In 1932 Vitelli and Norsa published a substantial fragment of the Greek Jonah, the remains of a parchment codex, consisting of the final leaf of an initial quaternion and two other complete quaternions, in all seventeen consecutive folios or thirty-four pages. The text covers 1.11b–4.10a. The fourteen missing pages of the first quaternion and five additional pages beyond the present end of the codex would suffice to complete the text. The quaternions are so arranged that each begins and ends with a recto, and within the quaternion verso always confronts verso, recto always confronts recto. Each page bears one column of ten lines, and the lines contain as few as six and as many as fourteen letters, but commonly eight to eleven letters. Vitelli and Norsa give the size of the columns as 4 × 4.5 cm., but this is probably a mean estimate since a measurement taken on the facsimile yields 4 × 4.8 cm. for the columns of writing on pp. 12 and 13 of the third quaternion. The codex is 5.5 cm. broad and 6 cm. high. The unusually small format is noteworthy. The editors have assigned the manuscript to the fourth century A.D. It was acquired by purchase and its provenience is unknown.

Scholars in all fields should hold themselves morally responsible for what they publish and teach. One would think that everyone would take this for granted, but Hilary Putnam, for one, has earnestly warned that we dare not. As he writes, “To-day, as we face the twenty-first century, our task is not to repeat the mistakes of the twentieth century.” He sounded this warning at the conclusion of his analysis of Jacques Derrida's philosophical works. Putnam regrets that philosophers reside among the all too numerous scholars whose publications and instruction aided and abetted the development of the “political tragedy” exemplified by the regimes of Hitler and Stalin. Derrida the philosopher counts among current scholars whose thinking raises the specter of repeating those mistakes of the twentieth century and their horrendous aftermath. Taking the renewal of philosophy as the theme for his Gifford Lectures of 1990, Putnam characterized the writings of Derrida as not only philosophically unsound, but also as dangerous and irresponsible.

Many religious traditions attempt to regulate the sexual practices of their members. Generally, their main tool for doing so is prescribing with whom one may or may not have intimate relations. Forbidden partners might include, for example, members of the same sex, relatives, or people of other religious and ethnic groups. Additional methods for defining how and when intimate relations are permissible are also not unheard of. For example, sexual relations using certain positions or occurring on certain days or hours or in certain places might be declared sinful. The three main Bible-related religious traditions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, all have in their toolboxes these various regulatory instruments; many other religious groups use them as well.

In 1538 Melchior Sessa published at Venice an edition of the New Testament in Greek. It was printed by Ioannes Antonius de Sabio, and it consists of two volumes. About twelve years ago Dr. J. Rendel Harris of Birmingham gave the present writer the first volume of this work. He bought it of a dealer in old books, but he did not remember when or where he had acquired it. After many vain attempts to find Volume II I saw it listed in the catalogue of Bernhard Liebisch of Leipzig in the summer of 1939. I ordered it at once and received it before the outbreak of the war.

The mysticism of the seventeenth-century French cardinal, Pierre de Bérulle (1575–1629), contains an extended treatment of the relationship of the human and the divine in mystical union. Bérulle explores the nature of mystical union in detail and gives attention to the combination of the apparently incompatible elements of the human and divine and the historical and eternal. He prefers not to begin with the opposition between these elements but instead, by exploring the relationship between them, to use relational language, which brings together unity and difference. For this task, he draws on the tools of late medieval mysticism, which entail especially the metaphors of interior poverty, nuptial mutuality, and neoplatonic emanation. At the same time, he applies the categories of Christology to the problem of mystical relationality and difference. Christology deepens the ways in which to assert and to combine unity and difference between the human and the divine in mystical union. For the reader today, this provides an intriguing perspective on the question of mystical relationality.1 I intend here to set out Bérulle's understanding of mystical relationality and to focus on his christological development of questions of unity and difference.

Dr. Torrey has produced a work which, though contained in a little treatise of seventy-two pages, may well be an epoch-making contribution to our knowledge of Acts. He has undertaken to demonstrate two things: first, that Acts 1–15 35 is directly traceable to an Aramaic source which Luke translated; secondly, that the rest of the book is the work of one author.

This study draws on critical spatial theory to analyze the earliest archaeological and literary evidence of the triclinium, or Roman dining room, in Early Roman Palestine. It begins by examining the archaeological evidence of triclinia and similar banqueting spaces in Palestine, addressing their dating, their differing settings, and how their appearance and diffusion reflects socioeconomic and cultural changes under Roman influence. Next, it examines literary constructions of banqueting spaces in the Parables of Enoch, Testament of Moses, and “Q Sayings Gospel.” It demonstrates that these sources all seem to envision a triclinium setting in which elites eat, drink, and engage in all sorts of revelry while reclining on couches. The final section is devoted to critical spatial analysis of both the archaeological and literary data. It argues that these sources all evince, in varying ways, the interpenetration of local and global spaces rather than the unilateral “Romanization” of provincial space.

Elaborate depictions of the court system in Second Temple and rabbinic literature signify its centrality for the Jewish legal tradition. Rather than offering positivistic descriptions, these representations are better thought of as templates of how to organize justice. While historically less informative, they are vivid expressions of the early Jewish legal imagination and its fascinating fixation on the architecture of justice.

A measure of the ahistoric quality of early accounts of judicial administration is their considerable exegetical strata. This article surveys how four seminal Second Temple and rabbinic works constructed accounts of the judiciary on the foundation of Scripture. The variances among them unfold from decisive hermeneutical choices, beginning with the threshold question of which among several, internally inconsistent, biblical sources to select as a base text. What animates these various choices, in turn, are competing conceptions of the origin and nature of legal authority within a religious tradition that enshrines the role of law.

Toward the end of his nine-year tenure as Fellow, Thomas Hooker awoke in his sleeping quarters at Emmanuel College terrified by a sense of “the Just Wrath of Heaven.” His God, the same God in whom he had always put his trust, had turned against him and was furious at his sinfulness. Dreading divine punishment, Hooker found himself “fill'd. . . with most unusual Degrees of Horror and Anguish.” Alone in the night, Hooker was haunted by the anger of a terrifying God.

Three years ago, Patrick Andrist published a study listing an impressive register of manuscripts containing Christian literature against the Jews. One item in particular caught my eye, because it targets a wider range of opponents: it is an anonymous sermon against the Hagarenes, the Bogomils, and the Jews, and, more specifically, their hatred of the cross. This work, meant to be read on the third Sunday of Lent, has been preserved in one manuscript only: Athos, 388 (16th c.; 8°; 994 folios), a voluminous paper codex with various contents. The text, which runs from fol. 426r (431r), line 19, to 427v (432v), line 40, was written by a quick but rather inaccurate hand, as is shown by the numerous abbreviations, the presence of two lacunae, and the lack of quite a few initial capitals, which should have been added by the rubricator. The sermon is of unknown date, but the In exaltationem uenerandae crucis et contra Bogomilos of Germanos II, patriarch of Constantinople-Nicaea from 1223–1240, gives us a clue, as a major portion of lines 9–83 of our sermon can be found in this work (PG 140.621–44). In this article I present the editio princeps of the Greek text, accompanied by both an apparatus fontium and an apparatus criticus.

The fragment which is described and published in the present article was bought in Cairo in February, 1931, for Yale University. It is known as P. Yale Inv. 415, and in the late Professor Gregory's list of New Testament manuscripts it is designated P49. It seems safe to assume that the fragment was copied somewhere in Egypt, but it cannot be assigned to any particular locality. Furthermore, nothing is known as to the place where it was found.

In this article I shall argue that Friedrich Schleiermacher found the self that Immanuel Kant lost. Two steps are necessary to support this argument. First, I shall demonstrate that Kant knew that he had lost the self. Second, I shall demonstrate that Schleiermacher knew that he had found the self that Kant had lost. I am aware that these two demonstrations will not actually prove that Schleiermacher did find the self that Kant lost. I believe, however, that if we understand why Kant thought that he had lost the self and if we understand the way in which Schleiermacher believed that he retrieved this self, we shall be better off. We shall have discovered a way to reach beyond the limits of our own mental constructs and affirm the unity and integrity of life itself.

More than a year ago, in a letter to the present writer, an eminent French savant, M. Alfred Loisy, contrasted the parts played by the Pope and the President of the United States respectively in the war. “Maintenant c'est Wilson qui devient pape, et qui fait la morale aux belligérants, en nous appuyant de son crédit politique, financier, militaire. Vive le pape Wilson!” The contrast was just. “Faire la morale aux belligérants” — this is what we expect a Pope to do. We have been disappointed; it is exactly what he has not done. On the other hand, the President is the one politician on either side who has risen to the level of a statesman, and has gained, not lost, in reputation during the last four years. It must be remembered that he came late into the firing line, and has therefore been less exposed than his European colleagues to the test of time under which so many of them have broken down. But more than any one man now in public life, he stands for the combination of Reason and Energy.

Since the Enlightenment ennui and despair have been among the most dominant themes in western literature. In the twentieth century there scarcely exists a single major work of fiction which views man's nature and destiny under the aspect of hope or fulfillment. Why this should be so is the subject of interminable discussion which, generally speaking, locates the deeper cause in the breakdown of virtually all genuine religiousness with an attendant rise of meaninglessness and emptiness. This development in turn is linked to the various revolutions, particularly the Industrial, that have combined to undermine traditional occidental modes of thought and living. While some critics hold that it is merely a question of modern society becoming gradually accustomed to the blessings so precipitously conferred upon it by technology, thus comparing its present growing pains to those of an adolescent, few seem to disagree on the prevailing exhaustion and anxiety. In addition to the note of doom struck by the best intellectuals of our day — and its fashionableness is no argument against its truth — it would appear that the unreflecting masses independently of being exposed to this literature do not know how to redeem their leisure time, have lost a great deal of capacity for spontaneous participation, and seek despairingly if not eagerly for something vital to which they can relate themselves and through which find renewed structure in their lives.

No one who has studied the history of the last century can fail to be struck by the great changes which have taken place in human thought, affecting the whole outlook of man in his relation to the world both within and without and constituting a revolution in the intellectual life of our times. The most permanent forces in human life have been brought face to face with new facts, new conditions, and new ideas, and nowhere do we find the evidences of this change in outlook greater than in the sphere of religion, where the old problems and the old controversies are passed or passing. One of the great questions of today is, as a recent writer has said, “whether Christianity can come to terms with the awakening self-consciousness of modern civilization, equipped with a vast mass of new scientific knowledge and animated for the first time by ideals which are not borrowed from classical or Hebrew antiquity.” But Christianity itself has already been deeply influenced by some of the changes which have taken place. The great forces of history press steadily upon all the institutions of society and the form or expression of the religious life is profoundly affected by the movements of thought or changes in sentiment which take place in human society.

In an examination of the influence of the Book of Enoch on certain motifs in Milton's Paradise Lost, Mr. Grant McColley challenges the commonly accepted belief that Bruce was the first to restore to Western Civilization the knowledge of the existence of I Enoch, which had passed out of circulation during the early centuries of Christianity. Mr. McColley's belief that at least the existence of I Enoch was known to certain persons in the mid-seventeenth century and before rests on quotations from three popular travel books of the time: Sandys' Relation of a Journey (1615), Purchas His Pilgrimage (1613), and Peter Heylyn's Cosmography (1652). These authors all agree that the Ethiopians, or Abyssinians, had books containing the ‘oracles’ or ‘writings’ of the patriarch Enoch.

In the West, the best known Armenian Canon lists are those transmitted by Mechitar of Ayrivank˓, an Armenian savant of the thirteenth century (1222-1307 C.E.). The translation of these lists, which was first publicised in Europe by Theodor Zahn, has been reprinted in various works.

The problem of Jesus, which by its very nature must always remain of present concern, seems of late to have stirred a keener interest than for many years past. Never have the publications relating to Jesus and to the problem of the origins of Christianity been so abundant as to-day, and more than ever before do men crave an exact idea of the true story of Jesus and the conditions in which Christianity had its origin.