The word “Church” has in our day again become more J. significant and more powerful. In 1926 Otto Dibelius, then General Superintendent and now Bishop of Berlin, published a book under the title The Church's Century. By that was meant our twentieth century. The author was surely right in maintaining that the Church has been more talked about during the three decades since the First World War, which we have behind us, than in the whole of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries put together. Who would have dreamt about 1910, when the writings of Hermann Kutter were at their height, that this could happen? Perhaps this has something to do with the almost complete collapse of the political, economic and cultural shape of the old Europe, which began with the First World War and with which the question is closely related: whether it may not once again be given to the Church to save this old Europe, perhaps in a new form, as she helped to found it? In this respect the Roman Catholic Church seems to be in very good spirits and to raise many open and secret expectations. Her greatly improved position and her vigorous pushing forward in certain places is also a sign that the word “Church”, even outside of her particular folds, has again come to the forefront of Christian consciousness and theological discussion. For it is undoubtedly part of her strength that she knows much better than anyone else how to give the impression that one is dealing with the Real Church when dealing with her. During the great crisis 1933–45, however, it was nevertheless true that there was in the Evangelical Churches, first in Germany, then in Holland and Norway, as well as in other countries, “demonstration of the Spirit and of power”. This was neither to be overestimated nor underestimated, but was really rather unexpected everywhere. From it more than one inside and outside of this Church could see that the dissolution of the Evangelical Church was not as far advanced as one might on occasion have previously supposed. From a totally different side the idea is thus once again forced upon us that for nearly a quarter of a century we have had an ecumenical movement in which the weak Churches are encouraged to have more confidence in their own affairs through contact with really, or allegedly stronger, and in any case more self-conscious Churches. And finally it may well be that the abandonment by evangelical theology, at least in certain quarters, of the traditional liberalism and individualism of the eighteenth and nineteenth century fathers has helped to bring about a new understanding for the communio sanctorum and to turn the thoughts of many in this direction, in spite of the diverse way in which it brought about this change.

Any attempt to examine the main trends of contemporary theology may well open with the salutary reflection that history always has its own way of defying our efforts at exact analysis. The events which seem to have the quality of new departures are inexplicably linked with the past out of which they have grown and to which, in some sense and degree, they are related as effect to cause. This is especially true when we find ourselves in the realm of ideas, and Christian theology must not be supposed, even by those who are convinced that it takes its rise from a “revelatum”, to be of such a nature as to provide, or allow, an exception to the general rule. Only when we compare the broad features of periods sufficiently separate in point of time and temper can we recognise differences so sharp as to be unmistakable.

“A Reform manifesto”: Thus did Professor James Mackinnon characterise Luther's Commentary on Romans. This twofold collection of interlinear and marginal glosses (glossae) and continuous expositions (scholia), discovered only at the birth of the present century and first published in 1908 under the editorship of Johannes Ficker, represents the doctrinal core of the Protestant Reformation. The Wittenberg Theses only marked the practical outcome of a theological revolution which had already been announced in Luther's Lectures on Romans, delivered in the years 1515 and 1516. This declaration of theological independence merits close attention. It is indeed a work of genius “of very great span, of remarkable clarity and vigour,” as Henri Strohl affirmed. Karl Holl went even further. He regarded this as Luther's greatest achievement, along with his Galatians, and thought it still unsurpassed.

In a previous article Luther's doctrine of Justification as ex-pounded in his Lectures on Romans has been subjected to analysis. We now proceed to examine his teaching on Sanctification. But here a caveat must be entered. Luther is often seriously misinterpreted on this point. He is unjustly accused of severing Justification from Sanctification. He failed, it is said, to link faith with love. This alleged dissociation is classed as one of the two radical errors of Protestantism in the recent Anglican report entitled “Catholicity” (p. 25). Such a misconception arises, no doubt, from an unduly subjective approach to Luther's doctrine of Sanctification and a corresponding neglect of the objective emphasis necessarily implied in his major theocentric concern.

An exposition of recent trends in Anglican Evangelical Theology can best be introduced by referring to the Preface of a book which is but little known to-day, the Horae Homileticae of Charles Simeon, one time Vicar of Holy Trinity Church in Cambridge. His twenty-eight volumes of sermon “skeletons” are long since dead. They never possessed any very great influence in themselves but remain a monument of patient industry and remind us that the profound influence of Charles Simeon in his own day and upon many in succeeding generations was based on no superficial charm of personality but on a life deeply and profoundly rooted upon the rock of Scripture.

The duty of the Church to evangelise is now a commonplace of all ecumenical discussion. The moment, however, that we go beyond vague generalisation, it becomes apparent that there are within the Church widely divergent ideas as to what evangelism is, and as to how it ought to be carried out. This has proved in many places an insuperable obstacle to common planning and action.

What difference can there be between Anglicanism and the rest of Christendom on the doctrine of the Incarnation? None fundamentally. But each body within Christendom has its own approach and emphasis, arising out of its own ethos and attitude. My purpose is to discuss, not so much the Incarnation in itself (though inevitably I must do that also to some extent) but the presentation given to that doctrine by the Anglican Church. And this I think I can best do by assembling and presenting my subject against the background of the Bible, the Creeds, and Anglican worship. Bible and Creeds (together with the teaching of the undivided Catholic Church of the first four centuries) form the backbone of the Anglican position; though of course that position has tried to be alive to more modern trends of thought also. And worship is the living expression of belief. I think therefore that these three lines of approach will help me to cover the ground as thoroughly as possible

In a recent excellent review of Barth's Dogmatik III/2 (Scottish Journal of Theology, March 1949) the Rev. W. A. Whitehouse found himself unable through the exigencies of space to deal, save in the briefest way, with that great section of the book which treats of man in his time. Very rightly he appealed for a speedy translation, for only thus could the scope and richness of the treatment of this theme become apparent to those who do not read German. It is indeed the case that any summary of this section which extends to over two hundred and fifty large pages, and in which the thought moves forward with the most careful precision while continually opening out new perspectives, must appear somewhat jejune and lifeless. In responding therefore to the request of the editors to provide such a summary I find myself confronted with a most difficult task. I can only request readers to read what I have written in conjunction with Mr Whitehouse's article and with that of Professor Souček which follows it. In that way a summary, unsatisfactory as it must be, may not be entirely useless.

The acids of Universalism are biting deeply into our national life: and we are indebted to the Scottish Journal of Theology for this timely discussion. It was that good Scot, Alexander Whyte, who observed that “if fear slays its tens, presumption slays its thousands”. Nothing can be more natural than the hope that all may end happily in some future state of existence. But such a philosophy calls for some surer foundation than that of human opinion however ably presented. And there seems to be something alarming, to us at least who own allegiance to Christ as God, in the presumption that, to entertain this hope, we may lightly disregard His most solemn warnings as to the decisiveness of this present life. Were the ancient Greeks wrong in believing that presumption (hubris as they called it) was the prelude to disaster? Unquestionably Universalism has cost us dear in many ways. It is with its effects in the sphere of morals that this article is concerned.

In one of the “Ghost Stories of an Antiquary” by Montagu James, there is a pathetic tale of the sacristan of a certain cathedral near the Pyrenees, whose life was made miserable through the unwelcome presence of a ghostly figure which was liable to appear while the sacristan was engaged in his lawful duties, and to fill his mind with apprehension. Almost the only time the poor sacristan was free from the menace was when he was ringing the great cathedral bell, but especially in the evening, when he rang the Angelus. “He heaved a sigh of relief”, writes the author, “for it was time to ring the Angelus. A few pulls at the reluctant rope, and the great bell, Bertrande, high in the tower, began to speak and swung her voice up among the pines and down to the valleys loud with mountain streams, calling the dwellers on those lonely hills to remember and repeat the salutation of the angel to her whom he called Blessed among women. With that a profound quiet seemed to fall for the first time that day upon the little town, and the sacristan went out of the church.”

I fear I may have little new light to throw on this difficult subject; but I love Ignatius, and should like to think that others may be drawn into the same affection. I propose, (I) to consider the meaning of the question; (2) (my main purpose) to say something of the Episcopate in Ignatius; (3) to venture a few remarks on later history.

In my book The Suffering Servant in Deutero-Isaiah I gave some account of current Scandinavian discussions on the problem. My treatment of them had to be sketchy, otherwise the work as a whole would have been out of focus. Besides, I had not then access to all the literature. It now seems opportune to deal with these latest discussions in more detail.

For some time past there has been a great need that theology should become more biblical, and that biblical studies should become more theological. To-day there are welcome signs that this is coming about, which is in effect a reviving sense of the authority of the Bible. There is a feeling that if criticism has not finished its task—which can hardly be the case—it is time that it was supplemented by something else; that it has too long dominated biblical studies as though it were the very building, whereas it is in fact a means of securing the foundations on which the main structure can be raised; that its necessary method of analysis, increasingly elaborated, has tended to destroy the recognition of the majestic structure of the biblical revelation and its unity. Thus Dr Vincent Taylor in the introduction to his Jesus and His Sacrifice confessed that after twenty-five years devoted to the minutiae of synoptic criticism, he had a great desire to consider what the Gospels really have to say for themselves. In the realm of Old Testament studies there has emerged a sense that, Israel's history being so remarkable, it is useless to brush aside all the later developments of, let us say, the Priestly Code as regrettable and retrograde; it is wiser and more helpful to ask what their significance really is, and whether they do not rather witness to the rich fulness of religion under the old covenant. The point to be driven home is just this: when the sources have been analysed and dated as far as may be, then begins the real task of considering what is the significance of the contents. That can and will only be found in our Lord Jesus Christ. But that in effect means allowing the Bible to be its own interpreter, explaining one part by another. Especially when seeking for the significance of the Old Testament must the search be carried over into the New Testament. It seems worth while to try and work this method out on the theme of the temple.

The following is offered as a contribution towards the clarification of a matter of first-class theological importance which is undergoing vigorous and widespread debate at the present day. A certain answer to the problem involved is finally given; but the author is not so naïve as to suppose that no other answers have been and are being given, or to believe that the answer here proposed has been rendered entirely secure against all criticism. All that matters in a theme of such importance is that, by free and frank discussion of the issues involved, the Christian Church may ultimately come to a common mind. It certainly cannot to-day afford the luxury of widely divergent views at so fundamental a point.

Nicholas Berdyaev was born in 1874 in Kiev, the cradle of Russian Christian culture. He was a scion of an aristocratic family, but while studying in Kiev, came under the influence of the writings of Kant and Hegel. While Hegel himself drew conservative conclusions from his own system, Karl Marx drew revolutionary conclusions, and the young Berdyaev followed Marx and the early Communists. Expelled from the University for these Marxist leanings, he found himself in exile in the north in company with some of the founders of Russian Communism. Yet all through his life he remained an independent and a rebel. Although he accepted the economic and political conclusions of Marxism, he rejected the dialectical materialism on which they were supposedly based, and as a result he was again exiled in 1922, this time by the Communists, after he had served as professor of philosophy in Moscow University. Most of the rest of his life was spent in exile in Paris, with the little group of Russian emigrés, but as he remained true to the Marxian analysis and critique of capitalism to the end of his days, and loathed the bourgeois order of society as cordially as any disciple of Lenin, he was naturally in little favour with them. He died there on 24th March 1948 at his writing table.

In the New Testament there is only one principle or standard of Christian knowledge, character and life—Jesus Christ Himself. All other norms of religious insight, belief and practice are superseded in Him, or if they continue to be valid, it is because they have been taken up into Him, amended, reenacted and completed. In this sense the New Testament on what is really its first page asserts: “No one has at any time seen God; the divine One, the only Son, who is on the Father's breast, has made known the mystery.” All eyes in the New Testament are turned, therefore, towards the Christ who as the Living Word stands above the written word, as Head of the Church stands above the Church, and as Lord of history stands above history. Written word and Church are there, and exist in a relation of mutuality or interdependence; both of them are in subordination to Him who is their informing principle of authority. But this general recognition that Christ is the norm of life, character and thought for His people hardly prepares us for the singular fulness and diversity of the schematic formulations by the aid of which, in the Gospels and Epistles of the New Testament, the dependence of Christian life on Jesus is expressed and enforced. Some of these formulations are so sharply defined and featured that a brief reference may be made to them before we pass further on.

Psychology offers a particularly subtle and dangerous challenge to religious belief. The theologian and the psychologist are both interested in the facts of man's spiritual nature, but the difference in their approach to these facts inevitably arouses tension between them. The psychologist's approach is purely empirical and he uses descriptive terms which ignore the cosmic significance of the experiences which he describes. But the experiences of the Christian believer are vitally affected by his beliefs about them. Christian doctrine is not the result of later reflection on experiences which had no intrinsic meaning. Doctrine is an inseparable part of the total Christian experience.

None of the findings of the Amsterdam Assembly has excited more interest than that which calls upon the Church to refuse to identify itself with either Communism or laissez-faire Capitalism. On the one hand this finding has brought the World Council of Churches into bad odour with big business circles in America: on the other hand it has caused a certain quiet rejoicing among British Socialists. It is not surprising that Labour supporters in Britain should claim to have the desired solution intermediate between Communism and Capitalism. What is surprising, however, is that some churchmen appear to be inclined to agree. Without being an opponent of Labour one may question the wisdom of such easy acceptance of its views. Would it not be wiser for churchmen to recall the social teaching of the Church in earlier ages and seek there the inspiration for new creative solutions?

The work of the form-critics on the Gospel has directed our A attention more than ever before to the historical development of the material of the tradition, which took place before the fixing of our Gospels in writing. Collections of single or several words of Jesus, and narratives about Jesus, were establishing themselves already in the early Church, and were passed on by it. How far this tradition was already in part written down, or, as with the oldest Jewish traditions, was only orally transmitted, is not a question of importance for us here, but in any case it could never be solved with certainty. That is also true, as M. Dibelius has rightly stressed, of the much quoted “Q source”. It is indeed very probable that already before the composition of our Gospels, there were smaller writings, above all collections of words of Jesus, but it is in no way possible to define or demarcate them more exactly. On principle, this whole stream of tradition, whether it is transmitted in written or oral fashion, in so far as it is not yet channelled in our Gospels, can and must be handled as a unit. When in the title we speak of an “oral” tradition concerning Jesus, we mean simply the tradition concerning Jesus which existed before the Gospels. Similarly, in the Jewish tradition of the Old Testament law, the interpretations of the law were at first orally handed down from Rabbi to pupil, and then later written, but neither the fact of this taking place, nor the time when it took place, are of any fundamental importance for this Jewish tradition.

“When I see you setting off down the road on Monday morning,” the village schoolmaster once said to me, “I sometimes wonder if you are regarding human life as radically as you did when you were preaching in the kirk the day before. You seem, somehow, easier-minded about it. You come into the school. What, honestly, do you see there? A fine bunch of children, going on their pleasant way to become decent men and women—or are they really heading for a life which is rooted in the world's evil, a life out of which you'll tell them in a few years they must be saved by the grace of God?

“And then on the Tuesday morning,” he went on, “you're off to the Presbytery. Now, tell me honestly, don't you meet together pretty much as any other body of people would do—to transact your business, to express your opinions, and to come to the judgment which your own experience has led you to hold? And yet your distinctive characteristic is supposed to be that you believe that human experience and human judgment are shot through with a deadly evil. You say that you distrust yourselves, that ‘of yourselves you can do nothing aright”—but I can't say that you look or sound particularly like people who are distrusting themselves. You say in your opening prayer that you want to be over-ruled and corrected—but you'll forgive me for saying that you don't seem very often to go through the process during the meeting that follows.