Some three decades ago Michel Foucault sought to reestablish communication between “madness” and “non-madness” by going back to what he called the “zero point” in history at which the distance between reason and madness was first established. In Madness and Civilization: A History of Insanity in the Age of Reason, Foucault suggested that returning to this point of initial differentiation requires renouncing all that we as modern persons know to be true about madness and reason. If we are to locate “that realm in which the man of madness and the man of reason, moving apart, are not yet disjunct,” he wrote,

we must speak of that initial dispute without assuming a victory, or the right to a victory; we must speak of those actions re-examined in history, leaving in abeyance all that may figure as a conclusion, as a refuge in truth. … Then, and then only, can we… begin the dialogue of their breach, testifying in a fugitive way that they still speak to each other.

“Spirit” in antiquity was seen as the uncontrollable, dynamic, and numinous presence of divine power. It had no relation to rationality, nor were human beings masters of this spirit. On the contrary, it was thoroughly irrational and entirely the agent of the gods. When the spirit was present in human beings, its manifestations were poetry, prophecy, visions, ecstasy, and speaking in tongues.

The figure of Satan has been a standing puzzle in the history of religion. Where did this figure originate, and what is its role? Satan is scarcely present in traditional Judaism to this day and is not present at all in classical Jewish sources—at least not in the form that later Western Christendom knew him, as the leader of an “evil empire,” of an army of hostile spirits who take pleasure in destroying human beings. Yet images of such spirits did develop and proliferate in certain late antique Jewish sources, from ca. 165 BCE to 100 CE. Specifically, they developed among groups I shall call “dissident Jews,” which included the early followers of Jesus; within decades, the figure of Satan and his demons became central to Christian (and later to Islamic) teaching. How did this occur?

Five portraits of Jesus by North American scholars published in the 1980s demonstrate the strength of the current resurgence in Jesus scholarship and disclose the central questions dominating the current discussion. These portraits (by E. P. Sanders, Burton Mack, Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, the present writer, and Richard Horsley) demonstrate that, after decades of relative disinterest, a “third quest” for the historical Jesus is under way. Each portrait or gestalt is interesting in its own right as a construal of the traditions about Jesus and as an exercise in historical reconstruction. Taken together, they illustrate the range of options in contemporary Jesus scholarship and point to the likely focal points of Jesus research in the 1990s.

Three of the earliest extant Jewish exegetes, Aristobulus, Aristeas, and Philo, all state that King Ptolemy was responsible for a Greek translation of the Hebrew sacred writings. Scholarly discussion has focused on finding the historical kernel in these stories, or linking their creation to a particular event such as the official promulgation of an original or corrected Greek translation. The Letter of Aristeas is usually considered the most accurate version, in large part because it later was used as an introduction to the Septuagint. These discussions have overlooked the fact that in each case the basic plot is fine-tuned to suit each exegete's own ideas about how the Torah was written, how the text and its translation should be read and interpreted, and by whom. A comparison of the three versions reveals that each writer embellishes this bare-bones plot in a distinct manner. In particular, “historical” details are created by each writer that support the very exegetical endeavor he is undertaking. The story of the translation becomes a vehicle for creating all the components necessary to justify the exegete's role, from the creation of a unitary “Torah” out of the multiplicity of versions and stories to the motivation for the particular interpretative moves “demanded” by the very qualities of this Torah. Comparing the three stories gives us valuable insights into the self-perceptions of the exegetes and the emergence of what will become a standard model of text-author-exegete in Judaism.

One of the methodical approaches to the tradition in the Gospel of Thomas is the search for Aramaisms in order to ascertain the Semitic background of the logia of Jesus. Aramaic, admittedly, was the language of Jesus and of the earliest strata of the Gospel tradition. Therefore, the discovery of Aramaisms or at least of a Semitic coloring in the Greek or Coptic wording could be helpful in reconstructing a pre-Greek or presynoptic stage of tradition. Some scholars have claimed to have traced genuine Aramaisms in the logia of the Gospel of Thomas that would carry us back to the earliest stages of oral or written tradition in the Aramaic speaking communities. It has been argued that in several cases Semitic coloring in the sayings of the Gospel of Thomas is stronger than in their synoptic parallels. If this observation is true, it would help in establishing the independence of the Gospel of Thomas. In itself this methodological approach is legitimate and should be applied to each of the logia preserved in this document. It is important, however, to avoid generalizations. If real Aramaisms are found in a logion, this may point to the archaic character of that specific logion, but this is not proof that the whole document is therefore rooted in early Aramaic tradition.

Among the most vexing problems in the history of New Testament scholarship has been the relationship between Jesus and Paul. The problem is this: although Paul became one of the most prolific representatives of the movement that began with Jesus, by most modern accounts, he pays so little attention to the historical figure Jesus of Nazareth that, paradoxically, one has been forced to conclude that Paul really did not know much about Jesus, or perhaps even that Paul simply was not interested in the historical person Jesus. The discussion of the relationship (or lack thereof) between Paul and Jesus has a history that is both long and complex. But when one surveys the vast literature devoted to the subject one thing stands out: the major advances in the discussion have generally been achieved not by efforts to understand the apostle Paul better, but by new developments in the study of the historical Jesus and the theological program that has always attached itself to this thorny issue.

Maimonides' Guide of the Perplexed is among the most influential works ever written in religious philosophy. It occupies a unique place in Jewish religious thought. While the majority of subsequent Jewish thinkers have criticized what they understood of Maimonides' text, they have often felt obligated to struggle with his contentions. This obligation constitutes the highest expression of respect in Jewish philosophy.

In his collection of Jewish inscriptions, Jean-Baptiste Frey identifies as Jewish a stone fragment that contains no writing, but only depictions of an amphora, several birds, a branch of a plant, numerous circular objects with smaller circles within them, and one drawing of a fish. Frey considers the amphora to be an oil jar; the birds to be doves and a goose; the plant branch to be the lulav associated with the Jewish festival of Sukkoth; the circles to be masot; and the fish to be the tuna that Jews are said to have eaten on Friday nights and on various Jewish festivals. The stone bears no irrefutably Christian symbols, such as a chi rho, but neither does it bear such things as a seven-branched menorah, which virtually all scholars accept as an explicit Jewish symbol. Frey even speculates that were the stone complete, it would probably be found to include a seven-branched menorah.

The Dialogue of the Savior (NHC 3, 5) is a literary dialogue between “the Savior” and a group of disciples, among whom three are named and have speeches attributed to them (Matthew, Judas, and Mary). Originally written—or better, compiled—in Greek, perhaps early in the second century CE, the writing is preserved only in a Coptic translation made before the end of the fourth century. Only recently has a critical edition been published; hence scholarship on this important document is in its infancy.

The Periphyseon, the magnum opus of the Carolingian thinker Johannes Scottus Eriugena (810–877), is widely recognized as the most original work in the history of Christian thought between Augustine and Anselm. Set in the form of a dialogue between a Master and his Student, the Periphyseon presents a daring view of the universe, for which Eriugena coins the term natura. Instead of the traditional Christian dichotomy of God versus creation, Eriugena presents a unified view of reality, the intimidating whole of which he can only conceive by submitting it to a process of division. Hence the name Periphyseon or On the Division of Nature.

A holy book arouses the greatest respect even among those (indeed, most of all among those) who do not read it… and the most sophistical reasoning avails nothing in the face of the decisive assertion, which beats down every objection: Thus it is written. It is for this reason that the passages in it which are to lay down an article of faith are called simply texts. The appointed expositors of such a scripture are themselves, by virtue of their occupation, like unto consecrated persons; and history proves that it has never been possible to destroy a faith grounded in scripture.

In the past two decades considerable theological energy has been expended in the construction of various ecological theologies and spiritualities. Process theologians, ecofeminists, and theologians of creation, earth, nature, ecology, and land have been elucidating religious perspectives that they hope will help transform human attitudes toward nature and the environment. These writers have sought to reorient Christianity away from anthropocentric views that claim human dominion over nature, premillennial expectations that embrace the destruction of this world, soteriological preoccupations that focus on individual salvation, and otherworldly assumptions that foster alienation from the earth and nature. Some sanguine observers have seen this recent ferment as the greening of American theology or even the greening of the American churches. At the same time, intellectual historians have paid increasing attention to the history of Western ideas about nature and have debated at length the impact of Christianity's theological heritage on the environmental crisis. Specifically, a number of historians have constructed a genealogy of American conservationist and preservationist thought by tracing out a line that includes, among others, George Catlin, Henry David Thoreau, George Perkins Marsh, John Muir, Aldo Leopold, and Rachel Carson.

A distinctive via media form of Christian faith and practice emerged within the structures of the Elizabethan Settlement of religion. Roman Catholic opponents of the Settlement struggled throughout the reign of Elizabeth I (1558–1603) to undo it, while Protestant opponents persistently strove for further reform. The character of the Church of England and of what was in later years to be known as Anglicanism was largely shaped during this critical stage of its development in response to the external and internal pressures generated by these opposition parties.

The year 1991 marked the sesquicentennial of the publication of the first volume of Emerson's Essays in which appeared, for the first time, “Self-Reliance,” arguably America's most famous essay. Despite the passage of time, this essay has never lost its power to inspire or to enrage. The controversies that continue to swirl around Emerson originate in a few points of contention, but none arouse as much furor as his seemingly innocuous formulation “self-reliance.” From the beginning, Emerson's reception among his readers has been sharply divided. A sampling of studies appearing in the current flood of Emerson criticism suggests that this polarization has never been more characteristic of Emerson's readership than it is currently. On the one hand are those critics of American culture like the late A. Bartlett Giamatti who found Emerson “as sweet as barbed wire” or the sociologist of religion Robert Bellah who located in Emerson the roots of America's most portentous national defects. On the other hand are such notable critics as Harold Bloom, Stanley Cavell, and Richard Poirier who find in Emerson, rightly read and construed, one of the few viable trails left in contemporary culture. The crux of all such articulate responses, whether of detractor or partisan, is the reflexive and seemingly disinterested conception popularized by Emerson as “self-reliance.”

Basil wrote the homily On Envy around 364, after he was ordained a presbyter by Eusebius of Caesarea. He probably intended it as a Lenten sermon for his congregation in Caesarea, which was largely composed of catechumens. The homily has received very little attention from scholars, although, along with nine other homilies, it has been classified as one of the moral treatises, rather than as an exegetic or panegyric work. Most recent scholarship has deemed it an authentic homily of Basil's. One can readily see why On Envy has been overlooked by historical theologians: the treatise is didactically straightforward, theologically and philosophically unsophisticated, and in no way combats Arian opponents. There are, how-ever, other reasons to find On Envy of interest. The treatise documents Basil's attempt to confront a mode of behavior that implicitly questions the church's authority. Simply stated, On Envy is Basil's direct effort to wrest control over the evil eye for the church. What is significant about the homily is that it demonstrates how Basil continued to work within the indigenous code of Mediterranean social behavior that was dominated by honor, shame, revenge, and envy. Thus what Basil offered his congregation as a solution to the grave problem of envy is really a recasting of the pursuit of virtue, so common to Christian Neoplatonists, into the Mediterranean social code. Virtue is rewarded by the most valued possession: honor.

Blake's romantic genius could not but chafe at the theme of rational order and harmony that pervaded eighteenth-century science, art, and theology. Only spiritual blindness could be content with a world reducible to measure and mathematics. Blake longed for a grander synthesis—a celebration of human living beyond the antinomies of reason and passion, understanding and imagination, order and chaos. He longed for the marriage of heaven and hell.

On the afternoon of 6 September 1952, the readers of the Boston Pilot—the voice of the Roman Catholic archdiocese—found on the front page of their usually staid weekly the text of a trenchant letter from the Holy Office in Rome. The text, dated August 8, addressed a group of Boston Catholics who had kicked up a fuss over the ancient theological dictum, extra ecclesiam nulla salus (“outside the church there is no salvation”)—a phrase going back to St. Cyprian in the third century and one of the pillars of orthodoxy for Christian believers.

“One is never done with Schleiermacher,” Karl Barth once wrote, and those who have read Church Dogmatics know just how true that is. Schleiermacher's work presents a constant task for theology to incorporate fully and critique its sophisticated method; to follow its rigorous passion for ethics; to imitate, if only palely, its synthetic power and breadth; to stand open-eyed before its beauty and elegant simplicity. Barth knew this well. To read his Church Dogmatics carefully is to hear Barth's respect for Schleiermacher on every page. The dispute with Schleiermacher's method and doctrine, far from being dismissed, courses through the Dogmatics, paying tribute to the gift and the burden of Schleiermacher's thought to his descendents.

At the turn of the century, Edward W. Blyden, resident of Liberia and former Presbyterian missionary from America, read to some African natives the following description from the New York Independent of the burning of a black man in Georgia:

Sam Hose was burned on Sunday afternoon in the presence of thousands of people. Before the fire had been kindled the mob amused themselves by cutting off the ears, fingers, toes, etc. to carry away as mementos. After the burning, and before the body was cool, it was cut to pieces, the heart and liver being especially cut up and sold. Small pieces of bone brought 25 cents, and “a bit of liver, crisply cooked, sold for 10 cents.” So eager were the crowd to obtain souvenirs that a rush for the stake was made, and those near the body were forced against and had to fight for their escape.