One of the less encouraging consequences deriving from the revival of traditional modes of theology and church life has been the shadow which has fallen over the great historian-theologians of the nineteenth century. It is said that we have superseded the work of these men. This is no doubt true, but it is not at all clear in what sense we have superseded them, or what the world “supersede” might mean in this judgement. To be sure, the student who turns to these nineteenth century figures today finds that their historical judgements are frequently unreliable by current standards (but less so than we might wish!), and that their biases sometimes narrow their historical vision to an almost intolerable extent. But he also finds in their work a seriousness and an earnestness which did not flinch from the great problems which arise when the Christian faith is subjected to historical science. The student finds that most of the issues which they raised are still relevant, mostly still unsolved.

Historical anniversaries, like birthdays, must come at the appropriate time in order to be properly appreciated. The quadricentennial of the death of Menno Simons, in 1961, coming as it did at a period of marked and indeed exuberant vitality of Left Wing studies, fulfilled happily enough, this requirement.1 For Menno this was especially important, since he has been, during the past four hundred years, a man with a “bad press”—criticized not only by all of his foes outside his tradition, but also by many of his friends within.2 An appraisal of his place in the Reformation of the sixteenth century appears necessary and—in light of the state of Left Wing studies— also possible, though this must not lead to an undue postulate of profundity or relevance.

Clement of Rome has often been judged and found wanting by his Protestant interpreters. His letter is frequently presented as “a good illustration of the break between the New Testament faith and the Apostolic Fathers' lapse into moralism.” (And “moralism,” to put it mildly, is not always a pleasant word in Protestant theological circles.) Rudolf Knopf calls attention to the “rationalen Moralismus des Schreibens.” And Johannes Weiss says that “a strong moralism runs through all its expressions from the first page to the last.” When James Mackinnon gives us examples of Christian moralism in the sub-apostolic period, Clement is of course present in a prominent way, as indeed he is also significantly present when H. E. W. Turner mentions the “tradition of ‘sober moralism’ which was so notable a feature of late first-century and early second-century Christianity.” Moreover, A. C. McGiffert stands in the same tradition of interpretation when he says that for Clement “salvation is to be had only by obeying God and doing his will.” One could of course go on and on citing examples of this kind, but it seems unnecessary to do so, especially in view of the fact that a great many more illustrations are readily available in Thomas F. Torrance's The Doctrine of Grace in the Apostolic Fathers. Not only does Professor Torrance mention numerous scholars who stress the moralism of Clement, but also he himself comes to the conclusion that grace in I Clement appears to be an “enabling power granted to those who are worthy.” Clement “may use the language of election and justification, but the essentially Greek idea of the unqualified freedom of choice is a natural axiom in his thought, and entails a doctrine of ‘works,’ as Paul would have said.”

The period of the Reformation touches the interests of most people in one way or another and consequently receives attention from historians with a great variety of interests, running the gamut from dialectic materialism to theology. Much of this concern stems from our preoccupation with the strong revival of religion subsequent to the first World War and evinced in neo-scholasticism, Barthian evangelicalism, neo-orthodoxy, the Luther renaissance, the ecumenical movement, and similar manifestations, on the one hand, and our great concern with the widespread social tensions and revolutions which are springing up in all parts of the world and are keeping us poised on the brink of another world war.

During the eighteenth century the major problem confronting the leaders of the Roman Catholic Church in Ireland was that of survival. Throughout most of the century the Irish Catholic clergy had to live and work under a code of laws designed to destroy the ecclesiastical organization of their church and, thereby, to end Catholic religious observances in Ireland. In their effects, however, the Popery laws failed their purpose. Ireland was not transformed into a state, “Protestant and past all danger of relapsing again into Popery.” In all of their respective parts, the laws against priests were impossible to enforce, perhaps never even meant to be enforced. Although the laws were sufficiently enforced to affect profoundly Catholic religious institutions and religious practices, Ireland's Catholic environment was never destroyed and never replaced by a Protestant one. The Irish language, divisions among Protestants, self-interest, jobbery, politics, missed opportunities, and stupidity combined to prevent rigorous enforcement of the laws and to frustrate the missionary and educational schemes planned by the leaders of the Established Church.

In view of the rancor and vehemence which characterize much of the patristic condemnation of Epicureanism, it seems remarkably incongruous that there should be in the Fathers any expressions of approval at all for the philosophy of the Garden. Nevertheless, such expressions do occur and with reference to all three divisions of Epicurus's system, canonic, physics, and ethics. No doubt the best explanation for this apparent inconsistency of attitude is suggested by Clement's definition of philosophy and the tolerance that it implies: “By philosophy I do not mean the Stoic nor the Platonic, or the Epicurean and Aristotelian, but everything that has been well said by each of the schools and that teaches righteousness along with science marked by reverence; this eclectic whole I call philosophy” (Strom., i. 7. 732CD).

In recent years, more and more American readers have been entering the delightful world of Anthony Trollope's novels—the world of Barchester Towers, of the intrepid Archdeacon Grantly, of the absentee prebendary Doctor Vesey Stanhope and the over-burdened vicar of Puddingdale, Mr. Quiverful. Such a reader often finds himself confused, as he is intrigued, by the commnual background of that world, the cathedral chapter. Historians indeed, who have read considerably in mediaeval secular history, have remained puzzled as to the precise nature of the cathedral chapter. Travelling abroad, one is struck by its continuance as an institution, by its colorful robes and insignia, and by the liturgical splendor of its worship at the great continental cathedrals. Even here at home, at the chancery of Archbishop Mitty or in the cathedral of Bishop Pike, one can find at least vestiges of this institution.

To probe the reaction of American Roman Catholics to the emergence of Nazism three periodicals were studied for the years 1933 to 1937. America was a well-edited Jesuit weekly with a circulation approximating thirty thousand. It was well-informed, detailed in its coverage of contemporary events, and wielded wide influence among Catholics in its approach to current affairs. The Brooklyn Tablet, weekly diocesan publication for Brooklyn in New York, had a newspaper format and a circulation approaching fifty thousand. Commonweal was edited independently by Catholic laymen and was more influential than its circulation of about twenty thousand would indicate.

I should first like to refer to some documents which I found during my research this summer in the Propaganda Archives in Rome. Then, I should like to show how they help towards a better understanding of the very complicated historical relation between Church and State in Ireland in the nineteenth century. The first of these documents is a series of three letters from an Irish priest to his agent in Rome in January, 1823, concerning the impending appointment of a new Archbishop to the See of Cashel. The second is a long letter from the Bishop of Elphin to the Cardinal Prefect of Propaganda, in February,1826,protesting the charges leveled against him at Rome by the Augustinians of his diocese. These two men, priest and bishop, peasant and aristocrat, represent the essential faces of the clergy in Ireland in the nineteenth century. More often than not, however, the priest or the bishop was not simply the one or the other, but rather an interestingly complex amalgam of these two representative types. Their letters, then, tell us a great deal not only about the Church in their time, but give us historical insight into the Church of their posterity.

The first two words of the title simply accent the conciliarist refusal to separate Christian reform and ecclesiastical unity. Pierre d'Ailly insisted that there could be no true reformation without union, no true union without reformation. The principles necessarily delimited here in terms of their most frequently recurring expression are discussed under five large heads.

The colorful and powerful figure of Martin Luther dominates all study of the early years of the Reformation. Inevitably the first pages of the history of the Reformation in any region will begin with an effort by the author to trace the manner in which Luther's influence reached that area. In the study of the English Reformation one of the common ways of showing Luther's influence is to point to the work of the Bible translator William Tyndale. Numerous books on the English Reformation, on the history of the English Bible, and on Tyndale himself, have made of him a follower and an interpreter of Luther who played a major role in introducing the thought of the great reformer into England. A careful study of Tyndale's works, however, will show that his debt to Luther, and the “Lutheranism” of his views, has been over-stated. Tyndale, like many early sixteenth century religious reformers, made much use of Luther's name, fame, and works but without becoming a follower of those distinctive ideas of the German reformer which set him off from the other advocates of reform at the time. Tyndale's greatest debt was first to Christian humanism and then to the German-Swiss reformers of Zurich and Basel.

The writings of the so-called Apostolic Fathers (a term used by the Monophysite Severus of Antioch in the sixth century) present us not only with a fascinating theological literature but also with some difficult problems in regard to its nature. Thomas Elborowe translated Ignatius, Polycarp, and Barnabas and entitled his published work (London, 1668) “a prospect of the primitive Christianity, as it was left by Christ to his apostles, by the apostles to their disciples Saint Polycarp and Holy Ignatius, both contemporaries with and disciples to the Holy Evangelist and Apostle Saint John.” The neatness of this part of the prospect was somewhat marred by the inclusion of Barnabas. “His following epistle indeed,” Elborowe wrote, “may not prove so very acceptable to some, in regard of his strange explications of scripture, which are not after the modern and more refined mode. But it is to be noted that, when he wrote, Christianity was but in the cradle, and scarce advanced into her morning dress.” Nearly three hundred years later Mgr. G. Jouassard, writing in the Mélanges de science religieuse (1957), was facing problems not unlike those stated or implied by Elborowe. What is the value of the Apostolic Fathers? What kind of authority do they have? Are they any more valuable than such a document as the Epistle of the Apostles? They are hard to classify as literature and they come from a long period of time. Both “apostolic” and “fathers” are words which ascribe more importance to them than they really deserve.

Few subjects in recent history have lent themselves to such heated polemical writing and debate as that concerning the Spanish Church and its relationship to the abortive Spanish revolution of 1931–1939. Throughout this tragic era and especially during the Civil War, it was commonplace to find the Church labelled as reactionary, completely and unalterably opposed to progress, and out of touch with the political realities of the twentieth century.1 In the minds of many whose views were colored by the highly partisan reports of events in Spain during the nineteen thirties, the Church has been pictured as an integral member of the Unholy Triumvirate— Bishops, Landlords, and enerals—which has always conspired to impede Spanish progress. Recent historical scholarship has begun to dispel some of the notions about the right-wing groups,2 but there has been little research on the role of the clergy. Even more important, there has been little understanding of the Church's response to the radical revolutionary movements in Spain.

John Calvin succeeds in stating his position on baptism in such a way that it becomes not only an integral part of his entire system of theological thought, but also an occasion for a very lucid exposition of the central themes characteristic of his theology. Calvin achieves this by carefully delineating the proper manner of approach to the discussion of the doctrine of baptism. Specifically, Calvin insists that the meaning of baptism cannot be genuinely understood if we take the external ceremonies as the point of departure for our discussion. Instead, it is of basic importance first and foremost to be concerned with the promises of God offered in baptism, never forgetting that these are the inward mysteries for whose sake the outward signs are present. Such an approach is possible and even necessary because of the relationship which exists between the word and the sacramental sign. The sacrament never exists autonomously; it is, as we shall soon discuss in more detail, rather like an appendix that is attached for the purpose of confirmation and ratification to an already clearly given divine word of promise.

Aside from conversions, the most notable and noble achievements of the Congregational and Presbyterian missionaries, who journeyed to the Sandwich Islands under the auspices of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, were the systematization of the Hawaiian language, the development of an educational system, and the preparation of literature to be used in the churches and schools. Evangelism was the primary function of the mission, but teaching and printing, although auxiliary to the main function, played a large and significant role in the christianizing process. Through the printed word the missionaries gained access to the hearts and minds of their pupils; religious concepts and ideas were incorporated in the reading material; thus teachers converted as they taught.

Although dependence upon a literally inspired Bible has been one of the most common beliefs among American Protestants, theological justifications for this doctrine of the Scripture have not been common. Eighteenth century infidelity from Thomas Jefferson to Thomas Paine attacked the possibility of special revelation more than any particular form of revelation. In order to refute these adversaries, the great champions of orthodoxy, such as Timothy Dwight, never found it necessary to become specific about the nature of biblical inspiration. The growing influence of biblical criticism after the Civil War ended this period of Edenic innocence and compelled the churches to theologize about the nature of biblical authority. The results were not unanimous, and the ensuing controversy focused attention as never before upon the doctrine of inspiration. Only one of the conservative defenses of inspiration, the Princeton Theology, will be discussed in this paper, but there are good reasons for considering it the most influential theological support for biblical literalism in the twentieth century. J. Gresham Machen carried the Princeton Theology with him into his new denomination and seminary after 1929, and others in Bible institutes and seminaries not connected with the Presbyterian church have looked up to the Princeton professors as their great teachers and champions. In the Fundamentals series published just before World War I, six articles were devoted to the problem of inspiration, and three of these took much of their argument from the Princeton Theology. The history of the Princeton Theology is not well known nor its importance widely appreciated, but some good monograph and periodical literature has been written.

Much has been made of the persecutions and repressions of the Protestant nonconformists in the age of Charles II, but the equally important, if less dramatic, attempts at toleration and comprehension have been neglected. As reflections of the transitory nature of the period—as a bridge between the first half of the century and the glorious revolution—this interest, on the part of a large group of lay and ecclesiastical peers, as well as the king, in a broader, more tolerant church is of critical significance.

The story of the founding of Moody Bible Institute serves several purposes. Such a resume fills a gap in our knowledge of an institution that has made important contributions to the life of the city of Chicago and to the shaping of the twentieth century American Protestantism. Any account of the early days of the Institute must also become a case study of the thought and personality of Dwight L. Moody, one of America's most famous revivalists. The record of Moody's struggle to found the school provides us with some underStanding of his social and economic views, offers glimpses of his conception of his role as a leader of evangelical Protestantism, and illuminates several important facets of his personality. All of these subjects merit the attention of the historian.

Among the numerous tracts which were published during the early and hectic days of the Long Parliament (1641) one anonymous sermon has fascinated historians and assumed some importance in the interpretation of Puritanism during those years. It represents in brief compass a significant facet of Civil War Puritanism. It has served to indicate how radical if latent ideas later developed within the broader movement. Professor Woodhouse reprinted sections of A Glimpse of Syons Glory to illustrate “The Priviledges of the Saints” in their anticipation of the impending inauguration of the Millennium. In Professor Haller's words it reveals “the vital excitement which gave … meaning” to the apocalyptic poetry of Daniel and Revelation, “dreams [which] were warmly cherished among the London populace on the eve of the revolution.”

After nearly a century of division the Presbyterian Church in the United States (the southern church) and the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America (the northern church) attempted to unite in 1954. The southern Presbyterians voted against the merger and kept America's two largest Presbyterian bodies divided. Although little was said concerning race relations during the debates on unification, there is reason to believe that the race issue was extremely important in the defeat of the plan in the South. Two sociologists, perhaps exaggerating, have concluded that it was the key factor in the failure of union. In 1955 the moderator of the southern church told the General Assembly of the North that he felt the Negro question, in particular the Supreme Court's decision on school desegregation, affected the vote; and the organ of the North, Presbyterian Life, echoed this opinion.