The story of the raising of Lazarus (John 11.1–44) is one of the most dramatic and impressive of the compositions in the Fourth Gospel. For this very reason it raises a host of problems for the biblical critic. There can be no dispute that it has a theological purpose which dominates the whole narrative. This is clearly set out in the first words attributed to Jesus: ‘This illness is not unto death; it is for the glory of God, so that the Son of God may be glorified by means of it’ (v. 4). The same point is referred to again just before the climax of the narrative in v. 40. But the more prominent the theological aim, the more difficult it becomes to view the narrative simply in terms of history. It must surely be the case that John has based his composition on a source, which was probably much simpler and briefer than the splendid story which it has become in his hands. But the source must be reconstructed before we can begin to think of it in historical terms. The modern tendency is to give up such attempts as hopeless, and to concentrate on the meaning of the text as it stands. But even that presents pitfalls to the critic. All seems well until we come to v. 33: ‘Jesus…was deeply moved in spirit (ένεβριμήσατο τῷ πνεύματι) and troubled.’ Unfortunately the Greek words do not mean ‘deeply moved in spirit’ (RSV). In his recent commentary on John in the Word Biblical Commentary, G. R. Beasley-Murray marshalls a great array of evidence to show that the meaning must be ‘became angry in spirit’. But why should Jesus be represented by John as angry? The effort to answer this question affects the interpretation of the whole story.

1 Cor 15.28 is often regarded as problematic for ‘divine Christology’ in Paul, because the Son's final submission to the Father is held to tell against his ontological equality with the Father. The current article argues that this conclusion involves a category mistake. The ‘grammar’ of Paul's Christology requires that we distinguish between what Paul says of and on the basis of Christ's divinity, and what Paul says of and on the basis of Christ's humanity, a strategy sometimes called ‘partitive exegesis’. The article evaluates recent solutions to this problem, warrants partitive exegesis from within 1 Corinthians, and offers a partitive reading of 1 Cor 15.28: the Son submits to the Father as the final act of an office he holds as a human, in order to perfect the human vocation of vicegerency over creation.

Scholarly interpretations of the descent and description of the New Jerusalem in Revelation 21–22 have tended to evaluate the city against biblical and extra-canonical descriptions of the Jerusalem Temple, apocalyptic accounts of heaven and ancient utopian literature in general. While some have noted the ways in which the New Jerusalem parallels the description of Babylon elsewhere in the Apocalypse, no one has yet considered the ways in which the New Jerusalem mimics, mirrors and adapts the excesses of elite Roman architecture and decor. The argument of this article is that when viewed against the backdrop of literary and archaeological evidence for upper-class living space, the luxury of the New Jerusalem is domesticated and functions to democratise access to wealth in the coming epoch. The ways in which Revelation's New Jerusalem rehearses the conventions of morally problematic displays of luxury can partially explain later patristic discomfort with literalist readings of this passage.

In a provocative article on misunderstandings about the early history and significance of synagogues, H. C. Kee makes the following comment.

According to John 6.52–59, participation in the eucharistic meal is necessary for ‘life’: ‘Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you’ (v 53). The manifest allusion here to the Lord's Supper, together with the insistence on its indispensability for Life, has led a majority of interpreters to conclude that this passage is ‘sacramentalist’. This conclusion has found reinforcement in what looks like a close parallel from Ignatius, whose writings are presumably contemporaneous with the Fourth Gospel:

The phrase έν òμοιώματι εỉκòνος in Rom. i. 23 is one which has long puzzled commentators and translators, who are compelled to paraphrase it in order to make sense of the verse. There is no obvious reason why Paul should have employed two words which in this context appear to convey an identical meaning, unless, as C. K. Barrett suggests, ‘the reduplication emphasizes the inferior, shadowy character of that which is substituted for God’.

One of the more neglected pericopes in the Fourth Gospel is the so-called ‘Walking on the Water’(John 6. 16–21). Scholars have discussed the passage largely in the context of the debate concerning John's sign source or his dependence on the Synoptics, notably Mark, and have done so with an eye not so much to the substance of John's account as to its importance in the sequence of events in John 6.1 Treatment of the passage in itself has occurred almost exclusively in commentaries.2 The miraculous crossing of the lake has regularly been judged to be merely ‘a miracle within a miracle’, so that the main point of the passage remains Jesus' walking on the water3 or his epiphanic self-manifestation (έγώ είμι).4

1 Joh verankert die johanneische Überlieferung in der vergangenen Geschichte. Dies zeigt eine Exegese von 1 Joh 1.1–4. Dieser Prolog setzt Leser voraus, die Joh 1–20 kennen. Wie der Prolog bindet auch der restliche Brief seine Christologie ausdrücklich an den irdischen Jesus und verankert auch die Pneumatologie geschichtlich. Die Sammlung der johanneischen Schriften entspricht diesem historisierenden Programm. Die johanneische Überlieferung findet nach dem 1 Joh in Joh 21 ihren Abschluss.

In ancient apologetic and polemic and in modern scholarship the cult of Christ and the cult of the saints in the early church have both been derived from Greek and Roman veneration of divinities, heroes, and rulers (see section I). Here it is argued that a case for a Jewish factor in the origins of the cult of saints can be made on lines slightly different from those most generally followed, beginning from rich NT material (section II). Ancient Jewish commemoration of biblical and post-biblical saints is discussed, and its potential is underlined by instances of invocation; background conceptions of an assembly of saints are illustrated, and their appearance in legend and vision is noted (section III). The cult of Christ can then be perceived as interconnected with the cult of saints, which provided a favourable setting for its development; both were rooted in the Judaism of the Greek and Roman world (section IV).

Jacob's blessing of his youngest son Benjamin (Gen 49.27) was widely understood in the early Church as a prophecy of that most (in)famous Benjaminite, the apostle Paul. This exegesis enjoyed enduring popularity and can be traced to every corner of the Roman world. It is also early: it was already well established by the time of its earliest surviving witnesses at the end of the second century. But if it predates the late second century, when did it originate? While we can only speculate, this paper offers reasons for supposing that this exegesis may reach back into the first century.

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS: We have attempted to indicate that the ask-logion of Matthew 7. 7a, 8a is an independent saying (probably of Jesus himself) which originally called for or described a response within the context of the earliest, eschatological preaching of the Kingdom of God. The uncontrolled and volatile possibilities inherent in this independent saying led the church to begin a process of ‘definition’ of the saying. In this process the context in which the saying is found changes and often its form undergoes changes in order to bring the saying within the church's understanding of what was possible and permissible. The pressures of the ecclesiastical and the eschatological ethical traditions are both present in the Matthean version. A very sketchy suggestion (arising from our study) for the plotting of this development is offered in the accompanying diagram.

The bulk of these chapters is invariably understood as a general, or as it were abstract, exposition of Christian virtues, without particular reference to a situation at Rome. We read in Luther, for example, that ‘the apostle is about to teach a Christian ethic’ when he begins chapter 12. Nygren states that none of Romans is aimed at circumstances peculiar to Rome, and that chapters 12–13 contain Paul's ‘central view of the ethical life of the Christian’. Käsemann regards 12–13 as general exhortation, only 14.1–15.3 being directed at problems in Rome. According to E. P. Sanders, nothing in Romans is called forth by the situation of the letter's recipients. ‘It seems best’, he writes, ‘to view Romans as being Paul's reflection on the problem of Jew and Gentile, in the light of the coming encounter in Jerusalem’. There are, however, several difficulties with this view. One is that the chapters do not include areas of Christian ethics with which we know Paul was concerned, such as marriage (1 Cor 7; Col 3.18 ff.), slavery (Col 3.22 ff.; Phlm), slander (1 Cor 6.10), suffering for Christ (2 Cor 1.7), generosity (2 Cor 8.6 ff.), avoiding witchcraft and gluttony (Gal 5.20; Phil 3.19), working hard (1 Thess 4.9–11). If Paul were writing a deliberately general ethic, we should have expected perhaps more system and certainly a greater range of items.6 More importantly, the view leads to fussy, artificial or disjointed divisions of the chapters into a multiplicity of exhortations which fail to grasp the broad sweep of Paul's thought. In particular the precise relevance of 13.1–7 is left obscure.

Since the advent of Hans Conzelmann's book The Theology of St Luke it has become a byword of New Testament studies that Luke is a man with a theological axe to grind. He is pictured as one who has systematically manipulated and recast his sources down to the smallest detail, in order to squeeze them into his over-all theological framework. Before this, Luke was thought of as a sort of homely old Hellenist; doctor, author, friend of Paul, he was seen as a man of wide sympathies but of no great theological depth—hence the traditional reference to his interest in women, Gentiles and the poor and outcast.