In his endeavour to expound the Parables of Jesus, the preacher who turns for help to the work of modern New Testament scholars will not be disappointed. Certainly the present writer has put himself very much in their debt. At the same time there are rules and definitions by which some modern scholars restrict the understanding of the parables in a way that is often baffling to the preacher. As the parables, however, are peculiarly the domain of the preacher, it would appear that these elements require further discussion and clarification if he is to get full benefit from recent research and do justice to the kerygmatic setting in which we have received the parables.

How do a generous orthodoxy and contemporary feminist theology relate and work together, if at all? Can feminist theology have something to say to a generous orthodoxy other than blatant critique? Orthodoxy is seen as that view expressed in the rule of faith as early as Irenaeus and Tertullian, and is a constellation of beliefs which link Creator with Christ, OT with NT, and which employs the interpretation of scripture ‘according to itself’. A definition of generous orthodoxy means a Christ-like submission to the Other, and reasoning about God, three in one, through meditation on the scriptures and tradition of the church such that one's soul is turned to praise. A simple definition of feminist theology is ‘the radical notion that women are people too’ (so Elisabeth Schüssler Fiorenza, Sharing Her Word: Feminist Biblical Interpretation in Context, 1998). Can these two ways of envisioning the theological task work together, and if so, to what extent? With key doctrines and concepts of feminist theology such as patriarchy, women's experience, feminist consciousness, one questions the fit between orthodoxy and feminist theology, but of course this is purposefully so on the basis of feminist principles and dogmas. We will examine and compare the construction of sin, Christology and the trinity in feminist theologies and generously orthodox theologies to clarify the discussion.

Calvin is one with the other Christian communities in teaching a presence of Christ's body and blood in the Lord's Supper. To arrive at a conclusion other than this is to misread him, to misunderstand and misinterpret him. Certainly, the reformer cannot be numbered among the sacramentarians, as if he had taught that the partaking of Christ's flesh and the drinking of his blood were nothing more than merely believing in Christ. The sacraments are signs, it is true, but they are not merely signs, they are signs of a present reality.

The Universal Church in God's Design, and The Church's Witness to God's Design, the first two volumes written in preparation for the meeting of the World Council of Churches at Amsterdam, are an ecumenical event in themselves. They form the most significant attempt at combined thinking about the nature and mission of the Church that has yet taken place. The stage is now set for a fresh and exhaustive inquiry behind the present divisions among the Churches into a Biblical and Christological doctrine of the Church which may yet knit into a theological unity the agreement of the Churches reached at Amsterdam. After all “the only valid argument for the union of the Churches is theological, a belief that unity is the will of God for His Church, and that the Church as the Body of Christ ought to represent on earth the mysterious unity of the Godhead” (Vol. II, p. 202). The purpose of this essay is not so much to review the actual material presented in these volumes as to face the questions they raise and, if possible, to point the discussion further along the road to that theological unity.

IN the early nineteenth century visits by German philosophers and theologians to Britain were rare, rarer still when the visitor was of Friedrich Schleiermacher's distinction. However, Schleiermacher spent three weeks in London in September 1828, and the occasion provides a fascinating sidelight on this period of English Church history. It was his first and last visit: though Schleiermacher had learned English early in life, and translated two volumes of sermons and written various articles for the Athenaeum, he had felt no urge to cross the Channel before. The reasons now were political rather than religious. He lodged in London with his wife's cousin, Ludwig von Miihlenfels, a writer and critic who had been arrested for ‘demagogic’ activities in Germany and had subsequently escaped and settled in England. From this point of view the visit was a success; Schleiermacher appears to have reinstated von Mühlenfels in the eyes of the Prussian authorities since he was allowed to return home in 1830.

Correction in last issue:

p. 96, line 10: for “futility” read “ability.”

“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.

The second letter of Peter follows the usual sequence of proclamation and exhortation. But it is also typical when it betrays a melancholy realisation of the gap between hope and reality. First, there comes the proclamation of salvation. ‘He has bestowed on us the great and precious things he promised, so that through these you who have fled a world corrupted by lust, might become sharers of the divine nature.’ (1.4) Yet, evidently this initial conversion by no means gives irreversible thrust and momentum. Thus an exhortation to keep working must be added. ‘Be solicitous to make your call and election permanent.’ (1.10) Finally, beyond the exhortation, there is need to confront the discouraging reality reflected in the mockery of the sceptics. ‘They will ask: Where is that promised coming of his? Our forefathers have been laid to rest, but everything stays just as it was when the world was created.’(3.4)

Modern conversations between the natural sciences and theology on the human soul have not so far engaged extensively with relevant debates in the early church. Contemporary neuroscience tends to operate within a monistic paradigm, often referred to as ‘physicalism’, that understands human mental activity entirely in naturalistic terms. While there is ongoing scientific debate about the degree to which human consciousness can be reduced entirely to biology, physicalism is often cited as making traditional religious belief in the soul obsolete, or at least modifying it significantly. The Apollinarian question of whether Jesus has a soul therefore reappears. This article considers the contemporary relevance of the Apollinarian controversy, suggesting that fourth-century insights possess key points of contact with the modern non-reductive physicalist position and thus raising important considerations for the science–theology conversation on the soul.

Origen's Commentary on John provides us with a fruitful acquaintance with his christological thinking. The Commentary as a text is not well presented, and for this reason the work is not as well known as it might be, although Origen is the first great commentator of Scripture whose exegetical works have come down to us. It seems important to know what he has to say in those works which he was able to write according to his inclination, and not for the purposes of an argumentum ad hominem. The Commentary on John itself provides the reason why it should be studied as an important revelation of Origen's thought, since he describes the Fourth Gospel as the greatest of the Gospel writings because it contains , and plainly ‘declared ’ in a way the Synoptics did not, although no one can understand the meaning of the Gospel unless, like John, he has been shown ‘by Jesus Himself, Jesus as He is’ (Book I, 6). The writing of this Commentary was not a work taken up lightly or without a great deal of hardship on the part of the author. It is a carefully—indeed painfully—wrought out work, agonised over to the last logical detail according to his exegetical method, and must be considered as one of the most serious attempts at a systematic construction of a christological position in the history of Christian thought.

The renaissance of virtue ethics in Christian moral discourse has led a handful of Reformed theologians to consider whether or not the Reformed tradition is compatible with classical and medieval concepts of virtue. Barthians, in particular, express doubt regarding the prospect of such a retrieval, arguing that classical notions of virtue compromise the Reformed hallmark of divine sovereignty and Luther's dictum simul justus et peccator. This essay counters that the Reformed tradition is broad enough to find more productive ways to engage virtue ethics. In particular, the Westminster Standards provide both the formal space for a significant theological exploration of human agency and the material content for the development of something like a classical virtue ethic. Barthian concerns regarding divine sovereignty and moral progress are satisfied by a demonstration that Westminster's attention to human agency is always within the context of a greater emphasis on divine agency.

Charles Taylor's A Secular Age is by any account a monumental work. It has spawned a cottage industry of comment which should not abate for a long time to come. While social theorists have engaged Taylor's arguments from the very moment the book appeared, theologians seem to have been slower to comment. Recently, however, two important theological assessments have appeared in the Journal of Religion and Modern Theology.

The broad contours of Augustine's critique of Stoic virtue theory in De civitate dei 19.4 finds a fascinating analogue in Theodor Adorno's theory of immanent critique: Augustine ‘enters’ into Stoic virtue theory and criticises it from its own postulates, illustrating the striking implausibility of Stoic orthodoxy when lived out in concreto and the absurd, but logical, conclusions to which one is necessarily carried by Stoic ethics. Through this deconstruction, Augustine clears a space to propose his own virtue ethic. Augustine maintains that a Stoic virtue ethic fails to deliver on its promised eudaimonistic ends because it lacks a robust eschatological vision. For Augustine, the Christian faith offers a more viable virtue ethic.