither England nor France had been successful in convincing the other nation of the validity of her territorial claims. Three wars—King William's (1689–1697), Queen Anne's (1702–1713), and King George's (1744–1748) had been fought in an effort to solve this troublesome question, but in 1754 the problem was much the same as it had been in 1689.

A lesser known but perhaps significant phase of American religious reformism manifested itself beginning with the eighteen twenties when missionaries attempted to graft Protestantism on Greek soil. These spiritual reformers prepared to plant their faith in Greece while Samuel Gridley Howe, Jonathan P. Miller, and George Jarvis sought to help the Greeks win their independence from the Turks. This phase of missionary activity represented something extraordinary, because the Americans were attempting to impose their kind of Christianity on a people who had been Christians centuries before America was discovered.

As the pioneer of the New England Awakening and its literary defender, Edwards has long been associated with revivalism and sectarianism in American Protestantism. Several writers have noted that his Faithful Narrative (1737) of the 1734 Northampton revival, with its many translations and reprints, not only stimulated the Great Awakening of 1740 and later revivals but helped set the pattern of conversion experience in its more “enthusiastic” features. Attention has been called to his involvement in the “hell-fire” preaching of the revival, its emotional excesses, its distorted conception of childhood religion, and its pietistic individualism.

The Scottish Philosophy is no longer in good repute despite its proud reign in another day. Indeed, few, if any, schools of philosophy have been given such disdainful treatment by historians as Common Sense Realism; and few, if any, philosophers have had to suffer such ignominious re-evaluations as Thomas Reid and Dugald Stewart, who were once lionized as the founders of a great and enduring philosophical synthesis. Yet the very decisiveness of this reversal creates at least two challenging problems, one philosophical and the other historical. First, was the Scottish Philosophy as undistinguished as posterity has judged it to be? (To this I would answer with a qualified negative, but the subject is outside the purview of the present essay.) Second, why, when its ultimate rejection was so complete, did the Scottish Philosophy for over a century play such a large and variegated role in Western thought, being in its origins a forceful liberalizing religious movement, in France the near-official “middle-way” of the Restoration and July Monarchy, and in America the handmaiden of both Unitarianism and Orthodoxy? The account which follows is directed to this second question as well as to the factors in Scottish and American intellectual history which demonstrate the importance of asking it.