Unlike Christianity, which regards the word “Pharisee” as synonymous with “hypocrite,” “legalist,” and “petty-bourgeois,” Jews have always understood Pharisaism as the correct and trustworthy side of Judaism. Since the eighteenth century, all disputants who participated in the great controversies and schisms within Judaism have claimed to represent the true heirs of the Pharisees. For example, adherents of the strong anti-Hasidic movement initiated by R. Eliyahu of Vilna in the second half of the eighteenth century, who are usually referred to in literature by the negative appellation “opposers” (םירננחמ), referred to themselves by the positive title “Pharisees” (םישורפ). When the Reform movement was founded in Germany in the first half of the nineteenth century, with the goal of reforming the Jewish religion to make it more “modern” and acceptable to its neighbors, the reformers perceived themselves as the true heirs of the Pharisees. In his important study of the Pharisees and Sadducees, Abraham Geiger, one of the founders, of Wissenschaft des Judentums and an important spokesman for the radical wing of the Reform movement, formulated the view of the flexible open-minded Pharisees, who reformed Judaism to the point of contradicting the laws set out in the Pentateuch, in order to accommodate them to their changing needs. Geiger's opponents easily produced evidence that negated his findings and proved beyond doubt that they, in their conservative strain, were the real heirs of Pharisaism. To his opponents, Geiger was a representative of the detestable Sadducees or their later counterparts, the Karaites.

This paper discusses the issue of “Christian” identity customarily defined by its distinctiveness. I wish to start with a biographical observation: The classics school that I entered in April 1939 in Frankfurt am Main was under the same roof as the Jewish high school. This struck me as very peculiar given the propaganda and political activity of the late thirties in Nazi Germany. The Jewish high school was named after Samson Rafael Hirsch, the famous Jewish scholar and rabbi of nineteenth-century Frankfurt. On our side of the building there was nobody who would answer my questions about the school, and before long the object of my boyish inquisitiveness ceased to exist. As part of the German war machine, a military censorship complex took over the Jewish part of the building and closed the Jewish high school. The Jewish students and their teachers disappeared. We, the students of the non-Jewish part of the building, wondered during study breaks where they and the many Jews in the neighborhood of our school had gone. As the yellow star on the clothes of Jewish fellow citizens appeared, it became very obvious to us youngsters that there were fewer and fewer Jewish people around. As the Nazis established a store “for Jews only” at the trolley stop near our school, the pain and hunger of the people with the Star of David showed more and more on their faces. Their number visibly dwindled.

The story of the four who entered pardes, or the orchard, is the crux interpretum of the study of ancient Jewish mysticism. The answer to the question of how much mysticism existed in rabbinic Judaism depends on the interpretation of this story. In the history of scholarship of the past several decades, two major approaches have been taken. One approach, spearheaded by Gershom Scholem, although by no means initiated by him, sees in this story a record or some testimony of a mystical experience. The various terms employed, and in particular the term pardes, are seen as expressive of a heavenly ascent into paradise, and thus as a testimony of a mystical experience. The other approach, which consciously seeks to tone down the mystical and ecstatic element of the pardes story, sees in this story a parable. If it is a parable, then we do not have a record or testimony of an event of a mystical nature. Of course, even if the story is parabolic, the question of the subject of the parable remains open. Ephraim E. Urbach, who first took this line of interpretation, suggested that the story is a parable, and not a mystical record. The story refers, however, to the study of maʿaseh merkabah (“the work or story of the divine chariot,” referred to in the first chapter of Ezekiel), and thus retains esoteric significance.

Recently in this journal Allen D. Callahan argued for a bold, distinctive interpretation of Paul's Epistle to Philemon. Contrary to the conventional interpretation, Onesimus was not a (runaway) slave, but was Philemon's own estranged blood brother. Rather than an appeal for forgiveness for a fugitivus, or a request to retain a slave for further service, the Epistle to Philemon is the apostle's attempt to bring about reconciliation between two brothers. Callahan's thesis constitutes a powerful reminder of how the interpretation of each of Paul's letters, perhaps especially this shortest and most subtle letter, depends acutely upon the interplay between historical reconstruction of the original context and the text itself. Callahan calls for a reconsideration of the most basic, universal presupposition of the interpretation of the letter—that Onesimus was Philemon's slave.

I thank Margaret M. Mitchell for her thoughtful criticisms of my article on the interpretation of Paul's Epistle to Philemon. She has pointed out certain limitations of my arguments, both on the culpability of John Chrysostom as the earliest disseminator of the familiar interpretation that Onesimus is a slave and runaway, against which I have inveighed, and also in other areas where, in her parlance, my constructive arguments seem vulnerable. I am gratified that my admittedly unconventional reading has been engaged seriously and thoughtfully by a colleague well versed in both the Pauline corpus and patristic exegesis.

Although Jesus' agony in the garden (Matt 26:36–46; Mark 14:32–42; Luke 22:40–46) may be powerful and even inexpressibly poignant to modern readers, it was a plague and embarrassment to patristic and medieval interpreters. Few narratives in the New Testament were so inimical to received christological assumptions. Ancient and medieval interpreters, at least those ultimately judged to be orthodox, ascribed to the Incarnate Word the qualities of divine consubstantiality, omnipotence, omniscience, obedience, and impassibility. The pericope, at least in its Markan and Matthean versions, however, presents a figure who appears in utterly human form—powerless, ignorant, recalcitrant, and passible.

Among the best-known of Jesus sayings is the “worry” saying of Q (Luke 12:22–31):

“Therefore,” [Jesus] said to his disciples, “I bid you put away anxious thoughts about food to keep you alive and clothes to cover your body. Life is more than food, the body more than clothes. Think of the ravens: they neither sow nor reap; they have no storehouse or barn; yet God feeds them. You are worth far more than the birds! Is there a man among you who by anxious thought can add a foot to his height? If, then, you cannot do even a very little thing, why are you anxious about the rest?

In the opening of Gos. Thom. 37, the followers of Jesus ask, “When will we see you?” Jesus answers, “When you strip without being ashamed and you take your clothes and put them under your feet like little children and trample them, then.…” At this point the manuscript is damaged and the published reading is problematic. An examination of photographs of the manuscript of the Gospel of Thomas at logion 37 supports a continuation of “then you will come to,” not “then you will see,” which is printed in the published versions of Guillaumont, Layton, and Meyer.