We saw at the outset of the book that Thomas Aquinas considers reason a preamble to faith. But to faith in what? Human life is triply haunted, by the specter of absurdity, by the burden of brokenness and guilt, and by the dread of mortality and incompleteness. Can there be meaning, can there be healing and forgiveness, can we be everlastingly fulfilled? According to St. Thomas, the answers to these three questions are provided in the Gospel of Jesus Christ, who bore our sins and opened the path to the Father. This scandalizes us because if the Gospel is true, then the facile and comforting proposal of “many roads to heaven” is false. It scandalizes us even more because it asks something of us. And so the Treatise on the One God is not the end of our investigation, but the beginning.

Liturgical prayer plays a significant role in Anglo-Saxon healing remedies. It is not, contrary to recent studies on prayer, “relatively rare in medical remedies” (Thomas 2020: 224). Chapter 1, “Invoking Baptism,” argues that charms borrow crucial verbal and physical components of the baptismal liturgy in order to invoke the sacrament and its celebration. The most vital of the texts gathered as incantations is the Creed, which lies at the foundation of Baptism. Alongside the Creed appears the Pater Noster, anti-demonic utterances and exorcistic gestures, water and its use for washing, and the Sign of the Cross or Triune blessing. The allusive force of these liturgical artifacts is clear and strong enough, especially when they act as a collective, to evoke the liturgy. The act of recalling the liturgy within the performance arena results in the summoning of the liturgy’s power as a force for healing. Through the manipulation of baptismal forms, charms translate Baptism’s ability to heal the soul into the ability to heal the body. While charms do not exorcize the devil or baptize people in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, as is done at Baptism, the sacrament is so essential to the people’s spiritual welfare that healers harness its associations and apply them medicinally in traditional remedies.

The chapter traces the long, unheralded history of Black women electric guitarists in the United States from the 1940s to the present century. It identifies the unique challenges they face striving to work in an American music landscape that adores Black women as singers but largely overlooks them when they strap an electric guitar onto their bodies. It uses historical research and oral history interviews with intergenerational artists in blues, gospel, and rock to explore how race, gender, and genre conventions manifest and intersect to create barriers and opportunities.

Normatively speaking, Christianity involves a rejection of “us versus them” ways of thinking and speaking. Christian political advocacy must thereby testify to the reconciliation of all people. It would be ironic, even self-defeating, to advocate for Christian commitments in ways that reify divisions between people or deny opponents’ human dignity. But Christians can still make prophetic and incisive criticisms, take controversial stands, and employ rigorous argumentation. Drawing upon the work of Desmond Tutu and J. Deotis Roberts, I argue that Christian witness always proceeds as “good news.” Good news is not only the content but the form of Christian proclamation. Christian speech disrupts systems of injustice and dehumanizing myths, while simultaneously expressing the truth that every person – even those who are currently oppressors – is a beloved child of God. This conclusion can help Christians engage in political, ethical, and cultural conflicts in ways that are simultaneously more persuasive and more faithful to their convictions.

This chapter summarizes Paul’s gospel of divine self-sacrifice, giving special attention to the character of the righteous God responsible for his gospel. It identifies how divine righteousness figures in a solution to the human predicament of the corrosive powers of sin and death by offering a remedy in reparative self-sacrifice. The needed reparative sacrifice begins with divine self-sacrifice that includes the sacrifice of the Son of God, Jesus Christ, but it does not end there. It calls for human reciprocity in self-sacrifice to God, as voluntary sharing in the life-giving obedience of Jesus Christ to God. The chapter identifies how God agitates in human history to attract the cooperation of humans in such reparative self-sacrifice. This divine effort is at the center of God’s righteous love for humans, regardless of their national, ethnic, or religious background. Paul focused his calling from God on the good news that God has intervened in human history, climactically in Jesus Christ, to attract humans to cooperation with this good news.

For the writers of the books of the New Testament, as well as for Christians thereafter, “gospel reading” included reading the books of the Jewish Scriptures, which were understood to bear witness to the coming of Christ (cf. e.g. Matt. 1:22–23 and Isa. 7:14) and thereby to the gospel (e.g. Gal. 3:8–13 and Gen. 15:6). Subsequently, “Christological readings” of what became the Christian Old Testament took a variety of forms, many of which moved beyond identifying prophetic predictions of the coming Messiah to attempts to identify the preincarnate Word as a distinct agent in the Old Testament books. Although such strategies have long been called into question on historical-critical grounds, this essay will argue that there are also specifically Trinitarian reasons for eschewing such approaches to the text, arguing instead that a more faithfully Christological reading of Israel’s Scriptures will focus not on the whereabouts of the preincarnate Word, but on the topic of YHWH’s presence in and to Israel, as that which assumes new and unpredictable but nevertheless consistent form in the incarnation. This chapter explores a form of theological “gospel reading” in which early Christian writers, steeped in the Jewish scriptural traditions, discerned in Jesus the activity and presence of Israel’s God.

Mark opens his account of Jesus with “the beginning of the gospel of Jesus the Christ” (Ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ). Although modern readers often associate the term “gospel” here with the now long-established genre by the same name, Mark clearly elaborates what he means (at least in part) in what follows

Whereas Luke and Matthew are literary products of gospel reading, only the Johannine corpus demonstrates within the canon how a gospel was read by a specific network of early Christian communities. The Johannine Epistles (likely penned in a context later than that of the Fourth Gospel) affirm, clarify, expand, modify, and in some cases even omit key themes emphasized by the evangelist. This unique intra-canonical reception of John affords the earliest model of an early Christian community’s gospel reading. After analyzing the broad reading dynamics imposed by the Johannine literature’s placement in the sequence of the canon, this chapter explores the interpretive practices of the Elder in order to discern a Johannine theology of textuality, writing, and gospel reading.

In Luke and Acts, many quotations from Scripture are recontextualized to portray Jesus as a character within the discourse. He is the one who will bring good news to the poor (Isa. 61:1–2 in Luke 4:18–21), the Messiah who escapes death (Ps. 16:8–11 in Acts 2:25–32), the suffering servant (Isa. 53 in Acts 8), and more. Jesus and later his disciples attest to “what was said in all the Scriptures concerning [him]” (Luke 24:27). This essay will present these gospel readings, which employ the exegetical technique commonly referred to as prosopological exegesis, alongside the assumptions of the author. While many present Luke as a capricious reader, this essay will demonstrate that his introduction of the Christ is due to a careful engagement with the biblical text. This interpretive strategy produces two gospel readings: one for Luke of Scripture and one for Luke’s audience.

Perhaps the earliest canonical gospel reader was the Apostle Paul. As a Jewish interpreter of Scripture, his conception of “gospel” was informed by a Christological understanding of both “God” as the one who rescues and “Israel” as the community rescued. Understandably, one regular feature of contemporary scholarship on Paul, especially in the English-speaking world, is reference to God as the “God of Israel.” This phrase becomes a shorthand for the commendable conviction that Paul needs to be understood within his own Jewish identity and context – shaped by his engagement with Scripture. It comes as a surprise to recognize, however, that Paul himself never uses the phrase “God of Israel” (or any of its equivalents, such as “God of Abraham,” “God of our fathers”). In Romans 3:29, he comes close, only to reject the identification of God as “God of Jews alone.” Such nomenclature does appear in other early Jewish and Christian texts, but not in Paul. As Paul “reads” the gospel, the God who “sent his Son” and “raised Jesus our Lord from the dead” is also the God who made promises to Abraham and called Israel itself into being. Yet Paul’s “reading” does not include (intentionally or unintentionally) a naming of this figure as the “God of Israel.” That silence reflects the argument, especially in Romans, that God created Israel and sustains Israel: Israel is the “Israel of God” (a phrase Paul does use). In other words, Paul “reads” the gospel backward: it is the Christ event that reveals Israel’s history and significance.

This essay will examine readings of an influential gospel motif over the first two Christian centuries. Should Christian generosity be extended to all, without condition, and should that “all” include even those who are hostile? If so, why? The chapter starts with the materials that had reached written form by the end of the first century (in Matthew 5, Luke 6, and Didache 1), focusing on the malleability of this tradition, in its various forms and with its various rationales. As a second step, it examines the pragmatics of these instructions. Starting from these three texts, but pursuing their themes into later (second-century) materials, it notes the practical difficulties regarding (a) whether this generosity is too easily abused, and (b) whether, or for how long, such generosity can be sustained. The significance of this material for the outward momentum (mission) of the church will be highlighted. As a third step, it examines the theological interpretation of these instructions, and the various ways they are connected to the character of God, or the achievement of Christ, including the ways they become integral to the “gospel.” Finally, it indicates the value of crossing the canonical boundary, the importance of reception as an active and creative phenomenon, and the theological aspects of interpretation.

Focusing on recitation and manuscript culture, this chapter opens the book by looking at the manner in which homilies would have slowly unfolded in meaning and comprehension in the minds of listeners during the church service. Studying the syntax and grammar of a Byzantine homily, the point is made that oral texts such as homilies or the Gospel reading could be variably understood given the slow pace of chanting and recitation. With these lessons in mind, the chapter turns to the introduction of illustrated initials into Byzantine manuscripts, which occurred in the post-iconoclastic period during the ninth century, particularly in the contexts of books of homilies. The aim is to understand the oral and aural valences of illuminated initials and marginalia in manuscripts, which came to define how they operated: not as static pictures, but rather as images informed by the act of reading and the complex way in which meaning reveals itself with oral texts.

In considering the uses of the lectionary by readers, this chapter focuses on the effect that the sound and acoustics of the readings’ chanting had in the space of a church like Hagia Sophia. By looking not only at ritual but also the architecture and decoration of the church, the chapter argues that the decoration of churches and the uses of the Gospel lectionaries responded to one another. Focusing on the plaque above the Imperial Doorway, for example, we see a place where an abridged lectionary is depicted, citing Gospel readings and also omitting key words, which the manuscripts show us were to be given sonic emphasis by chanters. Therefore, the argument is that architectural decorations in the church played with the impact and delivery of the chanted Gospels in order to reflect on the salvation that the readings conveyed and guaranteed to the faithful.