The first half of a recently published book describes Waldensianism in the Cottian alps c. 1500. The author decides to pass over both the Waldensian preachers, whom I shall call ‘Brothers’, and their literature. He argues that there is insufficient trial evidence about the Brothers, and that in any case their ‘ascetic detachment from society’ would have made it unlikely that they would have had much influence among peasant Waldensians. Their books were only uncertainly Waldensian, he says, and there is little evidence of their actual use. In the resulting picture of Waldensianism as a popular, rural, lay movement asceticism plays no special part, though there is some question of a Waldensian sense of moral superiority.

Uniformity was at the heart of the Carolingian reforms, and it is apparent more than anywhere else in the liturgical reforms pursued by the Carolingians. It is logical to assume that the early Carolingian reformers’ stress on liturgical uniformity was, at least in part, a reaction to the diversity of Merovingian practice. This paper offers some preliminary observations on liturgical diversity and attitudes towards unified liturgical practices in Merovingian Gaul.

Such is the opening sentence of the tract known in the only surviving manuscript as Tractatus de Regibus. The text owes much of its material to Wyclif’s De Officio Regis, though the prologue does not derive from this source, and is undoubtedly of lollard origin; its date cannot be later than the early fifteenth century. The sentiments of the first part of the sentence are typically Wycliffite, though not exclusively so. The interesting part of it is the last clause, and particularly the word herfore. I want in this paper to investigate the implications and validity of this word. The meaning of the word is superficially clear: ‘for this reason are men considered heretics’—most modern writers would use ‘therefore’.

The church has always experienced great difficulty in ministering to those dwelling in the remotest parts of its parishes. In this paper I shall look briefly at how the sixteenth century church coped with the problem, and attempt to answer two questions: what facilities for worship were available in outlying districts, and what was the impact of the reformation changes upon them?

Chapels abounded in England on the eve of the reformation. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that wherever he lived a parishioner could, without an unreasonably arduous journey, reach a place where mass was sung or said. Quite apart from matters of spiritual and moral discipline, it was important for very practical reasons that he should be able to get quickly to church. Disaster could take hold in villages and townships if the entire population had set off on a long hike to a remote parish church and was unlikely to return for some hours. Moreover, the length of the hike determined the extent of the diversion of labour from other pursuits, notably in the fields at harvest time: indeed, this was to influence government rulings on the number of saints’ days to be observed by the laity.

Novelty in this paper refers to a new idea or institution. I shall not distinguish between religious, social and political novelties, since medieval churchmen did not do so. The church concerned herself with every aspect of Christian life: any change in men’s way of living affected her either directly or indirectly and generally the former.

I shall begin by quoting four examples of attitudes to novelty. My first two come from the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. One will illustrate an attitude to new ideas, the second to a new institution. The distinction is artificial, but convenient. Men normally think up ideas in order to justify or criticise institutions. First listen to an anonymous opponent of Manegold of Lautenbach. Manegold contributed an extremist theory to papal polemic in the gregorian reform movement in order to explain and justify Gregory’s action in declaring the emperor Henry IV deposed and absolving subjects from their oath of allegiance (1085).

This article uses the history of the Ornaments Rubric in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century to explore the emergence of claims to self-governance within the Church of England in this period and the attempts by parliament to examine how independent the legal system of the church was from the secular state. First, it gives an overview of the history of the Ornaments Rubric in the various editions of the Book of Common Prayer and the Acts of Uniformity, presenting the legal uncertainty left by centuries of Prayer Book revision. It then explores how the Royal Commission into Ritualism (1867–70) and the Public Worship Regulation Act (1874) attempted to control Ritualist interpretations of the Ornaments Rubric through secular courts. Examining the failure of these attempts, it looks towards the Royal Commission on Ecclesiastical Discipline (1904–6). Through the evidence given to the commission, it shows how the previous royal commission and the work of parliament and the courts had failed to stop the continuation of Ritualist belief in the church's independence from secular courts. Using the report of the royal commission, it shows how the commissioners attempted to build a via media between strict spiritual independence and complete parliamentary oversight.

The penitentials in use in the frankish lands in the eighth and ninth centuries were designed as handbooks to aid the priest in the administration of private or secret penance, being at their most simple, tabulations of various misdemeanours associated with particular vices stipulating the penances to be performed.

In the early centuries of the Christian church however, penance seems to have been performed in public, involving both confession and an act of contrition before the assembled congregation. It was, moreover, then undergone only in cases of severe crimes, usually one of three capital sins of homicide, perjury and adultery. The ritual of penance is described fully by Basil the Great, from whom we also learn that the physical act of the laying on of hands by the bishop was the outward sign of reconciliation. This severe form of penance was gradually mitigated and its rarity lessened as it became associated with the increasingly more common practice of death-bed confession and penance, as well as with the lenten period of fasting and contrition, both of which practices are particularly evident in the church in Gaul in the fifth and sixth centuries. Both the bishop and, in the case of the absence of the bishop, the priest, were now empowered to reconcile the penitent.

In exile in a remote and desolate place, Nestorius was still bitter about the Council of Ephesus (AD 431) some twenty years after the event. He remembered it as a travesty of a tribunal: ‘I was summoned by Cyril, who had assembled the Council […]. Who was judge? Cyril. Who was the accuser? Cyril. […]. Cyril was everything.’ In view of his condemnation, and in identifying Cyril’s activities on the occasion with roles usually played out in a court case, Nestorius recognized the basic pattern of proceedings of the council as that of a trial. Yet, in taking over all the major roles in such a trial simultaneously, Cyril had made a mockery of all proper judicial procedure. Minimum standards of proper procedure had been violated, and Nestorius, in his outburst against Cyril’s misconduct, expects his audience to recognize the fact and share his expectations of due process. However, his frustration with the council runs deeper than a mere dispute over correct procedure. Nestorius is even more deeply angered by the apparent lack of proper examination of his theology. Even if he is not explicit on the point, it seems obvious that he had expected the council to be something altogether different from a trial, something more closely resembling a philosophical dialogue or substantive doctrinal debate. In fact, the emperor’s letter of invitation had expressed a similar expectation, in that it had called for an open-ended discussion of theological difficulties and admonished the participants of the council to aim for an amicable consensus.

Following the fall of Constantinople to French, Flemish and Venetian forces at the conclusion of the Fourth Crusade, an unprecedented number of relics and other holy objects poured into the West between 1204 and c.1240. Sent as personal and diplomatic gifts, most holy objects moved in the open, with letters of authentication and identification, and not (as has often been suggested) as sacred theft. This article traces the work of translation, carried out by clerics, chaplains, monks, and laymen and women, and the mechanisms of appropriation that gave meaning to these objects in their new devotional contexts. Relics were demanding things; they needed to be enshrined, venerated, described and contextualized, and their movements needed to be accounted for and included within a broader Christian narrative that served to anchor the crusade movement to the apostolic past and to Christ's material presence in the West. Moreover, the materiality of the relics that moved from Constantinople was an important part of their significance and shaped devotional practices and connections, bridging differences between Greek and Latin culture and fostering conceptions of the material that facilitated other acts of Christian translation in the centuries to come.

In 1863, when a London printer, called Collingridge, produced a handbook for the aspiring author, he made it clear that one particular class of aspiring author was of dominant commercial importance:

It was accepted in western Europe, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, that there was an obligation upon the military classes, and indeed on Christians generally, to take up arms in defence of the Holy Sepulchre, or to participate in other expeditions authorised by the ecclesiastical hierarchy. War ceased to be, for Christians, a regrettable necessity, and became a virtue, and armies were summoned by the trumpet-blasts of the Prince of Peace. There has been a great deal of work by historians in recent decades on the transformation of earlier Christian ideology, and we now understand much more about the origins of crusading ideas, the discussion of warfare by theologians and canon lawyers, and the profound changes in spirituality which accompanied the rise of militarism. There is however a technical aspect of the subject which is less often considered: the actual methods by which the new ideals were communicated to western society generally. By any standards, it was a remarkably successful exercise in publicity. It was also, in the first instance, very rapid. Urban II announced the expedition to Jerusalem at the Council of Clermont in November 1095, and he fixed the date of departure as 15 August 1096. The summons was heard by groups far wider than the princes and their households, and by Easter 1096 an army led by Peter the Hermit had already arrived in Cologne on its way from northern France. Within a few months, therefore, and well in advance of the papal deadline, the message had spread to all levels of society over a wide geographical area. A system of communication as effective as this deserves our respect and study. It would be a mistake to conclude from the total absence of modern technology that the control of opinion was unimportant in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

In the 1760s the parlement of Paris undertook to destroy the Society of Jesus in the central one-third of France which it controlled, and to use its influence to gain the destruction of the order elsewhere. Its immediate victims were the 1,200 Jesuits resident in 42 colleges and other institutions in its own territory in 1761, but it also claimed authority over any of the other 2,200 French Jesuits who had been born in its territory or might enter it. By this time four French Jesuits in five were priests or future priests whose primary functions were preaching and teaching; the remaining one in five was a temporal coadjutor, often an administrator of property. This ratio prevailed in the groups with whom the parlement dealt. The parlement viewed all Jesuits as enemies and regarded as a Jesuit any man who had ever made vows in that order. Then, as now, members of the Society of Jesus not only made the usual three religious vows but also owed complete obedience to their superior-general in Rome and were bound by the special vow of obedience to the sovereign pontiff taken by the professed of the order. The unique nature of the Jesuit institute was widely understood in France in the 1760s and was a reason for the respect shown to Jesuits by the privileged classes from which many Jesuits came and which they served so well.

In the early ninth century, the Frankish Church was unashamedly, triumphantly, rich. The Franks were assured that God loved them. Thanks to the intercessions of churchmen, God had promoted the expansion of the Frankish Empire: in a world of social relations organized and expressed through the exchange of gift and countergift, it seemed only fair that God, or rather his Church on his behalf, should share in the profits. ‘Give tithes to the Lord’, Smaragdus urged a young Carolingian king: ‘He subjected many realms to you, and commanded powerful peoples to serve you’.

On 24 April 1619 the Synod of Dort sat for the 154th, and last, time. Ostensibly summoned to resolve differences between Dutch Remonstrants and Contra-Remonstrants within a context of Calvinist theology, in reality it pronounced predetermined decrees on unconditional election, a limited atonement, man’s total depravity, the irresistibility of grace, and the perseverance of the elect.

The Synod was national (sometimes, decidedly ‘local’) in nature; yet, because other states—Great Britain, France, Hesse, and the Palatinate among them—sent delegates, it assumed in the eyes of such men as James I and Du Plessis-Mornay an importance equal to that of Trent.

The Benedictines played an important part in the development of medicine in England between 1066 and 1215. In pre-conquest England, the care of the sick had been based upon little more than the practices of Anglo-Saxon leeches which were largely founded upon superstition. Botany had become a drug list and medicine had deteriorated into little more than a collection of formulae. After the Norman conquest, chiefly through the influence of Benedictine scholars from the continent, medical learning in England began to be based upon the writings of the ancient world. These included not only the works of Galen and Hippocrates but also anonymous medical treatises in Latin such as the De Modo Medendi.

This paper explores the religious politics of remembering and visually depicting the recent past in early modern England. In the first quarter of the seventeenth century, the commemoration of a series of critical moments in the reigns of the last Tudor monarch, Elizabeth, and her Stuart successor, King James I, became a powerful bulwark of both Church and State. The story of the nation’s providential rescues from Catholic treachery and oppression, pre-eminently the defeat of the Spanish Armada and the discovery of the Gunpowder Plot, evolved into an enduring myth which fused Protestantism with patriotism – a myth which, moreover, engendered its own highly emotive iconography. By the 1630s, however, the celebration of these same anniversaries grew increasingly contentious: as the theological complexion of the episcopal hierarchy gradually shifted, such events became the victims of a species of ecclesiastical amnesia. Caroline clerics began to take deliberate steps to discourage retrospection, to control the memory of historical milestones which were now regarded as a source of embarrassment. Here I want to suggest tentatively that this trend can be traced into the realm of pictorial representation. In the process, we may learn something more about the relationship between the Calvinist strand of the Reformation and the graphic arts.

A Paper on life after death in the early church should probably begin with the underworld: Sheol in the Hebrew Bible, Hades, in Greek mythology, with parallels in ancient Mesopotamia, Egypt and Persia. It should reflect on the universally connected theme of judgment and its importance for theodicy, and address the wide variety of beliefs discernible in the New Testament and its background, especially in the apocalyptic literature. It should consider the so-called intermediate state, and the supposed distinction between the Greek concept of the immortality of the soul and the Hebrew idea of resurrection: which takes us full circle, since the latter notion assumes the picture of shades in the underworld brought back to full-bodied living – as indeed the traditional Anastasis icon of the Eastern Orthodox tradition makes dramatically clear, Christ springing up from the grave and hauling Adam up with one hand and, often though not invariably, Eve with the other.

The size of books has always mattered – for manuscript books as well as printed books. It makes a great difference to the fate of its contents and eventual influence whether the page is in a heavy folio or a portable pamphlet. Differences of format affected authority and influence and had a direct bearing on the circulation of ideas, the critical lift-off that could take place when vocalization took the silent word into mouths and minds away from the lettered page. This may seem self-evident, but even so, given the recognized role of the book in the Reformation (or reformations) of the sixteenth century, some reflections on this aspect seem worthwhile. The revelatory quality of the book in this period is here approached first by looking at the role of small lap books, and then by considering the challenge in England to the accepted order of books, when the great lectern book of Scripture was first laid open for general reading in church naves.

The interaction of gender and religion affects a developing as much as a developed church. A missionary church raises appropriate issues not merely as they affect those spreading the message, but as they affect the receivers, both immediately and in a later period of establishment. This paper deals with such matters as they appear in the history of the Anglican Church in Sarawak, where the missionary activity began in 1848.