The Fathers Refounded: Protestant Liberalism, Roman Catholic Modernism, and the Teaching of Ancient Christianity in Early Twentieth-Century America 9780812295627

Citation preview

The Fathers Refounded

DIVINATIONS: REREADING LATE ANCIENT RELIGION Series Editors: Daniel Boyarin, Virginia Burrus, Derek Krueger A complete list of books in the series is available from the publisher.

The Fathers Refounded Protestant Liberalism, Roman Catholic Modernism, and the Teaching of Ancient Christianity in Early Twentieth-Century America

Elizabeth A. Clark

u n i v e r s i t y of pe n ns y lva n i a pr e s s p h i l a de l p h i a

Copyright © 2019 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania ­19104-​­4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on ­acid-​­free paper 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Library of Congress ­Cataloging-​­­in-​­Publication Data Names: Clark, Elizabeth A., author. Title: The Fathers refounded : Protestant liberalism, Roman Catholic modernism, and the teaching of ancient Christianity in early twentieth-century America / Elizabeth A. Clark. Other titles: Divinations. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania Press, [2019] | Series: Divinations: rereading late ancient religion | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018017409 | ISBN 978-0-8122-5071-8 (hardcover : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: Modernism (Christian theology)—United States—History—20th century. | Theology—Study and teaching—United States—History—20th century. | McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Jr., 1892–1993. | La Piana, George, 1879– 1971. | Case, Shirley Jackson, 1872–1947. | Church history— Primitive and early church, ca. 30–600—Historiography. | Liberalism (Religion)—Protestant churches—History—20th century. | Modernism (Christian theology)—Catholic Church—History—20th century. Classification: LCC BT82 .C53 2019 | DDC 270.1072/2—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018017409

To all the wonderful graduate students who from 1982 to 2018 have brightened my life and inspired me

This page intentionally left blank

Contents

Introduction 1 Chapter 1. Roman Catholic Modernism and Protestant Liberalism

9

Part I. Arthur Cushman McGiffert and Union Theological Seminary Chapter 2. McGiffert’s Life and Writings Chapter 3. McGiffert’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches Chapter 4. McGiffert’s Teaching of Early Christianity

41 70 101

Part II. George LaPiana and Harvard Divinity School Chapter 5. LaPiana’s Life and Writings Chapter 6. LaPiana’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches Chapter 7. LaPiana’s Teaching of Early Christianity

143 160 193

Part III. Shirley Jackson Case and the University of Chicago Divinity School Chapter 8. Case’s Life and Writings Chapter 9. Case’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches Chapter 10. Case’s Teaching of Early Christianity

243 260 293

Conclusion 324 Archival Sources and List of Abbreviations

331

viii Co n t e n t s

Notes 333 Bibliography 411 Index 427 Acknowledgments

439

Introduction

We are in the midst of a theological revolution. —​­Philip Schaff to A. C. McGiffert, 1892

Could Christianity be modernized? Should Christianity be modernized? In the early years of the twentieth century, Christian intellectuals who championed “modernization” faced a daunting task: centuries of Christian tradition would need to be rethought, its doctrines and creeds reformulated. The Higher Criticism of the Bible and theories of “development” in Christian history, in addition to scientific discoveries, new philosophical currents, and democratic visions, had rendered much of traditional Christian teaching and doctrine out of step with ­twentieth-​­century thought and practice. Nothing was exempt from critique: from doctrine to ethics to church structure, many aspects of historical Christianity, including the New Testament itself, were found lacking. How those traditions had been put in place, long ago, what had motivated them, and what ­purpose—​­if ­any—​­they had served, was up for discussion. It did, indeed, seem like a revolution . . . ​or less dramatically, a call for reform of major proportions. The new generation of liberal professors at the leading American seminaries and divinity schools hoped to equip their students with a revisionary version of early Christianity in its social, historical, and intellectual settings.1 This was not a purely “academic” exercise. If Christianity were to have meaning for an increasingly educated American populace, it must be presented in a way that showed its compatibility with new currents in philosophy, sociology, biology, and history of religions, as well as suggest its contributions to improving world conditions. Such a presentation, however, required historians of Christianity to scrutinize past formulations and practices, and more, to propose new ­ones—​­some seemingly drastic. The three professors who are the focus of this ­book—​­Arthur Cushman

2 In t ro d u c t i o n

McGiffert at Union Theological Seminary, George LaPiana at Harvard Divinity School, and Shirley Jackson Case at the University of Chicago Divinity ­School—​­attempted the task. McGiffert and Case approached the revision of early Christian studies informed by currents of Protestant Liberalism (albeit of two different species), while the Italian Modernist LaPiana brought his hope for a reformed Catholicism to bear upon his teaching of early Christian history and theology. While the ivory tower of academia did not shield these three from conservative attacks, their liberalizing efforts enjoyed a brief heyday before being overwhelmed by forces both internal and external to their respective religious communions. Their vision, however, was reborn in the late twentieth century, in Vatican II and in the burgeoning interest in the social and cultural history of early Christianity. Aiming to bring the interpretation of Christianity into alignment with modern thought, all three professors advanced ­historical-​­critical approaches to early Christianity, including theories of historical development. These approaches required that early Christianity be treated with the same (relatively) unbiased hand as were other religions and historical eras. All three claimed that Christianity’s success in the competitive religious marketplace of late antiquity had been enabled by its adapting aspects of ­Greco-​­Roman salvation cults, the imperial cult, and the “mystery religions,” but by offering even more: both a divine hero who was also a historical person, and a strong and efficient institutional structure. While McGiffert, LaPiana, and Case approached their subject with different assumptions, all three critiqued and corrected older views and advanced what they considered a more genuinely historical approach to early Christianity. What unfolded provides a fascinating illustration of d ­ ivergence-​ ­­amid-​­agreement in shaking off remnants of an older confessional and denominationally oriented outlook. It was indeed a brave new world in theological studies. In my previous book, Founding the Fathers: Early Church History and Protestant Professors in ­Nineteenth-​­Century America, I narrated the development of seminary education of that era at four institutions that later became important graduate centers for the study of early Christianity: Princeton Theological Seminary, Harvard Divinity School, Yale Divinity School, and Union Theological Seminary.2 Amid enormous obstacles, these institutions expanded their faculties, student bodies, and libraries throughout the nineteenth century. Their professors brought (largely) German scholarship to pious Protestant ­America—​­a gift not always well received. As I concluded, the 1890s stood as a watershed: by that decade, conservative resistance to biblical scholarship in



In t ro d u c t i o n

3

these mainline institutions had at least partially subsided; strict adherence to old denominational creeds had dwindled in importance; confessional commitments were less evident in historical scholarship. The death of Union’s Philip Schaff in 1893 and the assumption of his position by McGiffert, who brought different sensibilities to the task, signaled changing times in theological and historical studies. To be sure, Protestant America was a decade or more “behind” Germany in acknowledging the alleged revolution. As Johannes Zachhuber concluded in his impressive study Theology as Science in N ­ ineteenth-​­Century Germany, the year 1880 “ought to be recognized as a major caesura in the modern history of theology.” It was then, he claimed, that “the need to choose between historical and dogmatic method” forced itself upon theologians and religion scholars, a choice that “cast a long shadow over all subsequent theological developments.”3 William Hutchison, historian of American Protestantism, similarly pinpointed the 1890s as a time of large gains for the New Theology, as that more popular (and American) version of Protestant Liberalism was then often called.4 As he put it, liberal theology and the Social Gospel served as “fragments to be shored against the ruins of traditional faith.”5 To be sure, many Protestants, as well as Catholic Modernists, thought that upon those “ruins” they were building a new edifice strong enough to meet the challenges of the twentieth century. Catholic Modernists, for their part, from the 1890s to the first decade or more of the twentieth century, attacked what they considered outdated biblical and historical scholarship, conservative theology, seminary curricula centered on Thomist philosophy, and stifling Vatican politics. They saw, in George Tyrrell’s phrase, that Catholicism was at a “­cross-​­roads”;6 would Catholics take the uncharted path, or remain mired in antiquated ones? Vatican decrees of 1907 and 1910 struck down Modernist currents, thereby squelching Catholic biblical and historical scholarship on Christian origins for several decades. Although Protestant Liberals had no “Vatican,” they too endured attacks by their conservative counterparts. This book tells the story of these modernizing attempts and the responses they induced. Founding the Fathers focused on institutions. The present book, The Fathers Refounded, centers less on institutions (now pruned to two previously covered, Union and Harvard, and joined by the new University of Chicago Divinity School) and more on the theological, philosophical, and historiographical presuppositions that the leading professors of early Christian history at those institutions brought to their subject. ­Institution-​­building, to be sure, was still

4 In t ro d u c t i o n

important: McGiffert, as President of Union, expended massive energy in ­fund-​­raising, an effort that contributed to his ill health and t­ oo-​­early demise. At Harvard, the reforms that had enhanced graduate education, initiated during the ­forty-​­year presidency of Charles Eliot, were already largely in place by the time LaPiana arrived in Cambridge in 1915; by then, the numbers of Harvard faculty and graduate students had massively expanded.7 Eliot had raised the Divinity School from ­near-​­death to stand as a major university program with the authority to grant S.T.M. and Th.D. degrees.8 The University of Chicago, founded in the early 1890s and hence the youngest of the three institutions, saw its ambitious academic entrepreneur and first president, William Rainey Harper, and financier and industrialist John D. Rockefeller erecting a new academic empire. The theological revolution under way in prominent American divinity schools and seminaries accompanied much larger changes in American life. Historian Henry Steele Commager, writing more than a h ­ alf-​­century ago, summarized: The decade of the nineties [1890s] is the watershed of American history. . . . ​On the one side lies an America predominantly agricultural; concerned with domestic problems; conforming intellectually, at least, to the political, economic, and moral principles inherited from the seventeenth and eighteenth ­centuries—​­an America still in the making, physically and socially; an America on the whole s­ elf-​ ­confident, ­self-​­contained, ­self-​­reliant, and conscious of its unique character and of a unique destiny. On the other side lies the modern America, predominantly urban and industrial; inextricably involved in world economy and politics; troubled with the problems that had long been thought peculiar to the Old World; experiencing profound changes in population, social institutions, economy, and technology; and trying to accommodate its traditional institutions and habits of thought to conditions new and in part alien.9 Such sweeping claims may well provoke unease among historians of our own day. Yet, I argue, in the sphere of the history of ­Christianity—​­or, more accurately, “the history of the history of ­Christianity”—​­trends afoot in the 1890s, when combined with changes in professorial personnel and the founding of a new university (Chicago), all set in motion distinctive Modernist or Liberal theological commitments.



In t ro d u c t i o n

5

The terms “Modernism” and “Liberalism,” however, were open to adaptation and appropriation, as the following chapter will explicate in detail. While it is common to associate Modernism with a progressive movement within Roman Catholicism, Shirley Jackson Case claimed the title “Modernist” for his views, rather than “Liberal,” the designation commonly applied to a form of Protestantism that traced its roots to the German theologian Albrecht Ritschl and that in America was associated especially with professors at Union Seminary from the ­mid-​­1890s onward. (Case’s colleague Shailer Mathews claimed that Protestant Liberals were interested in “formulations” [of doctrinal content], while Protestant Modernists, in method.)10 Harvard, a Unitarian institution, had in the nineteenth century a reputation for liberalism, although its Divinity School was less oriented ­toward the distinctive kind of German Protestant Liberalism associated with Ritschl and his followers, so popular at Union.11 In this book I detail how these three professors of early Christian history manifested their Liberal and Modernist interests in their teaching and writing. Arthur McGiffert at Union was marked by Ritschlian commitments, even as he rejected some emphases of his mentor, historian Adolf von Harnack, then reigning dean of German Liberal theology. For the Italian George LaPiana, the first Catholic to be employed at the (Unitarian) Harvard Divinity School, interest in ecclesiastical structure and Modernist critique of Scholastic theology colored his teaching and writing about Christianity’s early development. Shirley Jackson Case at the University of Chicago, spurning philosophy and most aspects of theology, promoted a s­ocio-​­historical, “functionalist” reading of Christian history inspired by the social sciences. Case, although conversant with Continental scholarship, especially that of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, was so uninterested in the content of ancient Christian doctrine that he rarely engaged it in any depth. All three, however, were keenly aware that European learning needed to be adjusted to the demands of America’s distinctive academic, social, and political situation. America, they hoped, was at last poised to make its own scholarly contribution to studies of Christianity’s history. I proceed by first explaining Roman Catholic Modernism, especially in its Italian versions that so influenced LaPiana. He largely scorned whatever tattered remnants of Catholic Modernism survived in America; in general, he found American Catholicism intellectually weak, and its purveyors theologically conservative and politically timid. Turning to Protestant Liberalism, I distinguish European varieties (especially Ritschlianism) from their less

6 In t ro d u c t i o n

scholarly manifestations in America. McGiffert found little to embrace in evangelically oriented American Protestantism of his era; his face was turned ­toward Germany. Case at Chicago eagerly pursued a democratic, “modern,” less theologically driven version of Protestantism that, he claimed, would accord well with science and with “functional” approaches to religion. McGiffert, LaPiana, and Case taught the full range of topics in early Christian studies. (For the purposes of this book, I focus on the aspects that reveal their particular interests and original views.) Yet, unaccountably, these three, who dominated the teaching of the field from the 1890s to around 1940, are not now well known: the massiveness (and in some instances, disarray) of their archives may have dissuaded historians. Neither LaPiana nor McGiffert found a biographer to detail at length his scholarship and interests; Case has attracted somewhat more attention.12 Thus this book represents the first attempt to analyze in some depth, and from the archival remains, LaPiana’s and McGiffert’s considerable contributions to the study of early Christianity. For each of the three professors, I first introduce their lives and activities, then unpack the assumptions they held and the historiographical, philosophical, and theological currents that influenced their approaches to early Christianity. Last, I turn to specific points of their teaching and writing on early Christianity that reveal their prime interests, whether ­philosophical-​­doctrinal, institutional, or ­social-​­historical. Although some conservative Christians have rued the alignment of seminaries or divinity schools with a university as secularizing, as losing their specifically Christian orientation, I argue that the first decades of the twentieth century saw a flowering of scholarship on early Christianity that resonated with work by classicists, historians, philosophers, and sociologists at major universities. The study of Christian history could take its place alongside other humanities and social science disciplines. By the second decade of the twentieth century, however, Catholics’ critical scholarship on Christian origins had been decisively squelched by Vatican decrees; George LaPiana thus stood out in honoring European Modernism long after its tenets had been formally condemned. Protestant Liberalism, for its part, received severe setbacks from the devastations of World War I, the rise of N ­ eo-​­Orthodoxy, and the backlash of American Fundamentalism that overwhelmed Protestantism and Protestant historical scholarship for several decades. Perhaps the s­ocio-​­historical, “functionalist” approaches at the University of Chicago Divinity School fared best in the long run: its emphases resurfaced in late t­wentieth-​­century social and cultural approaches to early Christianity.



In t ro d u c t i o n

7

As will become clear, there were notable affinities between Catholic Modernism and Protestant Liberalism, even though Catholic Modernists often disclaimed this association. Both critiqued “tradition,” advocated new scholarship, and challenged ecclesiastical authority. Some American Protestant professors of this era, unlike many of their ­anti-​­Catholic predecessors, explicitly embraced the goals of Catholic Modernism in their writing and teaching.13 Modernism and Liberalism held out the promise of friendship between Christianity and modern intellectual and social culture. That promise, although early blighted, inspired later generations, and can continue to inspire.

This page intentionally left blank

Chapter 1

Roman Catholic Modernism and Protestant Liberalism

The approaches to Christian history of George LaPiana, Arthur Cushman McGiffert, and Shirley Jackson Case were strongly influenced by (respectively) Catholic Modernism and Protestant Liberalism. Both Protestant scholars, however, took an interest in Catholic Modernism: McGiffert lectured and wrote on the subject, while Case s­ elf-​­identified as a “Modernist” rather than as a “Liberal.”1 While McGiffert’s colleague, William Adams Brown, could describe Modernism as “the fruitage within Catholicism of the same principles of freedom and individuality which in our own day have given birth in Protestantism to the new theology,”2 Catholic Modernists were wary of linking their cause to Protestant Liberalism, which to them signaled an individualism that worked against the communal spirit they hoped to foster. Yet as historians, all three professors were committed to a critical historiography that broke with earlier assumptions and confessional affiliations. This chapter offers a brief introduction to Catholic Modernism (especially its Italian variations) and to Protestant Liberalism, the frameworks within which these professors developed their views on early Christian history. (Catholic Modernism, which particularly in its Italian manifestations is less well known in the religious studies community, here receives the greater attention.) Much that has been written about Protestant Liberalism in America has focused on its more popular dimensions rather than on the technical scholarship associated with Albrecht Ritschl and his followers. Hence I elaborate the latter more fully.

10

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

Roman Catholic Modernism Introduction “Modernism” was the name chosen by Pius X and his advisers “to describe and condemn certain liberal, ­anti-​­scholastic, and ­historico-​­critical forms of thought occurring in the Roman Catholic Church between c. 1890 and 1914.”3 Thus the movement’s opponents bestowed the name.4 Modernist Maude D. Petre defined it like this: “Catholic Modernism was an effort to combine the latest claims of science and history and democracy with the spiritual teachings of the Church, and to obtain right of citizenship for the scholar, whose sole aim quâ scholar was scientific or historic truth, in the Church to which he submitted his religious life and conduct.”5 Modernism, she added, was “grounded on the belief, or at least inspired by the hope, that Catholic Christianity could accept all the ascertained truths of history, and yet keep its own.” It marked “the first time science had found its way into the very sanctuary of [Catholic] Christianity.”6 Perhaps more a current than an organized movement (as Pius and his advisers alleged), Modernism crossed national boundaries, with different ­emphases—​­theological, philosophical, historical, social, ­biblical-​­­critical—​ ­emerging in France, Italy, Germany, and England.7 The very diversity of Modernist positions, religious and nonreligious, Petre argued, worked against it as a movement: “There were men alive to social problems and dead to historical or scientific ones”; “there were philosophers with no sense for Biblical criticism, and critics uninterested in psychology or mysticism.”8 Although Italian Modernism, with which George LaPiana was aligned, is here the primary concern, it is noteworthy that France contributed Modernism’s leading biblical scholar, Alfred Loisy,9 as well as theologians and philosophers Maurice Blondel, Edouard LeRoy, and Lucien Laberthonnière. In England, the most prominent expositors of Modernism were the Jesuit George Tyrrell,10 his supporter and biographer Maude Petre, and Baron Friedrich von Hügel.11 In Italy, Ernesto Buonaiuti, who deeply influenced LaPiana, engaged historical criticism, while others centered their attention on political and social movements.12 Whether American Catholicism produced its own form of ­ Modernism—​­ a ­ much-​ ­debated ­question—​­will be considered later. Writing in 1921, after the movement’s demise, Petre distinguished some of its disparate currents: some Modernists (such as Tyrrell) pleaded against “the subtle tyranny of ­over-​­speculative theology and its sterilizing influence on the



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

11

religious instincts of the ordinary devout mind”; others (such as LeRoy) issued a philosophical protest; still others (such as Romolo Murri in Italy, Marc Sangnier in France) took a social approach, aiming to democratize Catholicism; and last but not least, others (such as Loisy in France, Buonaiuti in Italy, and von Hügel in England) pressed the claims of a critical history. This latter group, in Petre’s view, quickly became the most important.13 Despite differences among themselves, Modernists across the board criticized Thomistic philosophy as currently taught for its inattention to personal religious experience, will, and feeling.14 They were more (and variously) attracted to Prag­ ugustinian-​­Franciscan matism,15 Bergsonianism,16 and, more generally, to the A focus on the will, affections, and moral experience.17 French philosophically oriented Modernists, however, often differed from Modernist historians and biblical scholars in that they suspected “historicist” approaches, including that of their ­fellow-​­countryman Loisy.18 As “the modern” entered the domains of art, literature, music, and psychology, new understandings of history (as seen in Higher Criticism in biblical studies and a historicist approach to Christianity’s development)19 most strongly influenced the types of Modernism here showcased.20 Not delivered ­full-​­blown at its origin, Christianity had, by human agency, grown and adapted itself to varying circumstances throughout the centuries. All narrations of history were relative; no Christian doctrines were “immutable and perennially valid.” Nor could there be any unmediated grasp upon history as “the past.”21 Modernists challenged the Roman Church to disengage from ­ Counter-​ ­Reformation and Ultramontane positions.22 Historical Context of Roman Catholic Modernism in Europe The Modernist movement should be understood in the contexts of social, political, intellectual, and scholarly developments of ­nineteenth-​­century Europe. Early in that century, the Roman Church, recoiling from the onslaught of the French Revolution, took a conservative turn. When Pius IX was elected in 1846, his initially more liberal stance led some Italian political and religious leaders to press for reforms far beyond what the Vatican was willing to countenance. Uprisings led to the expulsion of the Jesuits from Rome, followed by the Pope’s own flight. When Pius returned to Rome in 1850, protected by French troops, he set on a decidedly more conservative course that was to issue in the decree on the Immaculate Conception of Mary (1854), the Syllabus of Errors (1864), and the decree on Papal Infallibility (1870). When French troops

12

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

abandoned Rome in 1870 to fight the ­Franco-​­Prussian War, Pius was left largely defenseless.23 The forces of Italian unification found their moment, and Rome was “liberated” on September 20, 1870. Pius (correctly) saw his power weakened as the Papal Estates came under secular control in the new nation of Italy.24 With the accession in 1878 of Leo XIII, more intellectual and a proven Vatican diplomat, scholars were accorded somewhat greater freedom for research, including access to the Secret Vatican Archives. Yet many who had praised Leo’s more liberal views soon found reason for doubt. Two of Leo’s ­encyclicals—​­one on philosophy, one on biblical ­scholarship—​­espoused positions resisted by those later branded as Modernists. To these we shall return. Leo’s successor, Pius X, elected in the summer of 1903, however, was resolutely opposed to all modern currents of thought.25 Within a few months of Pius’ election, the Holy Office in December 1903 put five of Alfred Loisy’s writings on the Index.26 Modernist Currents ­Pre-​­1907 in France and Italy The first years of the twentieth century witnessed some dramatic events in European Catholicism. In France, the 1905 Law of Separation rendered France effectively “secular” and removed state funding for religious groups. Religious buildings, although remaining available for services, became property of the state or of local governments. Pius X in Vehementer Nos (February 11, 1906) denounced the Law of Separation as contrary both to Catholic teaching and to the Concordat that linked state and church in France.27 Later, in Notre Charge Apostolique (August 1910), he condemned Le Sillon, founded in 1894 to align Catholicism with leftist politics and the labor movement.28 Pius here declared that class distinctions should not be overturned, that principles of authority and obedience trumped “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.” Priests, Pius charged, had lost their dignity by mingling with young workingmen. Moreover, Le Sillon dangerously aligned the Catholic faithful with “unbelievers,” with Protestants and ­Free-​­Thinkers.29 Catholic Italy likewise saw unrest. Many young priests during the pontificate of Leo XIII, George LaPiana claims, had been trained in c­ ritical-​­historical studies at state universities. Inspired by Leo’s encouragement of Catholics’ engagement with modern culture, they hoped to develop a new theology that could meet the challenges posed by historical and biblical studies. With the a­nti-​ ­Modernist declarations, LaPiana adds, these men were condemned, hunted



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

13

down by spies and zealots, asked to sign humiliating retractions, to take hateful oaths against everything they had formerly cherished. They lost hope for freedom of speech, and spent the rest of their days in “isolation and inactivity.” No wonder they preferred to burn their bridges with the priesthood and begin again in a new environment, where they would not be subject to “the idiotic police regime of narrow minded little Torquemadas.”30 Was LaPiana himself one of those priests, fleeing the Vatican’s “Torquemadas” for American shores? Several of Pius X’s a­ nti-​­Modernist pronouncements were directed especially at Italian clergy. In Pieni l’animo (July 28, 1906), addressed to Italian bishops, he rued the growing spirit of independence among some (especially younger) clergy who were embracing “Christian action among the people.” Pius ordered bishops to be more rigorous in their selection of priests. Priests’ access to public universities should be restricted; seminary students should be allowed to read only one newspaper or periodical, of sound Catholic principles. Moreover, Catholic authorities were instructed to monitor the clergy’s contributions to periodicals. In a move of great consequence for Italian Modernism, the Pope ruled that priests were forbidden to enroll in the Lega Democratica Nazionale, Romolo Murri’s political party.31 Among French and Italian Modernists, both political and intellectual issues were at stake. The Vatican and Biblical Criticism Before 1907 Opposition was developing on the scholarly front as well, manifested especially in the Higher Criticism of the Bible. Protestant scholars, especially in Germany, had engaged critical biblical scholarship for many decades before these currents much affected the Catholic world. Although Leo XIII in Aeterni Patris (1879) had encouraged philosophical and theological s­tudies—​­albeit in a Thomistic ­mode—​­critical biblical scholarship was less welcome. The marginal status of biblical studies in Catholic seminary curricula in the late nineteenth century, writes C. J. T. Talor, “reflects its marginality in n ­ eo-​­scholasticism.”32 In England, George Tyrrell complained that in Catholic seminaries, “the Sacred Scriptures and ecclesiastical history remain a terra incognita for all but a few restless and curious minds.”33 To be sure, for most Catholic Modernists, the truth of Catholicism did not depend upon the results of biblical scholarship.34 Yet, Maude Petre claimed, historical criticism had “terrified” traditional Catholics more than any other development since Copernicus’ theories. History, she confessed, “has caused us many a heartache.”35 A second encyclical of Leo XIII, Providentissimus Deus (1893), critiqued

14

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

the Higher Criticism in biblical scholarship, snuffing out (as Alfred Loisy put it) its first manifestations.36 In 1902, Leo established a Biblical Commission to investigate and adjudicate newer approaches to scriptural study. The Commission’s original membership was relatively liberal, encouraging Modernists to affirm its establishment. Subsequent appointees, h ­ owever—​­some not even biblical ­scholars—​­were considerably more conservative.37 A ­pro-​­Modernist sympathizer of the era wrote that those holding the decisive votes were “quite strangers to Biblical studies,” who ignored the fifty consultori assigned to the Commission to lend scholarly expertise.38 Gerald Fogarty claims that the combination of the 1907 encyclical Pascendi dominici gregis, which condemned Catholic Modernism,39 and the Biblical Commission’s decree of 1906 endorsing the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch “virtually destroyed Catholic use of the historical method in biblical studies.”40 By establishing the Pontifical Biblical Institute in 1909, with Jesuits in charge, the Vatican ensured that conservative forces would dominate Catholic biblical scholarship.41 Restrictions were relaxed only by Pius XII’s encyclicals Divino afflante Spiritu (1943) and Humani generis (1950). In 1964, the Pontifical Biblical Commission under John XXIII issued Sancta Mater Ecclesia, which acknowledged the major results of modern historical criticism. It is no exaggeration to claim that the ­anti-​­Modernist decrees set back Catholic scholarship in this area for two generations.42 Protestants, we shall see, with no “Vatican,” had other means of squelching (or overlooking) scholarly claims regarding early Christianity. The ­Anti-​­Modernist Decrees: 1907 and Beyond Two Vatican decrees of 1907 condemned the Modernist movement. These were followed by a disciplinary measure, issued in September 1910, which required an ­anti-​­Modernist oath of clergy, religious superiors, and seminary professors. The first decree, Lamentabili sane exitu, issued in July 1907, condemned s­ ixty-​ ­five propositions, most of which were taken from Loisy’s and Tyrrell’s writings. Lamentabili made it appear that the movement had a coherent body of doctrine, a claim the s­ o-​­called Modernists rejected.43 This attempt was even more evident in the second decree, Pascendi dominici gregis, issued in September 1907. Gabriel Daly writes, “Rome had no firm speculative idea of, but only a passionate instinct about, what it wanted to condemn or how the condemnation should be framed.”44 Pascendi denounced the findings of biblical criticism, the theory of devel-



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

15

opment in history, the sharp separation of history from faith, and the Modernists’ alleged immanentist philosophy that appealed to inner experience as a ground of authority. The view that religion stems from human needs was found reprehensible.45 Pascendi scored the Modernists for their critique of Thomism and their prideful refusal to submit meekly to the magisterium.46 Protestantism, Pius declared, had been the first step on the path of error; Modernism is the ­second—​­to be followed by a wholesale collapse into atheism.47 In a ­much-​­quoted phrase, he declared Modernism to be “the synthesis of all heresies.”48 There followed more excommunications, more Catholics deprived of the sacraments, more defections from the faith, and considerable prevarication on the part of professors and priests who accepted the new scholarship but wished to remain within the fold. By 1907, Loisy had already been excommunicated; Tyrrell and Murri would soon meet that fate. So too, later, would the historian Buonaiuti. Petre was deprived of the sacraments after her massive and sympathetic t­ wo-​­volume work on Tyrrell was published.49 On September 1, 1910, Pius X issued a motu proprio, Sacrorum Antistitum. By this decree, an ­anti-​­Modernist oath, to be repeated each year, was required of Catholic clergy, including seminary professors and religious superiors. In it, the Church’s magisterium is called “infallible.” The ­oath-​­takers are to affirm that “the Church . . . ​was directly and immediately instituted by the true and historic Christ Himself, during his life amongst us.” They are to reject “the heretical supposition of the evolution of dogmas,” and to adhere to all condemnations and declarations of Pascendi and Lamentabili, “especially in all that concerns the history of dogma.”50 Now, “Councils of Vigilance” were to be established in every diocese to apprehend signs of “Modernism.” Restrictions that the Pope had already tried to impose on Italian Catholics were extended to Catholics elsewhere, especially to the higher clergy. Bishops were to exert special care to keep Modernist literature out of the hands of seminarians and university students, and to censor Modernist publications within their dioceses.51 In Loisy’s view, the church hierarchy would now become “a common ­police-​­force.”52 The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith did not withdraw the a­ nti-​­Modernist oath until May 31, 1967.53 Although Loisy described the exposition of Modernism in Pascendi as “a fantasy of the theological imagination,”54 the decree largely accomplished what Pius desired: the suppression of critical approaches to the study of the Bible and of church history. “The primary outcome of the modernist movement,” writes historian Alec Vidler, “was the completeness of its defeat.”55

16

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

Modernists in Italy George LaPiana was associated with Catholic Modernism from his early days in Italy. His friend and fellow historian Ernesto Buonaiuti authored Il Programma dei Modernisti, the Modernist response to the Vatican decrees of 1907. Buonaiuti fell victim to F ­ ascist-​­Vatican politics. Associated with the h ­ istorical-​ ­critical wing of Italian Modernism, he inspired LaPiana to fight Fascist politics and ideology from American shores. From the start, Italian Modernism had the disadvantage of being directly under the eyes of the Pope and his Vatican advisers. By contrast, English Modernists, such as George Tyrrell, escaped notice at first since English was largely an unknown language in Vatican circles. There was no such dodge for Italian Modernists. Italian Modernism had two distinct aspects: social and political, and ­historical-​­­critical-​­theological, the latter influenced by Loisy and by the French Modernist philosophers.56 The writings of Tyrrell, Loisy, and Blondel became known in Italy through reviews by Giovanni Semeria and Salvatore Minocchi.57 Although Friedrich von Hügel in England deemed some Italian Modernists too timid,58 the latter bore the brunt of Vatican censure and excommunication. Modernist biblical scholar Giovanni Genocchi lost his professorship at the Catholic University “Apollinare” in Rome in 1898,59 while Minocchi (who declared the Genesis account of Eden unhistorical) was deprived of the right to say mass.60 Later, Buonaiuti was likewise relieved of his professorship at the “Apollinare,” and was blacklisted by collusion of Fascist and Vatican powers.61 Fascist politicians aligned their movement with ­anti-​­Modernism: in their eyes, Modernism had been an “extremely potent foreign poison,” a “form of subversion.”62 Most Italians, to be sure, were not interested in principles of biblical exegesis or church history; if anything, they focused on politics. As one historian comments, the scholarly dimension of Modernism might as well have been “happening on another planet.”63 ­Social-​­political Modernists in Italy, for their part, sharply critiqued the conservative social views of the Vatican.64 This branch was associated with the political party Lega Democratica Nazionale (or Lega Democratica Cristiana), founded by the politically progressive but theologically conservative Dom Romolo Murri.65 When the Vatican realized that it could not control party members’ votes in Parliament, it condemned the party.66 Murri’s review, Cultura sociale, was shut down in 1906.67 Excommunicated when he was elected as a deputy to the Italian Chamber in 1909, Murri subsequently declared himself anticlerical, but still Catholic.68 In 1916, anticipating the end of World War I,



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

17

Murri published “An Italian Modernist’s Hope for the Future” in the Harvard Theological Review. (Since his Harvard connection was LaPiana, I strongly suspect that the latter translated the article; moreover, LaPiana wrote the lead essay for that issue, “A Review of Italian Modernism.”)69 Murri hoped to awaken religious interest in postwar Italy, but religious revival, he cautioned, requires students, the promotion of scientific religious studies, and a religious culture. Against such developments, “the Church sets her face.” He looked to active religious centers in England and America for assistance in Italy’s religious regeneration.70 Although stimulated by ­non-​­Italian authors, Italian Modernism developed distinctive features of its own.71 One characteristic was its dissemination through journals and periodicals.72 Minocchi first founded Rivista bibliographica italiana (1896–1899) and then Studi religiosi (1901–1907),73 which Buonaiuti deemed the beginning of Italian Modernism.74 Buonaiuti himself edited Rivista s­torico-​­critica delle scienze teologiche from 1905 until 1910, when it was placed on the Index.75 The Rivista had thousands of subscribers among the Italian clergy, some hundreds of whom abandoned their vows as a result of the Modernist crisis.76 Other ­periodicals—​­Il Rinnovamento, spearheaded by novelist Antonio Fogazzaro and Baron von Hügel, and Buonaiuti’s Nova et ­Vetera77—​­were founded a few years later.78 These journals too were shut down. In December 1907, Cardinal Andrea Carlo Ferrari, the Archbishop of Milan, excommunicated the editors, publishers, authors, and collaborators of Il Rinnovamento, who were chiefly laymen, and the journal was finally suppressed in October 1909.79 Buonaiuti wrote for this journal under pseudonyms: “Paolo Baldini” and “Giulio Dolci.”80 Pressure from the Vatican soon also scattered those who had worked on Buonaiuti’s Nova et Vetera.81 These Italian journals were eagerly read by Modernists elsewhere. In England, von Hügel and Petre were supporters; Petre offered funds to keep Il Rinnovamento alive.82 In October 1909, von Hügel praised Il Rinnovamento for “keeping on so bravely, unbrokenly,” but soon sadly noted that the journal had “unexpectedly collapsed”: on the bright side, he added, it had set “some limits to ultramontane omnipotence.”83 Quello che vogliamo: What We Want In May 1907, an anonymous group of Roman priests wrote an “open letter,” Quello che vogliamo, to Pius X. Within a few months, it was published in

18

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

English (What We Want) by an Anglican vicar and Modernist sympathizer, A. Leslie Lilley.84 George Tyrrell undertook most of the translation.85 The letter is a response to a speech Pius X had delivered the previous month. Pius had decried Catholics who were spreading abroad “monstrous errors on the evolution of dogma,” who try to reduce Christianity to a primitive Gospel devoid of theology and conciliar decrees, who are so “extremely tender” to unbelievers that they open a path to eternal ruin for ­all—​­in other words, Modernists.86 The dissenting priests deeply resented being cast as rebels, apostates, and schismatics. All over Europe, they charged, the Vatican has shunned or condemned attempts to bring Catholicism into contact with the modern world. In France, Modernists developing a new apologetic for Catholicism “against Protestant rationalists” have seen their works condemned. Now, both Tyrrell in England and Murri in Italy have been suspended from priestly office. Decrying corruption in the Vatican, the priests ­claim—​­in a burst of impolitic ­rhetoric—​­that their accusers are largely elderly, incontinent, insincere, slothful, and ignorant.87 The Vatican, the priests allege, fails to see that to keep Catholics loyal, it must cooperate with democratic movements. Pius X misguidedly considers democracy an enemy of the Church. The laity must be allowed a greater role in Church government, and ­non-​­Italian Catholics, in the Church’s administration.88 Moreover, Vatican officials must understand that modern science has shown the insufficiency of metaphysical explanations of the universe. The “metaphysical habit of mind” that formerly dominated theology has been replaced by history and psychology. To modern Catholics, the doctrinal language of “essence,” “hypostasis,” and “transubstantiation” has no meaning.89 The priests also claim that “religious experience” is the primary impetus to religion. From a “confused and inarticulate feeling of the infinite” grows the highest form of religion, Christianity, crowned by Catholicism at its summit. Other religions, although imperfect, are considered “revelations of God to the human soul.” Religious faith, the priests declare, like human intelligence and morals, has evolved over the centuries, varying with human receptivity.90 As for the Bible, the priests argue that Catholics should be taught that some sections of the Old Testament have little moral or religious value: by such an admission, the “veracity” and “inerrancy” of other parts of the Bible can be saved. The Apostles and Church Fathers, ignorant of historical criticism, disseminated traditions that cannot now be accepted in toto. Pius X’s belief that “the Hebrew patriarchs were familiar with the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception” is ridiculous.91



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

19

Il Programma dei Modernisti: The Program of the Modernists In Italy, a second document foundational for Modernism soon joined Quello che vogliamo. Within days of Pascendi’s publication in September 1907, Il Programma dei Modernisti appeared in Rome. Although the work was published anonymously, its author was later revealed to be Ernesto Buonaiuti.92 Programma, translated into English by George Tyrrell, was published in New York and London in 1908. Even a summary description of Programma shows the profound discrepancy between Pius X’s version of Catholicism and the Modernists’ (who now had a name, thanks to Pascendi). First, Buonaiuti dismissed medieval and Tridentine approaches to Catholicism as completely unsuited to t­wentieth-​­century religious thought. Challenging Pius’ charge that a destructive philosophical system underlay Modernism, he argued that biblical and historical criticism, including the affirmation of Christianity’s historical development, had prompted doubts concerning traditional Catholicism.93 Opposing Thomism’s dominance in Vatican pronouncements from the 1870s onward, Programma claims that Scholasticism, which lacked “the least vestige of historic sense,” “tie[d] down man’s spirit in a posture of humble submission in matters of reason and conduct.”94 Thomas’ proofs for the existence of God have lost their value; rather, humans’ spiritual “needs” are satisfied in “the inward and emotional experience of the presence of God within us.”95 Programma argues that church history, including the writings of the early Church Fathers, validates Modernists’ appeal to the human craving for the transcendent: here, Buonaiuti recalls Augustine’s words on the restless human heart that seeks God (Confessions I.1). He also cites works by Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, and Origen to support this point. Thomas himself, who wrote of the human spirit’s natural desire for God, serves as an ally. “Immanentism,” in other words, is not the “terrible evil” portrayed by Pius, but is affirmed in the best Christian traditions of the past. Programma urged Catholics to look behind Scholasticism to ancient Church traditions.96 In this, it foreshadowed an emphasis of Vatican II. Buonaiuti’s subsequent analysis, however, showed that he did not aim to replicate either New Testament or patristic Christianity. Indeed, he did not think that contemporary Christians could return to primitive Christianity. Echoing Loisy, Buonaiuti emphasizes that Jesus’ outlook had been bounded by the Parousia; the notion of a church lay beyond his horizon of expectation.97 Catholics must look beyond Jesus and the disciples to establish a Catholicism suited to modern Christians.

20

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

The religion (including dogma) that developed from the time of Jesus onward, Buonaiuti insists, arose from human “needs and wants”: otherwise, one would have to admit that church history was simply the “triumph of caprice and lawlessness.” Moreover, the church as a living social institution is governed by the same laws as other social entities. Early Christians, for example, borrowed practices and institutions of the time, including names for its offices and titles.98 Throughout Programma, Buonaiuti sharply distinguished between scholars’ critical study of the Bible and of church history, and Christians’ f­aith-​­held beliefs. Unlike the adamantly historicist Loisy, Buonaiuti claims that it does not matter to faith if one cannot prove the Virgin Birth, Christ’s miracles, or his resurrection.99 This sharp separation between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith was a point that Pius X found abhorrent. Whereas Loisy had let history largely serve as arbiter of faith, Pius made faith the arbiter of history. Programma also claims that ­church-​­state separation was a good. Returning clerical rule to the former Papal Estates would halt social progress. Democracy, Buonaiuti argues, contains many elements reminiscent of the Messianic hope of Jesus and his followers.100 As in Quello che vogliamo, the desire for a more democratic church merges in Programma with advocacy of c­ ritical-​­historical scholarship. Buonaiuti concluded Programma on a note of alarm. The Catholic Church stands at a crossroads: is it willing to lose the best minds among Catholics by its a­ nti-​­progressive stance? In other historical eras, Christianity reached out to the best thought of the day, so why not now? Here, Buonaiuti strategically includes Thomas as one of those ­forward-​­looking Catholics of times past, who allied the formerly despised Aristotelian philosophy with Christian theology. “S. Thomas was thus the true Modernist of his time,” Buonaiuti daringly concludes, and we are his true successors.101 Antonio Fogazzaro’s Il Santo It was not only scholars, social activists, and priests who entered the Modernist fray in Italy. So did a celebrated novelist whose book, Il Santo, doubtless reached more Italians than did the pronouncements of scholars. Antonio Fogaz­zaro, a convert to Modernism, published Il Santo in 1905 as an expression of reformist religious ideals.102 The publication of Il Santo stands between the condemnation of Loisy’s books in 1903 and the Vatican decrees of 1907. In 1905, Modernists might still hope that a Vatican condemnation of reform efforts in the Church could be forestalled.



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

21

Thousands of Italians read Il Santo, which was translated into English, French, and ­German—​­despite its being placed on the Index.103 Fogazzaro also lectured in Paris on the religious views of the book’s protagonists.104 The American who contributed the introduction to its ­English-​­language translation compared its effect in Italy to that of Uncle Tom’s Cabin in America.105 Some believed that Il Santo could be called “the gospel of the Christian Democrats”; others stressed its religious, “mystical” appeal.106 Readers today would likely find the story line of the novel saccharine. Benedetto, “the saint” of the title, repentant, spends most of the novel fleeing the presence of a woman whom he, as Piero Maironi, once loved. The message of Benedetto combines ideals of spiritual inwardness (“God is within you”) with reform of the Church and society through love. Reform, he holds, may be carried out by associations of Catholic laymen, not by more overtly S­ ocialist-​ ­materialist alliances.107 “The saint” promotes what he calls “the vital essence” of Catholicism (contrasted to its stifling external forms), a renewed Catholicism that would go beyond “the diet for infants” that the faithful are fed.108 Benedetto, however, does not press the intellectual or scholarly dimensions of Catholicism. He recognizes that when ordinary Catholics tearfully confess their sins, they do not worry about the authenticity of a passage in the Gospel of John or whether Isaiah may have been written by more than one author. Nor does he advocate Protestant forms of “the modern.”109 Rather, “the saint’s” Catholicism is oriented around inward experience rather than “external devotions” and formulas (including monastic vows), combined with a mildly progressive call to social action. In an interview with the Pope, “the saint” commends a Catholicism that shows concern for the poor, upholds clerical poverty, incorporates the laity more centrally into church operations, and concedes that Catholicism has “developed.”110 Il Santo promoted a “soft” Modernist platform, avoiding sharper historical critique. By this means, it reached many thousands of Catholics. The Fate of Italian Modernism Louis Henry Jordan, writing with an Italian collaborator a year or two after the 1907 a­ nti-​­Modernist decrees, noted that the movement in Italy had suffered several handicaps from the start. Italians, he claimed, are generally indifferent to religion. Moreover, the Vatican relentlessly opposes the historical study of religion in Italy. Further, Italian Modernist writers often publish anonymously, which tends to render them and their views invisible. Last, the movement lacks

22

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

a ­well-​­defined program and a center. Despite these defects, Jordan proclaimed that Modernism in Italy could “no longer be compared to a passing summer breeze.”111 There was still some hope for reform. By 1908–1909, however, journals had been condemned, leaders excommunicated. As we shall see, one Modernist priest and scholar, Giorgio (George) LaPiana, soon took the opportunity to exit to America.

Catholic Modernism in America Did America have its own brand of Catholic Modernism? Some suggest that ­“Americanism”—​­against which the Vatican issued the encyclical Testem Benevolentiae in ­1899—​­might qualify.112 Others dissociate the two movements, arguing that the Americanist crisis centered on practical issues of accommodating Catholicism to an “American lifestyle,” while Modernism was a decisively theological European movement that touched few American Catholics.113 Theological and biblical studies among American Catholics, they allege, were at such a nadir that the Modernist crisis hardly made a ripple.114 Some churchmen thought that “Americanism” had driven the Church far enough ­toward liberalization.115 Both Modernism and Americanism, however, presented a challenge to Vatican authority. Pius X himself aligned European Modernists with “Americanists,” charging the former with adopting the “Americanist” principle that “the active virtues are more important than the passive, and are to be more encouraged in practice.”116 Some scholars claim that the “Americanist” controversy provided “the intellectual and emotional vector” within which American Catholics such as John Slattery and William L. Sullivan promoted a form of Modernism.117 George LaPiana, Modernist professor of Christian history at Harvard Divinity School, appears to have had little or no contact with American Modernists. His brand of Modernism was thoroughly European. LaPiana disdained the timid, unintellectual, and l­ess-​­­well-​­educated American priests and bishops who led Catholics in this country. Moreover, he found ­Italian-​­American priests and bishops all too ready to acquiesce to Fascist propaganda.118 In addition, by the time LaPiana began teaching at Harvard, Modernism and its leaders had been condemned and the movement largely silenced. Nevertheless, Americans who promoted the Modernist cause provide a backdrop against which LaPiana stands out as an important voice for that cause in the United States. A brief



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

23

review of Modernism’s short and futile career in early t­ wentieth-​­century America puts in relief LaPiana’s efforts to introduce scholars and churchmen, Protestant as well as Catholic, to a ­European-​­crafted Modernism. One link between European Modernists and America was forged by Denis O’Connell, head of the American College in Rome and later Rector of The Catholic University of America. O’Connell gathered a club in his Rome apartment (dubbed “Liberty Hall”) that included Friedrich von Hügel (who was often in Italy), French historian Louis Duchesne, and Italian biblical scholar Giovanni Genocchi.119 Charles Briggs, a Protestant professor of Hebrew Bible at Union Seminary, also joined this circle during his visits to Rome. Briggs dedicated his book Theological Symbolics to Genocchi,120 and he and von Hügel in 1906 jointly authored a critique of the Biblical Commission’s decisions on biblical scholarship.121 They donated their royalties to assist the Italian journal Nova et Vetera, the publishing organ of Buonaiuti and Tyrrell.122 William L. Sullivan and John R. Slattery In the opening years of the twentieth century, a more liberal Catholic scholarship flourished in a few American, especially eastern, centers: Washington, Rochester, and the New York City area. In the end, only two prominent American Catholic theologians (William L. Sullivan and John R. Slattery) left the Catholic Church, unable to accept Vatican direction and decrees.123 R. Scott Appleby writes that both rejected the label “Modernism”; they saw themselves as advocates for aspects of Catholicism “neglected or disdained by nineteenth century ­neo-​­scholasticism,” not as proponents of novelty.124 Sullivan hoped that America would provide a staging ground for Catholicism to recapture its role as a church of “the people.”125 Discouraged by his efforts, he abandoned Catholicism in 1910, became a Unitarian (1911) and a Unitarian minister (1912); a year later, he married his longtime female correspondent Estelle Throckmorton. Sullivan served All Souls (Unitarian) Church in New York City for many years, dying in 1935.126 Like Liberal Protestants, he stressed “religion as moral formation.”127 In 1910, as Sullivan was exiting the Catholic Church, he wrote a series of Letters to His Holiness Pope Pius X. Sullivan here warns the Vatican that it was losing its hold on the educated, who advocate freedom of mind and conscience, representative government, and separation of church and state. Pius’ condemnation of Murri’s League of National Democracy in Italy shows his contempt for democracy. Sullivan charges the papacy with opposing “every

24

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

advance of human thought from Francis Bacon to Alfred Loisy”; he deems Pius X ignorant of biblical criticism, philosophy, historical theology, and modern psychology, “the worst enemy to human intelligence” of all popes within living memory. When he entered his pontificate, he knew no modern language but his own, Italian. He disgraced the Catholic intellectual world by writing such lines (in 1904) as the “Hebrew patriarchs were acquainted with the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception and found consolation in thinking of Mary in the critical moments of their lives.”128 He and his advisers have “bludgeoned” Catholic intellectuals, so that no Roman Catholic scholar today is worthy to be named on the same page with Strauss, Renan, Wellhausen, Harnack, or Frazer. Even Cardinal Newman, fifty years earlier, Sullivan notes, had admitted that starting a Catholic historical review would require doctoring all the facts.129 Why, Sullivan asks, are American Catholics “asleep”? “Americanism” should have led them to Modernism, but it did not. The Catholic University of America should have been the beacon for intellectual Catholicism in America, but it boasts only a handful of lethargic and boring students, ­ill-​­trained by their previous seminary education, unable to think for themselves. Sullivan worries that the Catholic University might “die” from “Italian tyranny and Roman intrigue.”130 Having left the Catholic Church, Sullivan published a ­semi-​­autobiographical novel, The Priest, which lightly replicates some elements of his own life. The novel highlights the ignorance of a young ­Jesuit-​­educated priest in Massachusetts who learns about modern biblical and historical scholarship from the town’s Unitarian minister.131 Suspended from the priesthood, the hero avoids banishment to a remote Trappist monastery through the auspices of an enlightened young woman, and vows to undertake a life of service outside the priesthood.132 Slightly less sentimental than Il Santo, The Priest conveys in a different register Sullivan’s notions of Catholic reform. John Slattery, for his part, asked permission to relinquish his position as superior general of the Josephite Order in 1903; by 1906, he had renounced his Catholic priesthood and Catholicism altogether. He later practiced law in California. Scott Appleby comments that unlike other Modernists, Sullivan and Slattery did not try to argue their case before the Vatican; they simply left Catholicism.133



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

25

Venues for Modernist Scholarship in America N ew Y ork R eview

One center of Modernist support in America was the New York Review, founded in 1905 by clerics at St. Joseph’s Seminary, Dunwoodie, in Yonkers, New York.134 Called “the first scientific Catholic theological journal” in America, the Review published articles by Tyrrell, Buonaiuti, Pierre Batiffol, and Wilfrid Ward, among other Europeans, as well as those by American Catholics of liberal persuasion.135 In the three brief years of its existence, the Review explored historical and biblical criticism and the “New A ­ pologetics”—​­that is, a restatement of Christian truths in language meaningful to t­wentieth-​­century devotees. The “New Apologetics,” Michael DeVito claims, aimed to show Catholics that Scholasticism was not the only way to interpret the teachings of the magisterium.136 From the Review’s start, Thomism’s dominance was under fire. The prominent English Catholic liberal Wilfrid Ward wrote the lead essay in the first issue (June 1905).137 Biblical criticism likewise received considerable attention.138 The editors printed, without comment, an English translation of the June 1906 decision of the Pontifical Commission on Biblical Studies affirming the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch,139 and a few months later, discussed the Charles Briggs–Friedrich von Hügel correspondence on that topic.140 The Review printed an English translation of the Biblical Commission’s decree (of May 29, 1907), which claimed that the Apostle John was the author of the Fourth Gospel and of I John, that no irresolvable discrepancies exist between the Synoptics and John’s Gospel, and that Jesus’ reported words and deeds in John are neither “allegories or doctrinal symbols” nor “the theological compositions of the writer.”141 Edward Hanna’s essay on “The Human Knowledge of Christ”142 and his article on “Absolution” for the new Catholic Encyclopedia angered Pius X and started a chain of events that led to the closing of the Review.143 Prominently featured were essays and notes on Vatican politics and Italian Modernist journals (and their troubles): some anonymous person was providing the New York Review with “insider” information on Italian Catholicism. Despite the best efforts of the editors, the Review was summarily shut down in the summer of 1908. Cardinal Raffaele Merry del Val, secretary of the Holy Office, had taken aim at the Review’s Modernism, alarmed at seeing Italian Modernists Buonaiuti and Nicola Turchi featured.144 In DeVito’s view, only at Vatican II did the Church return to the spirit and tone of the New York Review.145

26

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

The Catholic University of America

The Catholic University of America was a second American center of Modernist controversy that fell under Vatican suspicion. Founded in 1887 as a premier research institution for Catholicism in America, Catholic University soon after its inception began to sponsor scholarly publications: the American Catholic Quarterly, the Catholic University Bulletin, and the American Ecclesiastical Review. The latter carried articles on and by Loisy, Tyrrell, and Blondel.146 Moreover, von Hügel translated an essay by French scholar ­Marie-​­Joseph Lagrange on the sources of the Pentateuch for the Catholic University Bulletin, and contributed an essay of his own on the sources of the Hexateuch.147 When these journals fell under Vatican suspicion, they quickly changed their character. The Ecclesiastical Review became a pastoral journal, and the Catholic University Bulletin, largely an information sheet. University trustees endorsed these ­anti-​­Modernist moves by appointing a committee to review books in the university library for their orthodoxy and by offering their “complete submission” to the papal decrees of 1907.148 The one professor at Catholic ­University—​­and possibly in A ­ merica—​ ­forced to resign for his allegedly Modernist views was the Dutch biblical scholar Henry Poels. Poels, appointed as professor of Old Testament in 1904, was dismissed six years later.149 He saved copies of various documents involved in the ­case—​­always useful in academic ­disputes—​­and after his dismissal, prepared a pamphlet for friends, A Vindication of My Honor.150 Poels refused to affirm the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch as set forth by the decree of the Pontifical Biblical Commission in 1906.151 In the end, it was not enough that Poels agreed to teach students the decisions of the Biblical Commission; he must believe and accept them “internally” himself. Yet, paradoxically, Poels disclaimed the “Modernist” label.152 Rejecting Protestant views on the Bible and its inspiration, he urged Catholic scholars to recover the more “spiritual” approach to Scripture of their predecessors.153 Poels’s essays on “History and Inspiration” for the Catholic University Bulletin, as well as his stand on the authorship of the Pentateuch, furnished the grounds for the Vatican’s censure.154 Poels, allowed to resign without being fired, blamed Merry del Val for orchestrating his dismissal.155 The above evidence suggests that Modernism found at least a limited, if ­short-​­lived, audience among educated American Catholics at the turn to the twentieth century. Several decades would pass before Catholic scholarship in America revived.156 For the time being, Michael Gannon writes, “original



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

27

research became original sin,” while Appleby concludes that Rome’s decrees on Modernism led American Catholic professors “to abandon innovation and original research, lest the specters of Americanism and modernism reappear and thus scandalize the faithful.”157 With so little scholarship produced by Modernists in America, it is unsurprising that the Italian George LaPiana looked to Europe for his inspiration. Moreover, protected by Harvard President A. Lawrence Lowell and others from attacks by conservative Catholics, he enjoyed freedom of scholarly and political expression that he likely would have lacked at a Catholic university.158 LaPiana played an important role in interpreting European Catholic Modernism to American scholarly audiences, Protestant as well as Catholic.

Protestant Liberalism Protestant Liberalism in Germany Johannes Zachhuber argues in his impressive study Theology as Science in ­Nineteenth-​­Century Germany that the struggle to keep theology and history together was the great project of n ­ ineteenth-​­century German Protestant scholars. Their varied and creative approaches, he claims, are obscured by lumping them together under the rubric “liberal theology.” Only with the crisis spurred by historicism, the growth of the n ­ on-​­theological study of religion, and the development of new styles of philosophy at the beginning of the twentieth century did the paradigm that had been in place since the early nineteenth century unravel.159 History, in other words, got unhinged from a more theologically confessional approach. In America, Arthur Cushman McGiffert and, to an even greater extent, Shirley Jackson Case contributed to that unhinging. Before the unhinging, however, there was Ritschl. Albrecht Ritschl’s scholarship proved “of epochal importance,” Bernard Reardon writes, in addressing the dilemma posed by Liberalism’s claim that Christianity was more than simply the “historic fulfillment of natural religion,” while it simultaneously faced “the unavoidable challenge of the natural and historical sciences.”160 Ritschl, a prime influence on McGiffert, took up the Tübingen School’s failed project to reconcile faith and history.161 Ritschl’s ­three-​­volume Die christliche Lehre von der Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung (The Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation) was published in 1874; Volume 1 was translated into English in 1872, and Volume 3, the best known in E ­ nglish-​­language

28

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

circles, in 1874 and years following.162 McGiffert first read the book in German during his time as a graduate student; his Doctorvater, Adolf von Harnack, adopted many (but not all) Ritschlian tenets. Also important for McGiffert’s understanding of ancient Christianity were the arguments of Ritschl’s early work Die Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche (1850; 1857).163 A Short Primer on Albrecht Ritschl’s Theology Ritschl’s theology was dominant in Protestant Germany from 1875 to the era of World War I.164 Ritschlianism (in historian William Hutchison’s words) was “an effort to regroup the scattered Christian forces around a new and revitalized statement of the uniqueness of Christianity. ‘The century of Schleiermacher’ had vindicated the reality of religion; the Ritschlians concentrated on vindicating the finality of a particular historic faith.” It was, Hutchison suggests, “philosophically part of a broad ­course-​­correction in the prevailing Hegelianism of the time.”165 While retaining the idealism of Hegelian philosophy, Ritschlianism sought “to strengthen the case for Christian finality,” as well as to accommodate theology to the findings of contemporary science and the belief in human progress. Like Schleiermacher and Kant before them, Ritschlians positioned the sphere of religion outside the intellect, but for them, the realms of morality, will, and “experience” were the favored territory. American Ritschlians (namely, McGiffert and some of his Union colleagues) renounced “the intellectual certification of religious truth in favor of moral certification.”166 Ritschl challenged Tübingen’s assumption that there could be theology “without presuppositions.” In his view, disjoining history from theology led to “an atheistic philosophy of religion,” that is, to Strauss and Feuerbach. Ritschl assumed that theology could be considered a “science” if it integrated theological, historical, and philosophical work. The truth of Christianity, he believed, could be proved historically. He attempted (unsuccessfully, in Zachhuber’s view) to link Christianity’s distinctiveness with its claim for “universal religious validity.” By around 1880, however, the fork in the road between history and theology had become obvious. This realization would mark the end of the idealist phase of German theology.167 Harnack put the point somewhat differently when he described Ritschl as “the last Lutheran Church Father.”168 Ritschl sharply contrasts the realm of nature with that of spirit, realms subject to different laws.169 Humans, of the spiritual realm, oppose and seek to dominate the realm of nature.170 Sensing that they are “the objects of Divine



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

29

care,” they rise above nature’s obstacles (“exert lordship”) and gain “freedom from the world as such”: this is the meaning of Jesus’ redemptive activity. Christ, Ritschl claimed, considered his spiritual lordship over the world to be his life’s accomplishment.171 Through ­self-​­denial, patience, and humility, devotees can trust that they will master the obstacles that nature and human society present. Ritschl equates supremacy over the world with blessedness, with eternal life,172 a state in which the battle between nature and spirit is resolved. He writes: “Religious dominion over the world, which constitutes the immediate form of reconciliation with God through Christ, is exercised through faith in the loving providence of God, through the virtues of humility and patience, and, finally, through prayer, and through this last likewise receives common expression.”173 The “­pre-​­eminent mark of spirit” for Ritschl lies in the primacy of the will. God himself is conceived as will, namely, “the will to unite and perfect human beings into a community held together by the bonds of mutual love.” So described, Christianity becomes a religion of practice, teleologically, historically, and ethically understood.174 Abandoning the speculative philosophy of Hegel, Ritschl turned back to Kant.175 He adopted much of Kant’s epistemology regarding the limitations of human knowledge, but modified it to allow a greater role for real knowledge of religious entities.176 For Kant, the summum bonum, in which virtue and happiness are combined, is a postulate only of the practical reason; it is not a theoretical judgment.177 While Ritschl agrees with Kant that the idea of God does not belong to metaphysics (“since metaphysical knowledge is indifferent ­toward the distinctions of kind and value that exist between spirit and nature”),178 he nevertheless postulates that humans can have knowledge of spiritual entities, since the realm of spirit differs completely from that of nature.179 Theology offers knowledge, but not of “metaphysical” entities, nor of the kind that obtains in the realm of nature: its knowledge consists of value judgments. Christians know God and Christ only “in their worth for ­us”—​­that is, by determining their value for salvation. What is this value? That through faith, the restrictions of the world are more than counterbalanced.180 A corollary implication is that God and Christ are not known “in themselves.” Ritschl’s “rule for knowledge”: “a thing is known through effects which manifest themselves.” Humans perceive the divine only in God’s actions t­ oward us, in public revelation.181 Ritschl also insists on the communal basis of Christianity. There is no Christianity apart from the church and the Kingdom of God: having the

30

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

“religion of Jesus” necessitates being part of the community he founded. Thus Ritschl rejects any “private” notion of Christianity, such as individualistic mysticism, or Natural Theology, which positions itself “outside the sphere of regeneration.”182 That Christianity involves “practice” means that the theoretician of religion must himself or herself be a participating member of the community.183 We know God, sin, conversion, and eternal life only if we count ourselves as members of the community Christ founded. Among religions, Ritschl proclaims, Christianity stands as the highest manifestation of religious sociality.184 Thus he faults the practice of adult baptism in Baptist groups because it implies that Christian character can be formed before baptism, outside the Christian community.185 Ritschl’s discussion of the Kingdom of God reflects earlier ­nineteenth-​ ­century assumptions. Writing prior to the 1890s, he did not live to see the dramatic recovery of “imminent eschatology.”186 In fact, its major early proponent, Johannes Weiss, held back the publication of his Die Predigt Jesu vom Reiche Gottes (1892) until after the death of Ritschl, his ­father-​­­in-​­law, presumably out of sensitivity to the latter’s theological views.187 While the church abandoned the idea of this earth as “the scene of Christ’s dominion,” Ritschl writes, it continues to hold some “practical” truths connected with the Kingdom’s coming: that there will be judgment, separation of blessed from ­non-​ ­blessed, and “final attainment of the highest good” for the blessed.188 As late as 1888, he dismissed the issue of Jesus’ imminent, apocalyptic eschatology as of no great importance: “There the matter will rest, for that anticipation has not acted prejudicially on any of the positive social duties which follow from Christianity.”189 That is, Christian social ethics can be practiced without any help from the expectation of an imminent Kingdom. David Mueller notes that Ritschl’s later followers did not attempt to adjust his teaching on the Kingdom to take account of Weiss’s and Albert Schweitzer’s groundbreaking theories. Harnack, for example, continued to espouse individualistic views of redemption, the relation of “God and the soul”;190 he did, however, retreat from making the Kingdom of God central to his theology, as Ritschl had done.191 We shall later see McGiffert’s ambivalent stance. Ritschl defines the Kingdom as “the divinely ordained highest good of the community founded through God’s revelation in Christ.” It stands as the “ethical ideal for whose attainment the members of the community bind themselves to each other.”192 It was Christ’s vocation to establish this Kingdom, “the universal ethical fellowship of mankind.” Its establishment, however, requires both divine and human action: it is both “the summum bonum which God



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

31

realizes in men” and “their common task.” From the human side, the Kingdom stands as “the moral end of the religious fellowship” that Jesus founded, as “the organization of humanity through action inspired by love.”193 Christians further the Kingdom as a universal moral fellowship when they put aside differences of “sex, rank, or nationality” and treat each other with love.194 If they perform their vocations faithfully, they can rest assured that they are included in the Kingdom,195 awaiting its future fulfillment.196 The church, however, is not to be identified with the Kingdom: to claim such, Ritschl writes, was Augustine’s fatal error, one that the Protestant Reformers critiqued. Nevertheless, they failed to develop a satisfactory alternative, leaving this task for modern Protestantism. Devotion to the church cannot “compensate for the absence of conscientiousness, justice, truthfulness, uprightness, tolerance.” Ritschl acknowledges that to build a systematic theology around the notion of the Kingdom and the consciousness of the Christian community would require a thoroughgoing revision of theology.197 Such a theology would reformulate the notion of salvation to celebrate the triumph of spirit over nature and Christ as Savior and founder of the Kingdom, the arena in which a moral community unites “in activity ­towards a common goal.”198 Ritschl particularly disliked theologians’ concentration, throughout Christian history, on the “Person” of Jesus to the neglect of prior attention to his “Works.”199 The origins of Christ’s “Person” are obscure; prying into it detracts from the recognition of Christ as the perfect revelation of God. Christ’s Godhead is not found in any presumptions about the inborn powers of his “Person,” but in his visible conduct, religious convictions, and ethical motives.200 Through his deeds, Jesus displayed the qualities of God: grace, faithfulness, and dominion over the world, the latter manifest especially in his patience in suffering.201 Ritschl similarly rejected the traditional formulations of Trinitarian and Christological doctrine as inadequate: categories of substance, accident, thing, and property belong to the realm of appearance (phenomena)—​­that is, of “nature,” not of spirit and will. Forcing traditional categories to conform to newer restatements only produces contradictions.202 Ritschl labels an overemphasis on God’s transcendence “Areopagitism.”203 He faults Christian writers of late antiquity for borrowing their philosophical props from philosophies not well suited to what he considered Christianity’s high religious level. Christianity would do well to eliminate these aspects of ancient thought and find forms of expression better suited to its lofty message.204 Lloyd Averill summarizes four emphases of Ritschl’s theology that

32

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

American Liberal theologians adopted: the rejection of metaphysics; historicism; the Kingdom of God, understood as “the moral organization of the human community according to the will of God”; and sin as the result of selfishness and ignorance.205 McGiffert’s teaching about and critique of early Christian theology reflects these Ritschlian points. Ritschl’s approach to early Christianity is evident especially in the second edition (1857) of his Die Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche. Here, Ritschl rejects Baur’s claim that Jewish Christianity had persisted deep into the second century, arguing rather that Jewish Christianity’s influence faded entirely after Hadrian crushed the Bar Kocheba revolt (132–135 C.E.). Early Catholicism for Ritschl was purely a Gentile product, not (as for Tübingen scholars) a late ­second-​­century synthesis of Jewish Christian and Gentile Christian forces.206 Construing early Christianity as primarily “Gentile” characterized Protestantism Liberalism of various stripes. Zachhuber notes, however, that Ritschl paid scant attention to the world of Hellenistic religions in his construal of the “Gentile” environment; rather, he treats Christian origins almost entirely against the background of the Old Testament.207 In this respect, the Americans McGiffert and Case, living in the heyday of research on history of religions, differed dramatically in their placement of early Christianity. Moreover, Ritschl criticizes Baur’s later dating of many New Testament books; by contrast, he places most in the first century and declared their normative status for all later Christianity.208 In addition, where Baur had seen Christianity as following a progressive upward (“Hegelian”) movement from earlier to later times, Ritschl declares (like traditional Protestants) that the earliest phase of Christianity was perfect and remains the norm.209 In Ritschl’s view, Baur had never properly assimilated a truly historical method of research.210 While following Ritschl on the early dominance of Gentile Christianity, McGiffert would question the perfection of primitive Christianity. McGiffert also challenged Ritschl’s progressive disenchantment with the “history of religions” approach, with “comparative religion.” By the third edition of Die christliche Lehre von der Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung (1888), Zachhuber suggests, Ritschl apparently had abandoned the idea that the diverse approaches of history of religions (in which Christianity was one of many) and biblical theology could be held in balance. Comparative religion, now downgraded, is noted merely as “confirming” the claims of theology.211 As the finality of Christianity emerged ever stronger in Ritschl’s theology, the role of its place among other religions faded. The split between a secular science of religion and a Christian “theology of revelation” is, Zachhuber claims, “the ­twin-​



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

33

­ rogeny of the disintegration of the idealist programme.”212 As we shall see, for p Shirley Jackson Case, Christianity’s “uniqueness” nearly dissolves under the weight of comparison with other G ­ reco-​­Roman religions. McGiffert remained a Ritschlian of sorts, albeit one of a far more critical temper. Protestant Liberalism in America Gary Dorrien, in his massive ­three-​­volume The Making of American Liberal Theology (2001 ff.), describes Protestant Liberalism as “the idea that Christian theology can be genuinely Christian without being based upon external authority”:213 theological ­truth-​­claims must rather be grounded in reason and experience.214 In America, he claims, Protestant Liberalism “emphasized the convergence between Christianity and evolution, the constructive value of modern historical criticism, the spiritual union between God and humanity, and the k­ ingdom-​­building social mission of the church.”215 Despite divergences among Protestant Liberals, William Hutchison adds, all tended “to value moral accomplishment more than confessional regularity.”216 Dorrien stresses that throughout the nineteenth century, liberal currents within American Protestantism were largely developed and carried outside the academy. Professors in the mainline elite seminaries and divinity schools came late to progressive Protestantism. By the 1880s, a handful of liberals at Union, Yale, Andover, Drew, and Bangor constituted an “­in-​­between generation,” transitional figures whose grounding was in “neoromanticism, idealism, and historicism of ­mid-​­century German mediational theology.” Only in the twentieth century, Dorrien asserts, did liberal theology became “a decidedly academic enterprise.”217 Hence commentators on Protestant Liberalism often point to pastors and popularizers (not to professors such as McGiffert) as bearers of the liberal torch. Hutchison, too, warns against comparing popular preaching with “later expressions of sophisticated theological writing”: like should be compared to like.218 Arguing for the ­non-​­academic quality of Protestant Liberalism in America, Dorrien, for his part, focuses on issues enjoying wide discussion among the Christian lay public, for example, a third ­post-​­death state between heaven and hell,219 a Christianity centered on morality, and the conflict between spirit and nature as the fundamental problem of human life.220 Popular liberalism was less concerned with the critical study of early Christianity: some of the brightest lights in late ­nineteenth-​­century liberalism were wary of ­historical-​ ­critical scholarship on the Bible and early Christianity.221 Dorrien cites the case

34

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

of Charles Briggs, in the 1880s and 1890s a strong proponent of liberal ­Christianity—​­but who threatened to bring a heresy charge against his colleague McGiffert for the latter’s application of ­historical-​­critical methods to the New Testament and early Christian texts.222 Similarly, Newman Smyth, pastor of the venerable Centre Congregational Church of New Haven and a member of the Yale Corporation, based his liberalism on something other than ­historical-​­critical scholarship.223 Both Briggs and Smyth, it is worth noting, were highly sympathetic to Catholic Modernism.224 Liberalism at Union Seminary and the University of Chicago Divinity School Dorrien links the changed climate of theological scholarship by the early twentieth century to the arrival of ­German-​­trained Ritschlians at major divinity schools: McGiffert and William Adams Brown at Union, Shailer Mathews at Chicago, and Walter Rauschenbusch at the Baptist Divinity School in Rochester.225 Brown’s influential book The Essence of Christianity (1902) provided Americans with a sympathetic (and understandable) interpretation of Ritschlianism.226 Under the leadership of McGiffert and Brown, Dorrien writes, “Union Seminary became the flagship institution of a broadly Ritschlian, social gospel–oriented movement for progressive Christianity.” In scarcely a decade, he asserts, McGiffert’s generation revised what counted as the “theological establishment.”227 As I noted in Founding the Fathers, the change in theological tone between historian Philip Schaff at Union, who died in 1893, and McGiffert, who succeeded him, is dramatic.228 McGiffert’s emphasis on Christian service, however, did not lead him to endorse the Social Gospel movement.229 Social Gospel themes, however, are more prominent in the work of Chicago’s Shailer Mathews and Shirley Jackson Case. Dorrien distinguishes the type of Protestant Liberalism prominent at Union (“evangelical”) from that associated with the University of Chicago Divinity School (“modernist,” with ­naturalistic-​­empiricist emphases). In a sense, the struggle in German theology between Ritschlians and the History of Religions School (Hermann Gunkel, Wilhelm Wrede, Ernst Troeltsch, Wilhelm Bousset, and Weiss) played out in the struggle for preeminence between Union and Chicago.230 The University of Chicago was committed to a socially oriented version of Christianity, concomitant with its interest in developing “Christian sociology” as an academic subject.231 Dorrien argues that the Divinity School at Chicago began with “Ritschlian historicism, moved to ­post-​



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

35

­ itschlian historicism, and then found a new basis for the social gospel in R American pragmatism and empiricism.”232 By the late 1920s, however, the Chicago School was playing down its earlier historicist commitment in favor of a “dehistoricized empirical focus on experience as a whole.”233 The recovery of the apocalyptic Jesus in the 1890s posed problems for liberal theology. Various liberals tried to argue their way around the issue, claiming that this stratum of Gospel teaching belonged to the early church more than to Jesus; or that the disciples misconstrued Jesus’ teaching; or that apocalypticism, part of the “husk” of early Christian teaching, could be cast off. The American Journal of Theology, published by Chicago Divinity School, ignored the apocalyptic trend in biblical studies in the 1890s.234 The work of Shailer Mathews at Chicago epitomizes this early neglect. In the late 1890s, Mathews resisted this emphasis (see his book of 1897, The Social Teaching of Jesus), but by 1905, he had been converted (as in his The Messianic Hope in the New Testament).235 In 1913, the Dean of Harvard’s Divinity School noted the difficulty of reconciling the Protestant Liberals’ Jesus with the apocalyptic Jewish Messiah whom scholars had uncovered.236 On Case’s avoidance of the issue, we shall see more below. Historian David Hollinger offers another perspective of Liberalism than that of Hutchison and Dorrien, emphasizing the different aftereffects of the Enlightenment in America and in Europe. Whereas in Europe, the outcome was largely a rejection of, or indifference to, Christianity, in the United States, “the legacy of the Enlightenment most often appeared in the liberalization of doctrine and biblical interpretation and in the denominational system’s functioning as an expanse of voluntary associations providing vital solidarities midway between the nation, on the one hand, and the family and local community, on the other. . . . ​The Enlightenment was extremely engaged within, rather than merely beyond, the churches.”237 Hollinger argues that the Protestantism these liberals so carefully developed, nurtured, and critically revised through the generations “served as a halfway house to ­post-​­Protestant secularism for many Americans, but for others it served as a viable, enduring spiritual home consistent with cultural modernity, and remains so to this day.”238 Currents that we associate with Modernism and Liberalism in religion were definitely afoot in a few liberal Protestant strongholds in the first years of the twentieth century. Surveying the study of religion in various countries, Louis Henry Jordan in 1909 singled out, in the E ­ nglish-​­speaking world, the University of Manchester, Union Theological Seminary, Harvard, and Yale as representing the free new spirit of religious study. Of Union he wrote, “Its

36

C a th o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e st ant L i berali s m

Theological Faculty is one of the most complete departments of its kind that has ever been organized.”239 In a sentiment remarkably like those expressed by Catholic Modernist George Tyrrell, one alumnus of Union recalled that in the first decade of the twentieth century, students like himself were seeking “a new language for our preaching so that we could translate the doctrinal expressions of the past for the benefit of thinking people inside the Church and those who had been estranged from it. This was a permanent gain; for after one had learned to separate the truth from a particular expression of it, he could ever after adapt himself to changing needs.”240 Another student from the same decade, praising the teaching and scholarship of Francis Brown, scholar of the Hebrew Bible and for eight years Union’s president, later wrote that over time he “realized what an unspeakable boon it was to be delivered at that age from Biblical literalism,” so that thereafter he had the tools to untangle the “enduring truth from all the twisted misunderstandings that beset earlier generations who had been bewildered by the unfortunate associations of Sunday School theology.”241 McGiffert, in his inaugural address as Union’s president, boldly declared that the revolution in the concept of religious authority was “the profoundest and most ­far-​­reaching revolution the church has witnessed since the second century.”242 To be sure, the Modernists and Liberals this book discusses did not win over conservatives, who complained of their opponents’ reduction of supernatural elements in Christianity, nontraditional views of sin, very “low” Christology, stress on God’s immanence rather than transcendence, and appeal to the authority of individual experience in religion.243 By the m ­ id-​­1920s, Protestant Liberalism’s heyday was waning. World War I had eroded Christians’ confidence in Liberalism’s optimistic message.244 Yet, Hutchison ­argues—​­with convincing ­documentation—​­against the common assumption that the year 1930, or thereabouts, marked a watershed in Protestant theology in America, a “bouleversement” from an earlier sunny Liberalism to darker “European theologies of divine transcendence.”245 It was about then, Dennis Voskuil claims, that Karl Barth’s Die Römerbrief (1919; 1922) first became known to Americans.246 Professor Gustav Krüger’s 1926 lecture at Union, “The Theology of Crisis,” sounded a first note, followed by Emil Brunner’s lectures at Lancaster Seminary in 1928.247 Yet not until 1932–1934, Sydney Ahlstrom argues, did European ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy noticeably impact American Protestantism.248 Both Hutchison and Voskuil, however, emphasize that Liberals themselves engaged in s­elf-​­critique, some of them eventually edging ­toward positions identified with the “theology of crisis.”249 At the University of Chicago Divinity School, Alfred North Whitehead’s



C at h o li c Mo d e r n i sm a n d Pro t e stant L i berali s m

37

philosophy and then Process Theology undercut the centrality of historical studies250 and stood against a ­Neo-​­Orthodox “­take-​­over.”251 At its neighboring institution, Chicago Theological Seminary, Arthur Cushman McGiffert’s own son warned (albeit in one sentence) against Barthians in “The Future of Liberal Christianity in America” (1935).252 At the same institution, Wilhelm Pauck (later to decamp for Union) critiqued aspects of Liberal theology but also rejected many ­Neo-​­Orthodox teachings.253 At Union, the withdrawal of the senior McGiffert from active service, the hiring of new professors and the “chastened” views of some older ones, meant that theology in that New York center underwent a substantial change after the late 1920s.254 For a few decades, however, Modernism and Liberalism had urged Christians to accommodate modern knowledge and realities in their teaching and practice, to welcome historical criticism of the Bible, early Christianity, and, indeed, the whole Christian tradition. This book studies that process through examining the teaching and writings of Arthur Cushman McGiffert at Union, George LaPiana at Harvard, and Shirley Jackson Case at the University of Chicago. That these scholars were historians, not theologians, shows the reach of progressive theological assumptions into other subdisciplines of religious studies.

This page intentionally left blank

Chapter 2

McGiffert’s Life and Writings

Early Years Arthur Cushman McGiffert was born on March 4, 1861, in Sauquoit, New York, where his father, Joseph, was a Presbyterian minister.1 Raised primarily in Ohio, he graduated first in his class from Western Reserve University in 1882.2 McGiffert then enrolled at Union Theological Seminary. He later claimed that his favorite classes at ­Union—​­perhaps surprising for a church ­historian—​­were seminars in Assyriology (Akkadian) taught by Francis Brown.3 McGiffert relied most, however, on Philip Schaff, who taught a variety of subjects before he assumed the Washburn Professorship of Church History after Roswell Hitchcock’s death in 1887.4 Schaff, exemplary mentor, steered McGiffert into what would become a distinguished career. Their extensive correspondence, preserved in the archives of Burke Library at Union Theological Seminary, offers a fascinating glimpse not only of their close relationship, but also of the academic customs of the era, before “arm’­s-​­length” assessment became the norm. Graduating from Union in 1885, McGiffert won a Prize Fellowship that took him to study in Europe.5 While still at Union, McGiffert worked on an edition of the recently discovered Didache, with translation and commentary by Union professors Francis Brown and Roswell Hitchcock.6 Schaff, too, caught the ­Didache-​­fever; McGiffert helped him with bibliography for his (rival?) introduction, translation, and commentary in 1885.7 Already he had been singled out as an excellent ­scholar-​­­in-​­­the-​­making.

42

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Germany Prize Fellowship in hand, McGiffert sailed for Europe. Schaff wrote letters of introduction for him to various German professors, recommending him as one of Union’s best graduates. McGiffert, Schaff told them, intends to spend two years at German universities, concentrating especially on “exegetical theology and church history.”8 Upon arrival in Germany in summer 1885, McGiffert learned that Harnack, then at Giessen, was not teaching his course on the a­ nte-​ ­Nicene age until the winter of 1886–1887. McGiffert headed for Berlin to study the “Life of Christ” and “New Testament Exegesis” with Bernhard Weiss, intending to return to Harnack at Giessen the following year. Bearing Schaff’s card of introduction, McGiffert met professors throughout Germany, including Oscar von Gebhardt, who (Schaff wrote) “can be very useful to you in the royal library of Berlin, and the reading room.”9 The brilliant (and peripatetic) young Harnack moved from Giessen to M ­ arburg—​­McGiffert would f­ ollow—​ ­and then, after some controversy, to Berlin. (Harnack’s call to Berlin had not yet been confirmed by ­mid-​­August 1888, Schaff wrote, “owing to a difference between the Cultus minister and the Oberkirchenrath in Berlin.”)10 McGiffert’s letters to Schaff from Marburg testify to the enormous popularity of Harnack’s lectures.11 The Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers Series: Eusebius Schaff also enlisted McGiffert to contribute to the Nicene and P ­ ost-​­Nicene Fathers series, for which Schaff sought the participation of colleagues in Britain and America. He anticipated publishing ten or more volumes, covering Church Fathers both Greek (to John of Damascus) and Latin (to Gregory the Great).12 After some discussion of McGiffert’s ­contribution—​­Schaff fended off other scholars who opted for Eusebius’ Church ­History—​­the text was McGiffert’s. Not just a revised translation (with which McGiffert’s father assisted), McGiffert provided a lengthy commentary with explanatory notes. Schaff wrote to McGiffert: “This would be a most important work and fall in with your studies and taste. You could use the Berlin Library, consult with Dr. Oscar von Gebhardt, and spend a few months with Prof. Harnack in Giessen, who reads Eusebius in the Historical Seminary. . . . ​You ought to look forward to a professorship of Church History as your life work.” The project would probably require two years’ labor. McGiffert should start at once, as Schaff wanted Eusebius for the first volume of the new series.13 He advised McGiffert



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

43

regarding editions of the Greek text, and on consulting with Gebhardt, Harnack, and “if possible, [Theodor] Zahn of Erlangen (the best patristic scholar of Germany),” as well as with J. B. Lightfoot and George Salmon.14 “You have the ability, the energy and noble ambition to do full justice to this important work,” Schaff wrote to McGiffert a few months later. “It will establish your reputation, and I hope secure you a professorship of Church History as your ­ ost-​­Nicene ­life-​­work.”15 Schaff confessed that he undertook the Nicene and P Fathers s­ eries—​­“the management of this e­ lephant”—​­chiefly “to give some of our most promising students useful work or a chance to build up a literary reputation and to get a historical professorship. We need church historians in America. It is a grand field.”16 Schaff also tried to convince McGiffert to undertake the translation of the first volume of Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte,17 but nothing came of this proposal. In Germany in late spring and early summer 1886, Schaff took McGiffert on a trip to universities in Berlin, Greifswald, Halle, Leipzig, and Jena, where his protégé met still more professors.18 Having such an attentive mentor opened doors for McGiffert. German Studies McGiffert frequently reported to Schaff on his progress in Germany. Fall 1886 found McGiffert in Marburg, attending Harnack’s lectures on “Apostolisches Zeitalter” (twice a week) and those on the third period of Dogmengeschichte (five times a week). Harnack also offered a weekly seminar on Eusebius’ Church History, Books 4 and 5; McGiffert thought it would be “exceedingly profitable” to attend. He told Schaff how Harnack conducted the seminar (still a novelty in America): various students were assigned the different authorities quoted by Eusebius; each was to be “looked up and examined critically.” Then Harnack lectured on Church History and the period under discussion. McGiffert hoped to remain in Germany so as to get the benefit of two semesters of this seminar, and to catch Harnack’s lectures on early church history the next summer. He was “charmed” by Harnack: “cordial and friendly and eager to give help in every way.” Harnack had called on him twice, McGiffert wrote; “I find that I can associate with him in a way that was impossible in Berlin. I am greatly surprised to see how young he a­ ppears—​­he might well be taken for a student instead of for a professor.” “The absolute freedom of investigation” in Germany fascinated McGiffert, who declared that he found himself chafing under “the preconceptions of American orthodoxy.”19

44

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Money was a constant concern for McGiffert in Germany. His first year had been covered largely by the Prize Fellowship. McGiffert’s grandfather had offered to fund the second y­ ear—​­but then, in a state of mental confusion and fearful that his grandson was rejecting the ministry, he refused to send the money. The father’s ministerial salary could provide little help. Schaff stepped in, lending McGiffert money and helping him to get paid writing assignments with the Andover Review and other newspapers and journals.20 McGiffert wrote essays for the Review on the theological climate in Germany and on new works of German scholarship, noting the freedom of education in theological faculties of German universities, despite conservative opposition. He highlighted the decline in popularity of the Tübingen School’s radical claims, in part due to Ritschlian influence.21 He also noted how meager was German historians’ knowledge of churches in America: revivals and the Salvation Army get disproportionate attention.22 Then tragedy struck. In early 1887, McGiffert’s young wife (née Eliza Isabelle King) died of puerperal fever a few days after delivering their first child, a daughter named Elizabeth. Writing to Schaff, a devastated McGiffert can see only a black future: “Pray for me, Dr. Schaff. I am utterly broken.” His family came to help; the infant was taken back to the United States to live with McGiffert’s parents until he returned. This terrible event understandably upended his work schedule as well as his finances.23 Later, when McGiffert secured a position at Lane Seminary, he carefully recorded “baby’s expenses” in his account book.24 When Schaff assumed the Washburn Professorship of Church History at Union in 1887, he tried to negotiate a position for McGiffert as his ­assistant—​ ­but the Board resisted.25 Disappointed, McGiffert took the opportunity to stay on in Europe. September found him in Paris with Harnack, both working on Greek manuscripts in the Bibliothèque Nationale. This project led to McGiffert’s 1888 dissertation at Marburg, “A Dialogue Between a Christian and a Jew.”26 McGiffert told Schaff that he and Harnack stayed in the same hotel near the National Library and spent every day in the manuscript department: “being strangers in the city we spend all our time together.” Harnack was collating manuscripts of Justin Martyr’s writings for a new edition of the Greek Apologists; McGiffert was feverishly learning to read unedited manuscripts of early Christian a­ nti-​­Jewish polemics, which he planned to transcribe and publish. Harnack assured him that this work was “well worth doing”; it would prove beneficial to him and allow him to gain knowledge of a great library. Even in a library so well known as the Bibliothèque Nationale, McGiffert



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

45

commented, many interesting documents had been overlooked. Harnack introduced him to a director of the library, who gave him cards of introduction to various Italian libraries. Harnack also took him to call on several French theology professors, most of whom, however, were still on vacation.27 In early November 1877 McGiffert left Paris and returned to Marburg for two weeks. There he collated his previous material on a­ nti-​­Jewish polemic with the works he had found in Paris, especially the dialogue of “Papiscus and Philo”; he proposed to offer the latter to the Marburg faculty as his doctor’s thesis. Although he had earlier given up the idea of trying for the degree, especially after the devastation of his wife’s death, Harnack urged him on. Unearthing the manuscript in Paris had rekindled his interest. Shortly thereafter, on his trip to Italy, he found in Venice a second (and earlier) manuscript of the same dialogue with which he could compare the Paris version. He further learned that there was a third manuscript of the work in Moscow, but saw no way to secure it: Moscow was too distant to countenance a trip. Schaff’s reply will amuse today’s young scholars: “You do well to get the Doctor’s degree at Marburg before you return. It may be helpful to you.” Apparently to Schaff’s mind, earning a Ph.D. was a somewhat incidental feature of McGiffert’s activities in Europe.28 Off to Italy! Schaff had assured McGiffert that he could advance him money, if he ran short.29 After a few days in Bologna and Ravenna, McGiffert journeyed to Rome. McGiffert’s travel diary from the Roman trip (beginning November 24, 1887) is full of interesting details regarding the joys and woes (hygiene, hotels, food, drink) of travel in that ­era—​­especially if one were an impecunious student. The sights he saw electrified him: churches, art, statuary, vistas.30 And he worked hard, too. He made some “pleasant acquaintances” at the German Archeological Institute, where he studied, and also delved into the “vast treasures” of the Vatican Library, to which Schaff had given him cards of introduction.31 He planned upon his return to America to stay in New York a few months to work at the Union Seminary library, pushing ahead on his Eusebius ­project—​­with funds secured through preaching assignments on Sundays.32 On April 11, 1888, McGiffert passed his examination for the doctor of philosophy degree at Marburg. Degree in hand, he sailed for America on April  25.33 In New York, polishing up Eusebius, McGiffert lived in Schaff’s home (and used his library) for some period when Schaff was in Europe.34 In the summer of 1890, Schaff found the printed Eusebius volume on his desk. Praising McGiffert’s work fulsomely, Schaff reported that he had sent copies of

46

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

it to Harnack, Gustav Krüger, and Friedrich Loofs, as well as to the principal German theological journals, and had “prepared them for a favorable reception.” Schaff proposed to review the book for the ­New-​­York Independent.35 Return to America; Lane Theological Seminary Camping out in Schaff’s house as he finished his work on Eusebius, McGiffert preached on Sundays to bring in some funds. On those preaching trips, he reported, he had made “some pleasant acquaintances” in Orange, New ­Jersey 36—​­very pleasant, since they doubtless included the woman he would wed a few years hence, Gertrude Huntington Boyce, a poet.37 They married on November 12, 1891. Schaff and McGiffert’s father participated in the service, held in the First Congregational Church of East Orange, New Jersey. Schaff, characteristically, gave McGiffert books as a wedding present.38 All later indications suggest that this was a very happy partnership. Schaff’s letter of congratulation reveals his conventional view of marriage: “The greatest gift of God to a man is a loving, pious, sensible, domestic wife sharing all his joys and helping to bear all his burdens. I have no doubt that you have made a good choice and will be twice as happy in your work.”39 Even as a young scholar, McGiffert appears to have preferred women with a little spunk. During his trip to Rome in 1887, he complained that Greek sculptors made women’s faces “external, insipid and characterless,” erasing all meaning and individuality. He thought the same of many of the Italian Madonnas: even Raphael’s earlier ones, he wrote in his travel diary, lack character, although later he painted ones “with real meaning.”40 McGiffert had three children. His daughter Elizabeth, by his marriage to Eliza King, was raised in Ohio by McGiffert’s parents.41 With Gertrude Boyce, McGiffert had two more children, Arthur Cushman Jr. and Kathryn. Arthur Cushman Jr. (“Cush” or “Cushman”) attended Harvard and then Union Seminary, from which he graduated in 1917.42 He served on the faculty of the Chicago Congregational Theological Seminary (1926–1939, returning there as President from 1946 to 1949); in the interim, he was President of the Pacific School of Religion (1939–1945). In 1917, Cushman married Elisabeth Eliot, daughter of Samuel Eliot, a noted Unitarian leader, and granddaughter of Charles Eliot, the former influential President of Harvard.43 Cushman was the administrator of his father’s estate; his records regarding his father’s finances provide a fascinating chapter into what a seminary president, well connected with New York businessmen, might hope to amass and leave to his family.44 To



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

47

him we are indebted for preserving many of his father’s papers. Kathryn attended Barnard College, graduating in 1916.45 She married John Wright in 1921.46 They lived close enough to New York City to see McGiffert often. Lane Theological Seminary Before wedded bliss, more good luck s­ truck—​­and just in time: McGiffert was offered a ­one-​­year Instructorship in Church History at Lane Theological Seminary in Ohio, a Presbyterian seminary. He was offered a salary of $1,000 for the year and a free room (or perhaps subsidized rent). If all went well, a larger salary and another year of work might materialize. To the Junior class, he would lecture three times a week on “The Apostolic Age and the First Period,” and to the Middlers, two hours a week on the latter part of the Second Period and the Third Period. Of course, Schaff had been behind the arrangement. Thanking Schaff for his recommendation, McGiffert reports that he had been told that it was “the first cause of their looking in my direction” (after the Presbyterian Board vetoed another candidate).47 Schaff congratulated McGiffert on the appointment: “My wishes are fulfilled. You enter fully equipped for your l­ife-​­work. I know no higher or nobler than that which you have chosen and for which Providence has now given you the proper position. Church History is the history of Christ and his gospel in its saving mission, and next to God’s Word the richest storehouse of instruction, wisdom and comfort. America will take up the work of Germany and England and carry it forward. You have a great future before you.” Schaff’s next comments also reveal that an integrated system of professorial ranks was not yet in place. He had shrewdly suggested to the Lane administrators that the position might be billed as “temporary”: perhaps this concession would goad them to action. The directors, he told McGiffert, would not call a young man to a full professorship. After all, Charles Briggs and Francis Brown had first come to Union on such an arrangement. Schaff had no doubts that McGiffert would prove himself and “be appointed to a full professorship in a year or two. When once your edition of Eusebius appears, you will have a right to demand it, or receive a call to some other institution.” Moreover, if McGiffert wished to use Schaff’s Church History or his Didache in his classes, Schaff can arrange a price reduction with the publisher. Schaff urged McGiffert “to introduce the German system of Seminary study and to gather your best students around you once a week for teaching the Apostolic Fathers or Justin M. [Martyr] or Tertullian’s Apologeticum or Origen’s Contra Celsum or Eusebius, etc.”48 When,

48

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

in 1891, McGiffert was so discouraged by Lane Seminary and his financial prospects that he considered giving up on academia, Schaff wrote to comfort and console him: “Plain living and high thinking is the happy lot of scholars in this world.”49 Schaff was an indispensable mentor. McGiffert did not give up. He taught at Lane Theological Seminary from 1888 to 1893. In 1889, his circumstances improved somewhat; his salary, now as an Instructor, rose to $1,500. Within a year, he was promoted to “Professor of Church History,” with a salary of $2,000; administrators wished to offer more, but the financial conditions of the Seminary were “somewhat embarrassed.”50 By the end of the nineteenth century, student numbers at Lane had dropped, perhaps as a result of earlier disputes over slavery. Nibbles for other positions came McGiffert’s way. In the summer of 1888, he was offered a chair in Greek at Miami University in ­Ohio—​­but turned it down to continue pursuing church history.51 He was also considered for a post at Union in 1888, which he did not get: his friend Francis Brown (then a younger member of Union’s faculty) wrote that the Union Board of Directors, although “favorably disposed” ­toward McGiffert, was thinking of some “more widely known man.”52 Intrigue wrecked that prospect: Roswell Hitchcock, Schaff’s predecessor as Washburn Professor, had privately arranged with the Board that Edward C. Moore, a former Union student now at Harvard, was to be Hitchcock’s assistant and later, ­successor—​­but Hitchcock died suddenly in 1887, replaced by Schaff. Why Moore? Moore was married to the daughter of John Crosby Brown, then Vice President of the Board, a wealthy businessman and donor to Union. While the academic intrigue sounds familiar, perhaps less familiar is the power of Boards of Trustees, not the faculty, in choosing candidates (and sometimes terminating their positions).53 In May 1890, when McGiffert had been granted a more secure position at Lane,54 Francis Brown congratulated him, joking that Union was glad to be “benevolent” ­toward a sister institution in sharing its “wealth” (that is, McGiffert), but that those at Union have not forgotten that “you belong to us.”55 Clearly some at ­Union—​­even Brown ­himself—​­were scheming for McGiffert’s return. And so it would be. During Philip Schaff’s last illness, McGiffert was called to lecture at Union. After Schaff’s death in October 1893, he was offered the Washburn Professorship of Church History.56 The ­then-​­President of Union, Thomas Hastings, told McGiffert that the Board had unanimously elected him to the Chair.57 Thus McGiffert began his ­three-​­decade career as professor at Union. Along the way, he received honorary doctorates from Gettysburg University,



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

49

Western Reserve, the Presbyterian College of Halifax, Queens University (Ontario), the University of St. Andrews, and Harvard.58

Heresy Charges and Trials While at Lane, McGiffert got a glimpse of what heresy trials might entail. His Lane colleague, Old Testament professor Henry Preserved Smith, had his career cut short when he enthusiastically endorsed the views of Julius Wellhausen’s Geschichte Israels, and then sided with Charles Briggs in his heresy trial. Smith was condemned for heresy by the Presbytery of Cincinnati in 1892, was suspended from the ministry of the Presbyterian Church, and resigned from his professorship. He became librarian at Union Theological Seminary.59 McGiffert stood by Smith. Union in the early 1890s was in turmoil over Charles Briggs’s heresy trial, initially prompted by his inaugural lecture (January 20, 1891) as he transferred to Union’s new Edward Robinson Chair of Biblical Theology. In his lecture “The Authority of Holy Scripture,” Briggs claimed that there were “three great fountains of divine ­authority—​­the Bible, the Church, and the Reason.” He warned his Protestant audience against falling into “Bibliolatry.”60 Briggs’s views on inspiration, the alleged inerrancy of the “original autographs,” the Mosaic origin of the Pentateuch, and higher criticism generally were on display,61 as well as his affirmation of “progressive sanctification after death.”62 The rhetoric surrounding the Briggs case was alarmingly heated: the author of a newspaper article entitled “Briggs Must Go,” asked, “Who shall deliver the bride of Christ from this man’s whips and sneers?”63 In the end, Union in 1892, supporting Briggs, broke its arrangement made in 1870 with the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church USA, the latter made in an effort to reconcile “Old School” and “New School” Presbyterians. “Free from the Assembly,” the New York Times reported on November 17, 1892.64 Some academics hailed the split as cutting Union loose from the “entangling alliance,” a “perpetual source of trouble.”65 Lawyers and Union Board members claimed that the arrangement had never been legal, as New York State law did not allow Union as a corporation to cede such rights to another corporation (the Presbyterian Church).66 After his ordeal, although still harassed by conservative Presbyterians, Briggs became an Episcopalian.67 McGiffert, then at Lane Seminary, publicly supported Briggs, but was warned by Francis Brown and Philip Schaff (both of whom hoped that

50

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

McGiffert would be appointed at Union) to stay quiet.68 From afar, Harnack inquired of Henry Preserved Smith, then in Germany, about the Briggs conflict: Smith reported that Harnack evinced only “a languid interest in the wars of the barbarians.”69 Progressives considered Briggs’s acquittal by the New York Presbytery in January 1893 a victory for the freedom of investigation. In historian Robert Handy’s view, the effect of the Briggs heresy trial was probably counterproductive for conservatives in that it publicized the new critical views to a much larger audience than otherwise might have been aware of them.70 Union, to be sure, was known as a bastion of liberalism. All did not go smoothly for McGiffert, however, in his first years at Union. His book The History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age (1897)71 sparked a new ­controversy—​­although even earlier there had been rumblings occasioned by his inaugural address, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” as we shall see.72 At controversy’s resolution, McGiffert left the Presbyterian Church and joined the Congregationalists in 1899.73 He was a member of the Manhattan Congregational Church (on Broadway at 76th Street) for many years.74 The charges against McGiffert and investigative procedures were complex; here, a brief summary must suffice. McGiffert’s Apostolic Age alarmed conservatives. McGiffert urged Christians to accept the notion that Jesus had preached the coming of a future Kingdom of God, to occur when the present world e­nded—​­and this not merely as a “convenience” to accommodate his ( Jewish) audience, but as his own belief.75 Further, McGiffert wrote, the New Testament offers no Trinitarian formula; Matthew 28:19 could not then have served as a baptismal confession, for it “involves a conception of the nature of the rite which was entirely foreign to the thought of the primitive Christians, and indeed no less foreign to the thought of Paul.” Nor did McGiffert varnish over Paul’s conservative views on slavery.76 There was “grave reason,” he claimed, to doubt that Paul wrote the Pastoral Epistles or that many New Testament books were composed before 70 C.E.77 Moreover, the author of the Apocalypse was not the author of the Fourth Gospel.78 The topic that generated the most heated response, however, concerned the relation of the Last Supper to the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. In a footnote, McGiffert claimed that it is “not absolutely certain that Jesus himself actually instituted such a supper and directed his disciples to eat and drink in remembrance of him”; since Jesus expected to return at an early day, he would not have been “solicitous to provide for the preservation of his memory.”79



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

51

Before long, however, Christians read into the Lord’s Supper ideas that were foreign to J­esus—​­for example, that it was a sacrifice or a means of grace.80 While McGiffert had imagined that the book might receive criticism, he had not thought it would be of “serious proportions.” Surely everyone would recognize how committed he was to the “divine Christ”!81 He guessed wrong. Some scholars praised the work, but noted its incendiary potential. McGiffert’s former student J. W. Platner, then teaching at Harvard Divinity School, thought that if the Presbyterian ­powers-​­­that-​­be were priming for another heresy trial, “they can find material in this ­book”—​­although he hoped that they would leave McGiffert alone. Platner ranked the book as equal if not superior to Carl Weizsäcker’s; “nothing equal to it has ever appeared in English, so far as my knowledge goes.”82 Shailer Mathews of the University of Chicago noted its “revolutionary” conclusions, and deemed the discussion of the Pastoral Epistles “especially strong.” He, like Platner, believed that America had at last produced a book that could be put in the class with Weizsäcker:83 it is “the most notable addition to the theological literature on the side of critical church history and New Testament criticism as yet made by any American.”84 (Yet Mathews and the Dean of Chicago’s Divinity School advised Chicago’s President Harper not to invite McGiffert to teach in the Summer Quarter, “solely on politic grounds,” as McGiffert was “under ecclesiastical trial.”)85 Lyman Abbott, an important Congregationalist minister and editor, asked if Presbyterians were afraid to have their faith subjected to “scholarly scrutiny.”86 At Bryn Mawr College, Apostolic Age was adopted as a textbook.87 On the other side, James Orr of Edinburgh expressed shock: he knew that McGiffert was under the influence of “Harnackian ideas,”88 but was unprepared “for so radical and revolutionary a production.” McGiffert, he added, is not a German, but “a sober professor of a Presbyterian seminary in America, above all the successor of the lamented Dr. Schaff.” Orr was stunned that McGiffert had apparently abandoned English scholarship: “the pages bristle with references to newer men like Harnack, Weizsäcker, Schürer, Wendt, Jülicher.” McGiffert’s view of Jesus seems to be even “lower” than that of many Unitarians. Orr takes cheer in the expectation that McGiffert’s view of apostolic Christianity will not “hold the field.”89 Williston Walker, professor at the Hartford Theological Seminary and soon to be Professor of Church History at Yale, considered McGiffert’s reconstruction of the New Testament narrative “as unsatisfactory and as essentially untrue as it is radical.” Why? McGiffert discounts any “supernatural guidance in the composition of the ­New-​­Testament writings”; he calls the author of Acts

52

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

“honest, tho [sic] often mistaken.”90 Others suggested that the work seemed to be that of a “radical Unitarian,” not that of a Presbyterian professor.91 One reviewer claimed that if McGiffert deemed the Last Supper only a social feast, he ought to leave the Presbyterian Church.92 The case became a national media event.93 The History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age prompted conservative Presbyterians to investigate McGiffert for heresy. The Presbytery of Pittsburgh drew up an “Overture” condemning Apostolic Age as “a flagrant and ominous scandal.” McGiffert, the accusers claimed, displays “open contempt” for ministerial obligations; the book is “the most t­horough-​­going attack on the New Testament that has ever been made by an accredited teacher of the Presbyterian Church in America.” The Pittsburgh Presbytery petitioned the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church USA (the denomination’s highest authority) to take up this “grave crisis.”94 The General Assembly, meeting in May 1898, attempted to walk a narrow line: it desired “the fullest and freest investigation and inquiry” into the foundations of Christianity, but deprecated needlessly disturbing Christians’ faith. The Assembly especially deplored this new controversy when the Presbyterian Church had been so recently shaken by the Briggs trial: “the Church needs peace.” The Assembly counseled McGiffert to reconsider his “questionable” ­views—​­and if he could not conform to the Westminster Standards, to peaceably “withdraw from the Presbyterian ministry.”95 McGiffert, however, was not inclined to withdraw. But neither was he willing to retract. In his reply (May 15, 1899), McGiffert pointedly remarked that he had been practically condemned without being given a voice and without specified charges. He regretted the serious “misapprehension” of his views, which he believed were in accord with Presbyterian teaching. It was not his duty to withdraw from the Presbyterian ministry: he yields to no one in his devotion to God and concern for the church’s welfare.96 McGiffert’s pointed declination was widely reported in the newspapers.97 The General Assembly then listed objectionable points: McGiffert had allowed that there were errors in the Bible; cast doubt on the deity of Christ; questioned whether Jesus had instituted the Last Supper as a sacrament to be observed throughout the ages; and suggested that Jesus had emphasized faith in his message, not in his person. The Assembly asked McGiffert to affirm the contrary of these positions.98 To these charges, McGiffert briskly responded in June 1899. Of course he believed that the Bible was the Word of G ­ od—​­but “belief ” does not preclude



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

53

the fact that it contains errors. Moreover, the Westminster Confession, to which Presbyterians subscribe, speaks of the Bible (only) as a rule of faith and life, not of inerrancy. Second, he emphatically confesses the deity of ­Christ—​ ­and trusts that the Assembly does not interpret it so as to exclude Jesus’ “real manhood”? (McGiffert reminds the Assembly of the theory of Kenosis.) Third, he believes in the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper “with all my ­heart”—​­but the exact way in which it was instituted is a historical question that does not affect the nature of the sacrament. Since it is not certain that Jesus instructed his disciples to repeat in perpetuity the Last Supper in remembrance of him, McGiffert “cannot regard it as a fundamental doctrine either of the Word of God or of the Confession of Faith.” Last, he is “in hearty sympathy” with the doctrine of salvation through faith alone, and thinks he has never said or written anything that would call that point into doubt.99 McGiffert had defended himself, but I suspect that members of the General Assembly did not relish being lectured at by a church history professor. From spring to winter 1899, there was much b­ ack-​­­and-​­forth between the General Assembly and the New York Presbytery, which, in ­time-​­honored fashion, assigned a committee to study the matter.100 McGiffert met with the committee in June 1899, but refused to retract his views regarding scriptural errors.101 Friends urged him to state how he had been “misapprehended” (as he claimed) and to detail his true position.102 McGiffert stubbornly refused to offer more than he was forced to. Although the overseeing groups thought that points in Apostolic Age contravened church doctrine,103 the Presbytery backed away from ruling against McGiffert: “the peace of the Church” suggested that the matter should be dropped. In a deliciously mixed message, it declared that although “liberty of scholarship” should be upheld, Presbyterians pursuing “critical studies” should refrain from advancing opinions contrary to that denomination’s teaching.104 In February 1900, by a vote of 77 to 39, it dismissed the charges against McGiffert.105 Some unsatisfied delegates clamored that the General Assembly should initiate a ­full-​­scale heresy trial.106 By early February 1900, McGiffert, anticipating this move, pondered whether to leave the Presbyterian Church. He asked John Crosby Brown to call a meeting of Union’s Board of Directors with the Presbytery.107 Some at this meeting strongly hinted that McGiffert should resign; one noted that the Seminary was losing money because of his book. In the midst of the debate, Board President Brown gave an effective speech. It was news to him, he declared, that Union Seminary was responsible for the opinions of its professors. The Seminary stands for liberty

54

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

of scholarship; he preferred to face poverty than to deny that liberty. The speech had a “magical effect,” and several of the doubters came around.108 Throughout March 1900, much indecision reigned among Union faculty and Board members: should McGiffert remain in or leave the Presbyterian Church?109 McGiffert, for his part, had had enough. On April 7, 1900, he delivered his letter of withdrawal from the Presbytery of New York. Still believing that his views were essentially in harmony with Presbyterian teaching, he felt no duty to endure a trial and “prolong the agitation” that was preventing the church from its true work in “advancing the Kingdom of God.” Heresy trials, he stated, do not promote Christian truth, which is reached “only by patient study and free discussion.” Historical investigation alone could prove wrong his claims in Apostolic Age. McGiffert urged his colleagues to have faith in God’s t­ruth—​­not to sound the alarm when they encountered unfamiliar views.110 Newspapers published McGiffert’s letter in full.111 The New York Evening Post declared that Apostolic Age was “the most brilliant piece of scholarly work to be set down to the credit of an American theologian for two decades.” Perhaps the critics would like to burn all books except the Westminster Confession? How “melancholy” to see Presbyterians, who boasted of their educated ministry, retreating from strong ministerial education!112 The editor of the New York Evangelist, for his part, thought Presbyterians s­ hort-​­sighted: “Is it conceivable that a church, having among its members such a scholar, should allow him to depart without protest?” The time will come, he predicts, when the Presbyterian Church’s attitude shall seem “the wonder of wonders.”113 Years later, in 1926, when McGiffert resigned the presidency of Union, the Board prepared a “Minute” in which they pointedly noted how Apostolic Age had been attacked by the same element in the Presbyterian Church that had also driven out Briggs. McGiffert, “though lost to the Presbyterian Church,” “was saved to the Seminary.”114

Later Years: The McGiffert Presidency When President Francis Brown of Union became ill in 1915, McGiffert and William Adams Brown were asked to serve as acting leaders of the school. Since the latter was slated to be abroad that year, the chief responsibility fell on McGiffert.115 McGiffert’s letters to the invalid president in Florida report on actions of the Board and faculty.116 Francis Brown died in 1916, and in



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

55

November 1917, the Board appointed McGiffert President of the Faculty (after offering the position to others). McGiffert’s appointment brought rejoicing in some circles,117 although his young colleague Henry Sloane Coffin feared that administrative work would interfere with his scholarship: “you are far and away our best scholar,” he wrote. But, on the positive side, Coffin continued, perhaps McGiffert’s leadership will help rebuild “the shattered world and church” of our time (the era of World War I), that Union will help to develop “a Church that is r­eally a fellowship, ­super-​­national, ­super-​­racial, ­super-​­class.”118 Other colleagues agreed that McGiffert’s election seemed to confirm the Board’s wish to make the Seminary “­supra-​­denominational.”119 McGiffert’s junior colleague Hugh Hartshorne, voicing the sentiment of “the younger men of the Faculty,” wrote, “We feel safe now.”120 Fundraising During Francis Brown’s presidency, Union undertook major fundraising campaigns in which John D. Rockefeller was prominent. Rockefeller skillfully cultivated the technique of “matching grants.” (As we shall see, he had honed the technique at the University of Chicago.) In 1912, Brown assessed Union’s needs for Rockefeller: funds for the library; for the development of a “Graduate Department,” so that budding scholars need not travel to foreign universities for advanced study; for a new graduate professor of the origin and history of Christian institutions; for resident fellowships of $400 each to enable divinity school graduates to undertake further work. Brown calculated that $105,000 or preferably $110,000 would endow the professorship (paying an annual salary of $5,000), and $100,000, the fellowships. This would be a “unique” opportunity for Union: nowhere else in the United States was there “any provision for such high theological teaching as we could then offer to the exceptionally qualified man.”121 (One wonders what Rockefeller, lavish patron of the University of Chicago, thought of this claim.) The fundraising goal was $2,160,000, ­toward which Rockefeller offered $250,000, with the proviso that Union would have to secure its portion by April 1, 1913.122 Several letters request an extension of deadlines,123 which Rockefeller graciously granted.124 Union’s share was not entirely in hand by January 1917; McGiffert, now at the helm, reported in December 1916 that Union had successfully raised its share of the $2,160,000 goal, but Rockefeller wanted to see hard cash, not pledges.125 Rockefeller extended the date by a year and began making payments to Union.126 In the end,

56

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Union did not meet its quota, but came close. Union’s graduates, as ministers and missionaries, had little money to spare. Wealthy members of congregations, however, were asked to give, and members of Union’s Boards and their widows were often very generous.127 When America entered the war, it became harder than ever to raise money.128 This was the first of McGiffert’s major fundraising efforts with Rockefeller. More followed. In the early 1920s, McGiffert spearheaded a campaign to raise $4 million for the Union endowment.129 This exhausting effort damaged his health and led to a period of rest in Europe.130 In the “Plan for Expansion” that he delivered to the Board in April 1921, McGiffert noted that funds were needed for the following items: enlarging the Department of Missions, living quarters for missionaries on furlough, library endowments, completion of the Union quad with refectory and commons area, completion of the main tower with classrooms and professors’ offices, a seminary press, and increasing the “Retiring Fund.” About $2,975,000 would be needed for these projects.131 A new apartment building was erected at 99 Claremont Avenue for the use of furloughed missionaries and other church associates; the building, which cost $850,000 when completed, was given McGiffert’s name by the Board.132 In May 1925, with McGiffert on leave, acting President William Adams Brown reported that the $4 million campaign was complete.133 McGiffert, Union, and World War I McGiffert, like thousands of his era, was deeply disturbed by the outbreak of World War I. In his roles as President of Union and preeminent historian of Christianity, he had many opportunities on which to exhort, comfort, and criticize his fellow Christians throughout America and Europe. Both Columbia and Union saw scenes of conflict between p ­ ro-​­and ­anti-​ ­war professors and students.134 At Union, Thomas Hall, who held the chair in Christian Ethics and the Study of the English Bible135 and whose wife was German, was faulted for his allegedly ­pro-​­German views and his critique of the munitions industry. ­Eighty-​­nine letters between Hall and ­then-​­President Francis Brown, plus numerous other letters and documents, provide a detailed account. In the end, Union’s Board of Directors fired Hall in May 1917, claiming that he was actively ­pro-​­German and had publicly defended the sinking of the Lusitania. Hall’s usefulness as a teacher at Union had been “destroyed,” they wrote.136 Hall responded that although the Board acted on its legal rights, “There are limits even to the tyranny of American academic boards of trust-



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

57

ees.”137 Hall’s words were prophetic: the American Association of University Professors, which had been founded in 1915 by Arthur O. Lovejoy and John Dewey, would soon develop procedures to prevent such summary action on the part of institutions of higher education.138 In 1915, McGiffert published an article on war in Christianity’s history, noting that few had ever followed Jesus’ message of love and n ­ on-​­resistance or 139 had taught that all war is u ­ n-​­Christian. McGiffert was clearly annoyed at Christian theologians of yore who had left their modern counterparts little firm guidance for the present crisis. Starting in 1916, McGiffert took the occasion of his annual address to graduating students at Union to comment on the war.140 Throughout his speeches, his impatience with traditional and evangelical Christianity is on display: neither adulation of the Christian past nor “­born-​­again” forms of conservative Protestantism is of any use in the present situation. Here, his views regarding evangelical Protestantism resonate with Shirley Jackson Case’s on the subject of the war. In late 1916, McGiffert still did not believe that the Germans, whom he thought he knew well, would “dare push things to the last extremity.” Surely they must be near exhaustion and ready for peace.141 That, we know, proved to be wishful thinking. The United States entered the war in April 1917. The next month, McGiffert told Union graduates, “for more than half a century no class has left the Seminary in so critical a time as this.” Although their training has been “to wield spiritual not carnal weapons . . . ​now our country is in the great conflict and we would not hold aloof if we could.” Their education at Union taught them not to focus on “the superficial positions that the fathers fought over,” but “the very foundations of our faith.” He urges the graduates to help refashion human ideals so that “strife and war may find no place in the new civilization that shall come.”142 A war, in other words, to end all wars. In September 1917, McGiffert’s address at the opening of the academic year was titled “The Seminary and War.” McGiffert noted that some forty students had gone into service and others had left to work for the war effort; enrollment was down.143 Building on Woodrow Wilson’s famous lines, McGiffert declared that Americans must “keep democracy safe for the world,” not just “the world safe for democracy.” Looking ahead, he warned that during reconstruction, it would be easy to forget ideals and slip back into barbarism. We must demand “equal opportunity in all lines of endeavor for men of all classes and conditions.” When in the fourth century, McGiffert noted, Christianity acquired imperialistic ideals, the best of the church’s sons fled “to the

58

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

desert to save their souls.” Too often, he concluded, Christianity had aimed to save men out of the world rather than saving the world.144 In 1917, the draft was instituted. Union students enrolled by May 18, 1917, were exempted, but many prospective students volunteered for war service.145 One sign of America’s “essential soundness,” McGiffert claimed at Harvard in September 1918, was that the draft applied to all males, ages eighteen to ­forty-​ ­five, of different ­classes—​­“not merely those of humble parentage and narrow circumstance.” Not many of the latter, he speculated, had imagined themselves valuable to America or to the larger world, but were now surprised to find that their lives had “national significance.” America, drawn out of its isolation and ­self-​­absorption, had become a “steward to the world’s liberties.” Women, too, had thrown themselves into relief work. Across the country, rationing was in effect.146 Elsewhere, McGiffert praised the idealism that those on the home front displayed, discrediting the “gloomy view of human nature held by the fathers and the cynical view of it held by many of our contemporaries.”147 Of the latter, certain conservative Christians stand out: we shall see more about them when we turn to Shirley Jackson Case. In his 1918 commencement address, McGiffert remained optimistic: “However dark things seem, the powers of goodness are greater than the powers of evil.” Thirteen members of their class in war s­ ervice—​­­one-​­­quarter—​­were not present to graduate.148 McGiffert’s annual report that spring to the Union Board of Directors vividly depicts the b­ elt-​­tightening disruptions occasioned by the war. Fuel was so scarce that some scheduled conferences were canceled. The gym was closed, as was the chapel, except for Sunday mornings and a few other times; services were held in the dorms and in professors’ apartments. The National Fuel Administration had decreed “heatless Mondays.” The library had been closed in the evening from January to early March. McGiffert’s inauguration as President had dispensed with invitations and an elaborate ceremony. Union was hosting about fifty servicemen at night.149 In November 1918, Union began housing 203 members of the Air Radio School, accommodating the privates in the gym and part of a dormitory, and the officers in the President’s house.150 When in October 1918, Germany sued for peace, McGiffert addressed Union students: “Germany thought it was time for war when we wanted peace. Now she wants peace, but it is time for war.” We are in this “for humanity’s sake and must not stop until [the] safety of humanity is secured,” either by Germany’s repentance or by our preventing her from “doing harm.” McGiffert again expressed admiration for Woodrow Wilson’s ­anti-​­isolationist policies.151



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

59

The day after the Armistice was signed on November 11, 1918, McGiffert addressed the Union community. Will the world remember the lessons of the war? Those who forget pose a danger. If we go back to our old pursuits and ways, the war will have been fought in vain and (prophetically) “will have to be fought over again by our children.” It would be the greatest betrayal in all history if we now fail to make the world a better place. McGiffert poured scorn on those “callous” ministers who, all through the war, preached as if there were no war and now seem oblivious to the ­world-​­changing event. The idealism built up during the war must not be allowed to fade. Safeguards must be firmly established that will make permanent peace a reality for all nations.152 Graduation in 1919 again saw a small graduating class: twelve had been in war service and two had “made the supreme sacrifice.” Although the war is over, McGiffert warned, ­pre-​­war conditions will not return. After the “dramatic overthrow of thrones and dynasties,” a “new world is in the making.” How glorious to be young now, “to invest the whole of your career in this new and great adventure of humanity.” He cautioned against “false gods”: there will be no “hasty remedies for the world’s ills, short cuts to the promised kingdom.”153 ­Post-​­war, McGiffert frequently argued that internationalism must become part of the Christian ideal. “Americanism,” he wrote, needs to include “international as well as national duties.”154 Thrilled by a visit to Ellis Island in 1920, McGiffert praised the role of immigrants in America’s life.155 The war’s end had not brought happy times. In 1919, McGiffert warned that peace and brotherhood had not arrived, that class conflict was rife, “revolution raising its frowning face on both sides of the s­ ea”—​­presumably alluding to the Russian Revolution and the Mexican Civil War. Patience, cooperation, and good will are needed, “in all classes and in all lands.” McGiffert seemed disillusioned. We thought, he admitted, that civilization had been safeguarded, but now we see that only “a frail wall separated us from the floods of racial passion,” only “a thin crust from the eruption of revolution.” The war showed us that “our house was built on sand.”156 To the graduates of 1920, McGiffert acknowledged that “these are hard days for everybody, unless it be for the profiteers. . . . ​The high hopes and noble resolves that sustained us while the war was going on faded quickly after the armistice and have not yet been recovered. Greed and rapacity, prejudice and partisanship, jealousy and suspicion are in the saddle and seem to be riding this old world fast to its undoing.” Voicing a typically Liberal sentiment, McGiffert told the graduates that while skepticism about one or another doctrine “matters little,” skepticism about “the possibility of achieving worthy but difficult ends” is more

60

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

damaging. “Eschew hasty remedies,” he advised; “lay hold on the eternal verities and apply them to the needs of the age.”157 ­Post-​­war, McGiffert was disturbed by reports that showed soldiers’ “­extra-​ ­ordinary and lamentable ignorance” about Christianity, which they disdained as “wholly unreal.” The fundamental cause of this failure, McGiffert believed, could be traced back to the s­ ixteenth-​­century Protestant Reformers, who discounted Roman Catholic theology and moral teaching, but put nothing in its place. Their neglect of Christian ethics was exacerbated by the ­eighteenth-​ ­century English revivals. By focusing largely on the “new birth,” those revivalists assumed that morality meant “abstinence from a few definite and widely popular pleasures.”158 The soldiers had asked big questions about human life and destiny, about freedom and responsibility, issues “not dreamed of in our ancient theologies.”159 McGiffert blamed the soldiers’ ignorance largely on evangelicalism, which preached “a converting instead of a teaching church.”160 In 1920, with Felix Adler of the Ethical Culture Society, McGiffert spurred a fundraising campaign to provide food certificates for German students in Munich and Marburg.161 The letter of thanks from Marburg’s Theological Faculty, signed by Rudolph Otto and others, reported that some thirty students were now enjoying a better evening meal. Faculty members rejoiced that McGiffert had done his studies at their university; even in these difficult times, they wrote, a link binds us that cannot be broken.162 McGiffert reminded audiences that it was not only Americans and their allies who lost loved ones: for those against whom we fought, the sons they lost were “as dear to them as ours to us.” Divided in the war, we are “one in sorrow for our dead.” The task now was to rebuild the world’s “shattered ruins.”163 After the war, Union raised money to provide a ­stained-​­glass window for the Union chapel honoring their associates who had fallen.164 McGiffert strongly supported the League of Nations and its proponent, Woodrow Wilson. Upon Wilson’s death in February 1924, he eulogized him as one of “faith’s heroes,” a great figure not only of modern times, but of all times. Whether people favor the League or not, eventually the countries of the world must learn to live together. McGiffert considered the League the single greatest step ­toward international understanding and cooperation in the t­wenty-​­five centuries of western civilization. Wilson belongs not just to America, McGiffert concluded, but also to the world.165 McGiffert called Americans’ fear of the League a type of economic and political “fundamentalism.” Don’t substitute one kind of fundamentalism for another, he warned. “Rise above all provincialism.”166 Indeed, Union’s own internationalism was shown by the fact that



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

61

its students came from ­twenty-​­five countries; ­non-​­Americans composed 20 percent of the student body.167 McGiffert did not live to see recent outcries against Wilson’s discriminatory policies regarding Americans of color. Illness and Death McGiffert was intermittently ill for many years. During his leave in 1903, President Francis Brown urged him not to return to teaching if his health was not yet strong; better for Union to do without McGiffert for a term than to have him “break down.”168 In January 1904, McGiffert sailed to Europe in the interest of his health. Settling in France, he admitted that he has not been able to accomplish much.169 The demands of the presidency took a further toll on McGiffert’s health. After arduous fundraising work as President, McGiffert was told by his doctor to take a leave. He did so for four months in spring term 1925 and was expected to take up his presidency upon return.170 Increasingly poor health led him to resign that office in summer 1926 and retire from the Washburn Professorship in 1927. Made Research Professor, he resigned even that in 1928.171 With what energy he had left, he worked on his ­two-​­volume History of Christian Thought. McGiffert died on February 25, 1933. In his prayer at McGiffert’s funeral, Henry Sloane Coffin (McGiffert’s former student and successor as President) thanked God for McGiffert’s “long career in teaching, for his fearlessness in inquiry, his passion to find and face truth and his scorn of s­ econd-​­hand opinion; for the accuracy of his mind and the lucidity of his speech; for his wakening students to think for themselves; for his insight in penetrating thought of the church’s leaders in bygone days and his skill in opening their significant gifts to the faith of Thy people.”172 The Union Board of Directors honored McGiffert with a “Minute,” praising his knowledge of the primary sources, his “accuracy in detail, a gift of sympathetic and lucid exposition, and the talent not of a chronicler but of a philosopher.” For many generations of students, he was the outstanding lecturer on the Union faculty. The Board mentioned the shock that Apostolic Age had delivered; readers were not prepared for “so novel a treatment.”173 His colleague William Rockwell, in a memorial notice for Church History, claimed that church historians consider McGiffert’s History of Christian Thought the greatest American contribution to the field. Generations of students, he added, were trained by his fine lectures on the topic.174 McGiffert was also active in the New York Philosophical Club,175 whose members included Felix Adler, John Dewey, Morris Cohen, Arthur O. Lovejoy,

62

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

and Frederick Woodbridge, among others, and he was socially friendly with the Deweys.176 Minutes of the Philosophical Club from 1900 to 1920 show that McGiffert presented papers to the group at least five times, as well as hosting meetings at his home or at the Century Club, responding to others’ papers, and leading discussions.177 It is noteworthy that Pragmatism was a topic that occupied several of the Club’s meetings. He also participated in a New Testament Circle (composed of professors at northeastern universities and seminaries), the Religious Education Association (President in 1920),178 the American Society of Church History, and the Theological Society (President in 1919).179 McGiffert usually spent his summers at a country property in West Falmouth, Massachusetts, and sometimes at Mt. Desert Island, Maine. Letters reveal problems in getting appropriate books sent for his summer work.180 Union’s liberal emphasis continued in the decades after McGiffert’s death. In 1952, when Henry Sloane Coffin was asked where the Blessed Virgin Mary and St. John were buried, he replied, “I had no ­idea—​­it was not a vital interest in Union, like ‘the welfare state’ and the abolition of the ‘profit motive.’ ”181

McGiffert’s Books and Their Reception McGiffert’s books include Dialogue Between a Christian and a Jew (1889); The History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age (1897; discussed above); The Apostles’ Creed (1902); Protestant Thought Before Kant (1911); Martin Luther, the Man and His Work (1911); The Rise of Modern Religious Ideas (1915); The God of the Early Christians (1924); and his ­two-​­volume History of Christian Thought (1932–1933). From them, we learn much about his approach to the history of Christianity, and from reviewers’ comments, we learn which works pleased his liberal colleagues and which disturbed more conservative ones. I here highlight only those works dealing with antiquity. McGiffert’s assumptions about religion are more plainly on display in his books on more recent periods and figures; these are briefly treated in Chapter 3. Dialogue Between a Christian and a Jew The Dialogue, McGiffert’s doctoral dissertation from Marburg, was published in New York in 1889 by the Christian Literature Company, which had published the ­Ante-​­Nicene Fathers series. In addition to editing the Greek text largely on the basis of manuscripts in Paris and Venice, McGiffert provided an



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

63

introduction, notes, and a discussion of Christian polemics against the Jews. He concluded that the Venice recension underlay both that of Paris and a ­ninth-​­century work by Anastasius, Adversus Judaeos Disputatio. The Dialogue, he posited, originated in Egypt.182 The first problem facing the Christian church, McGiffert states in his commentary, was to prove that Jews’ rejection of Jesus as Messiah was wrong, to show that Christianity was the “true Judaism,” of which Judaism of their time was a “perversion.” Who was the intended audience for these polemical texts? Since only three of them describe the (alleged) conversion of the Jewish protagonist (in others, Jews appear as “a sort of artistic setting”), the real opponent, McGiffert suggests, is probably the “whole ­non-​­Christian world.” Moreover, some texts seek to confirm the faith of believers, the Jewish audience having dwindled as Christianity spread into the Gentile world. Thus, he concludes, we learn little about actual ­Jewish-​­Christian relations from these works. The Old Testament was useful in convincing Gentile Christians of Christianity’s antiquity and fulfillment of prophecies. Soon, Apologists would aim to convince Gentiles that Christianity was rational. Later, a third type of polemic appealed to the history of the church, showing how it had withstood its e­ nemies—​­but this type developed only when Christianity had a history.183 Eusebius’ Church History As detailed above, McGiffert as a student in Germany began work on a translation of and commentary on Eusebius’ Church History. It was published as the first volume of the second series of the Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers, edited by his mentor Philip Schaff. (McGiffert’s work on Eusebius and the Church History is discussed in Chapter 3.) This work was well received: “the most exhaustive study of Eusebius ever presented,” one reviewer claimed.184 Another added (correctly) that the ­Ante-​­Nicene Fathers series that preceded it, edited by Arthur Cleveland Coxe, contains nothing like the “original work” of McGiffert’s volume.185 Praise for McGiffert’s “moderate” tone186 perhaps implies a contrast with the highly immoderate tone of Coxe’s ­anti-​­Catholic notes and elucidations. The work was called a great credit to American scholarship.187 A swooning reviewer (dubiously) claimed that “the Grecian spirit animates throughout, and readers will involuntarily recognize the intense family feeling between the Grecian and the ­Anglo-​­Saxon.”188 At McGiffert’s retirement from Union’s presidency in 1926, Board members noted that it was his work on

64

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Eusebius that had won him scholarly recognition at a comparatively young age, placing him “in the front rank of church historians.”189 Erdmann’s History of Philosophy Concurrent with finishing his work on Eusebius, McGiffert (then at Lane Theological Seminary) translated over three hundred pages of Johann Eduard Erdmann’s History of Philosophy: Volume I, “Ancient and Mediaeval Philoso­ cGiffert—​ phy,”190 that is, from the Greeks through William of Ockham. That M ­a new instructor and recent widower with an infant ­daughter—​­must have thought the project a good use of his time suggests the importance he placed on Erdmann’s book. Erdmann covered at surprising length early Christian doctrine and controversies. His treatment of the Gnostics as the originators of rational theology and of comparative religion and his discussion of N ­ eo-​ ­Platonic syncretism doubtless interested McGiffert. A Ritschlian note emerges in Erdmann’s account of how Christianity, growing stronger, could “attack and subjugate the world.” In his definition of dogma as “the transformation of history into truth as such,” Hegelianism is on display.191 The Apostles’ Creed McGiffert began his study of the Apostles’ Creed in 1899 or 1900, offering a conference paper at the American Society of Church History on the polemical origins of the Old Roman Symbol.192 His book on the subject was published in 1902. McGiffert argued that the Apostles’ Creed was polemical in origin, aimed originally (as the Old Roman Symbol of the ­mid-​­to late second century) at Marcionites in particular.193 In the next centuries, clauses were gradually added to meet particular purposes, such as affirming the church’s power to forgive ­post-​­baptismal sin.194 McGiffert bluntly denied to Christians of his era an “originalist” reading of the creed; they must interpret it differently or simply give it up. The creed’s value, he argued, lies in its emphasis on the historic figure of Jesus, an emphasis retained even when “most overlaid with scholastic philosophy or with sacramentarianism and ecclesiasticism.”195 Unsurprisingly, conservatives thought that McGiffert had been too “free” in his treatment of the New Testament.196 The book, one wrote, would likely trouble the average worshipper, given its “very technical and scholarly” approach to a revered creed.197 Enthusiasts, however, declared that the “masterly” volume makes McGiffert “our constructive historical critic of the first rank,”



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

65

“destined to command world wide attention.”198 American theologians were striving to find among their own number any who could compete with European scholars. The God of the Early Christians This book began as the Taylor Lectures at Yale Divinity School in October 1922.199 (The noted editor Maxwell Perkins, working at Charles Scribner’s Sons, handled the manuscript.)200 The major argument, as one reviewer put it, was that while previous historians had tried to explain how in early Christianity the worship of Christ was added to the worship of God, McGiffert rather asks how the worship of God was added to the worship of Christ.201 Scholars who liked the book regretted only that “the Fundamentalists will pay no attention.”202 Even the most sympathetic admitted that the book “must naturally cause offence in certain quarters where historic truth is a delicate plant.”203 The God of the Early ­Christians—​­“not milk for babies”­204—​­understandably did not sell as well as did McGiffert’s popular Martin Luther.205 The contents of this book will be treated more fully in Chapter 4. History of Christian Thought McGiffert wrote this t­ wo-​­volume work in the last years of his life. He died just before Volume 2 appeared. In Volume 1, McGiffert traced Christian origins to the time of John of Damascus, with emphasis on the ­Greek-​­speaking East. Volume 2 runs from Tertullian through the Latin West to Erasmus. These volumes were based on McGiffert’s lectures over the years; individual points will be covered in the next chapters. McGiffert’s distinctive emphases here stand out: the gulf between the religion of Jesus (a “Jewish Messianic sect”) and that of Paul, John, and Ignatius (a “religion of personal salvation”); the recovered interest in Marcion (doubtless inspired by Harnack’s work); his high estimate of Irenaeus as “one of the few r­ eally original and creative thinkers in the history of the church”; the “havoc” created by competing views regarding God as the Absolute versus God as the Father of the world;206 and Christianity’s “lamentable failure” from its beginnings to show any advance in ethical ideals and the means for realizing them.207 The books garnered praise,208 but some worried that Christians might doubt, on the basis of McGiffert’s depiction of Jesus, that there was anything “significant and unique” about him that would account for subsequent

66

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Christianity.209 Shailer Mathews, representing the views of the “Chicago School,” noted McGiffert’s lack of interest in “the social psychology which gave rise to group ideas and group authority in thought. One might almost say that the present volume might have been written if the various subjects of exposition were individuals unassociated with the social process.”210 If McGiffert had adopted the line of the social historian of theology, Mathews continued, “his contribution might have helped to usher in a new era in the history of dogma.” McGiffert’s books provide not “a history of the Christian religion but a history of Christian thinking about religion,” Mathews concluded. The Old Roman Symbol, for example, cannot be accounted for by studying individual writers: “There needs to be the study of the psychology of the Christian group itself.” To do so, McGiffert would have had to explore the social situation of early Christians and trace conflicts therein. Now, it is left to those (like Mathews) who do not have McGiffert’s “encyclopedic knowledge” to “carry on the work of writing a history of Christianity as a religious movement which was a phase of a social process.”211 Reviewing Volume 2, Mathews complained that it was a history of literature, not a social history of the Christian religion. Now, however, Mathews’s sense of disappointment is less than his sense of loss over his friend’s death. “What a heritage of scholarship and wisdom he has left us!”212 George Richards of Lancaster Theological Seminary offered a more pious critique. The book, Richards claimed, underscores the inadequacy of the historical method alone in that it does not give the reader “the power of Christianity”; we see Jesus “after the flesh” but not “after the spirit.” Richards commented: “This is the tragedy of the life of the church historian, who is of all men most miserable. For if he is true to the historical method, as the scientific historian demands, he fails in finding the pulsating heart of Christianity which men have reached only by faith working in love; and if he is true to the way of faith, discerning and comprehending the things of God as defined in I Cor. 2, then he loses caste with the American Historical Society.”213 Published posthumously by McGiffert’s son were some of his father’s lectures (Christianity as History and Faith). Points in this valuable collection will be dealt with in later chapters. Someone who knew McGiffert’s area of expertise proposed to him that he should produce a “Handbook of Patristics.” McGiffert agreed that such a book was needed, not a mere compilation based on existing works, but an original and philosophical treatment of the subject. But, he bluntly admitted, no one in America is equipped to undertake such a project. It would be better to wait until something satisfactory could be written. McGiffert added a comment of



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

67

Harnack’s: producing such a handbook would be “one of the most difficult pieces of work.”214 McGiffert never wrote the handbook. McGiffert as Mentor and Critic McGiffert was known as a blunt critic, rather briskly telling prospective authors that their work was not publishable.215 Asked to give his assessment of David Schley Schaff (Philip Schaff’s son) for a position, he wrote that his historical work in general “is not of the highest order,” but that the son had recently written a “creditable” biography of John Hus.216 To an Episcopalian priest who had left McGiffert his manuscript, the latter replied that the author’s traditional views of authorship and dating of New Testament books were “misleading” and had been overturned by modern scholarship.217 He also critiqued a book by George Fisher of Yale: not of the highest class, it shows “little influence of the new theology.”218 (McGiffert was correct.) But to those in desperate need of intellectual stimulation and encouragement, he seemed kind.219

McGiffert’s World Those familiar with the careers of professors at the major ­nineteenth-​­century seminaries and divinity schools can note some ways in which McGiffert, in early t­wentieth-​­century New York City, lived in a changed world. For one, Jews were on his horizon. Here, his diaries and correspondence fill in some blanks. He spoke at the Baltimore Hebrew Congregation220 and at Temple ­Emanu-​­El in New York.221 Asked to give a tribute to Rabbi Stephen Wise on the occasion of the dedication of the new home of the Central and Free Synagogue in 1924, McGiffert praised the great work that Dr. Wise “has done and is doing for the cause of religion, of social betterment and of good citizenship. His dauntless courage, and his eloquent voice enlisted always in support of righteousness and justice have been one of our city’s greatest assets now for many years.” Wise’s willingness to work for cooperation between Judaism and Christianity has, McGiffert writes, “helped to solidify the forces that make for higher and better things.” Wise demonstrates how, beneath all differences of faith and practice, there is a “oneness of genuine religion.” On several occasions, Wise spoke at Union, at student gatherings and also at morning chapel.222 Clearly those invitations would have been extended under McGiffert’s presidency. We also know McGiffert contributed ­toward a fund George F.

68

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Moore at Harvard was raising to publish “Strack’s collection of rabbinical parallels to the New Testament.”223 In 1923, McGiffert expressed gratitude for receipt of books by Solomon Schechter and Kaufmann Kohler, and thanked “the generosity of the prominent Jews who have authorized the distribution of them.”224 A related expansion of religious acquaintances and colleagues can be found in McGiffert’s friendship with Unitarians and with members of the Ethical Culture Society. Unitarians, apparently, were no longer beyond the pale. McGiffert’s son Cushman, as noted, married the daughter of Samuel Eliot, who was President of the American Unitarian Association in Boston.225 Ethical culture was on his horizon as well. In 1916, McGiffert was invited by Felix Adler to attend a fortieth anniversary celebration of the Society for Ethical Culture. Although McGiffert declined (Union was having its own anniversary exercises at the same time), he congratulates Adler: “You have done a great work and all men interested in the higher things of the spirit are grateful to you.”226 As noted above, he and Adler in 1920 raised money for food certificates for German students in Munich.227 A third notable presence on McGiffert’s scene, quite absent from those of earlier professors (with exception of Emilie Grace Briggs, Charles’s daughter): women as college students and as college teachers. McGiffert was a popular speaker at various northeastern women’s colleges; in addition, he occasionally taught a course at Barnard College.228 He spoke at Mount Holyoke (where students allegedly loved his Apostolic Age book),229 Smith, and Wellesley,230 as well as the State Normal School (Teachers’ College) of New Jersey, in Trenton.231 Speaking to Union students in September 1924, McGiffert highlighted the point that new ideas about religion and science were arising contemporaneous with the emancipation of women and the extension of their rights and responsibilities. Women have emerged from their conservative role as the guardians of tradition and are now rapidly “sloughing off” the old.232 He did, however, reject the idea of ­co-​­ed dormitories: “It would be against all academic ­precedent—​­as it seems to me also against all ­propriety—​­for women to occupy rooms in the same dormitory [with men].”233

Conclusion The extensive archives pertaining to Arthur Cushman McGiffert provide a deeper insight into his life, education, travels, and commitments than do those



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

69

of Shirley Jackson Case and George LaPiana. McGiffert’s German education, Ritschlian allegiances, philosophical interests, and location and position in New York gave him a different perspective on religious and social issues from those contemporaries. Attacks on his theology led him out of the Presbyterian camp; in this, the condemnations suffered by Catholic Modernists offer some comparison. As President of Union, he gained public visibility as a spokesman for Protestant Liberalism of a theological, ­German-​­inflected type.

Chapter 3

McGiffert’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches

Inaugurating McGiffert Arthur Cushman McGiffert was inaugurated as Professor of Church History at Union Theological Seminary on September 28, 1893. The Charge, delivered by James M. Ludlow on behalf of the Board of Directors, offers a revealing insight into what the Seminary’s Board expected of h ­ im—​­and, as this book will suggest, how far from their expectations he veered. As Henry W. Bowden wrote, “Few men could have realized at the time how little Schaff’s successor would maintain the historiographical synthesis cherished by the founder of the American Society of Church History.”1 Unsettling to some in his audience, McGiffert offered a vision of early Christianity quite different from that of his pious Protestant forerunners. Moreover, he discounted the Protestant Reformation as the high point that (allegedly and paradoxically) had both brought Christianity back to its purer beginnings and heralded the modern age. McGiffert would significantly modify Ludlow’s definition of church history, namely, “the continuation of that life of Christ as he is resident in his people through the Holy Ghost.”2 First, Ludlow warned McGiffert that his task was to prepare young men for the ministry; he should keep his “deep scholarship” for publications. “The ordinary student,” Ludlow claimed (in words that will resonate with professors today), “is not qualified for heavy research.” He advised McGiffert to separate out “essential Christianity” from “what the ages have contributed,” adding that some thought McGiffert had “imbibed too much from his old preceptor, Harnack.”3 Since Harnack himself had famously distinguished “kernel” from



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

71

“husk” in Christian theology, Ludlow, I infer, was warning McGiffert not against this distinction, but against Harnack’s more radical assessments of early Christianity’s development. No one at Union, Ludlow assured McGiffert, would restrict his freedom of study and speech, except (rather ominously) for the restriction he puts on himself when he takes the oath of office. Ludlow hopes that students and churchmen alike will love and reverence McGiffert as they had his predecessor, Philip Schaff.4 Indeed, McGiffert did win the admiration of (at least) the better students and many of his colleagues at U ­ nion—​­although, as we have seen, his own church, the Presbyterian, did its best to expel him. McGiffert’s lecture, following the Charge, was titled “Primitive and Catholic Christianity.” It hinted at the new directions McGiffert would take. Alluding obliquely to Ludlow’s distinction between “essential Christianity” and “accretions,” McGiffert here claims that only the theologian, not the church historian, is concerned with defending or condemning the “accretions” of tradition (that is, the Catholic past). Christianity’s most f­ ar-​­reaching transformation, he posits, was from the primitive to the Catholic Church, a change largely completed by the end of the second century and more important than other historical markers often cited, such as Constantine’s conversion.5 The spirit of primitive Christianity, in McGiffert’s view, had been one of religious individualism, based on the felt presence of the Holy Spirit. (Elsewhere, he explains what he means by “individualism”: that Christianity was not at first monolithic, but entertained “individual interpretations.”)6 Given primitive Christianity’s “individualism,” it was “no wonder that its faiths and forms were legion and its sects almost as numerous.” This individualism issued in so many groups, often repressed, that church history sometimes seems “little else than a graveyard of blasted hopes and lost causes.”7 By the beginning of the third century, however, the new spirit of catholicism was in evidence, namely, “submissive to an external authority in matters both of faith and of practice, and dependence upon an external source for all needed spiritual supplies.”8 Christianity had become “stereotyped,” “a public and formal cult with fixed orders of worship, rules of conduct, and even formulas of belief.”9 McGiffert hastened to add that by the change from “primitive” to “catholic,” he did not mean Jewish Christianity’s passage to Gentile Christianity, or that from earliest Christianity to the close of the apostolic age. Primitive Christianity, based on the teaching of Jesus, had been marked by the expectation of a speedy end and by a strong ethical note.10 In the second and early third centuries, Christianity incorporated philosophical speculation to a limited

72

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

degree, while rejecting Gnostic dualism. In fact, McGiffert concludes, the very steps that churchmen took to repudiate Gnosticism led to the development of catholic Christianity and the permanent disappearance of primitive Christianity.11 Here, we can recognize the strong influence of his mentor, Harnack. On McGiffert’s reading, the transformation to catholic Christianity was accomplished in three steps. First, the teaching of the Apostles was deemed the exclusive source for Christian truth; next, the power to identify apostolic teaching was confined to the bishop alone; and last, the Catholic Church was designated the sole channel of divine grace. The Roman confession (the Old Roman Symbol) already shows the changed emphasis: belief, not ethics, is at the fore. The canon of Scripture and the rule of faith became the two official standards. In the same era, Montanism, retaining the primitive appeal to the Holy Spirit, was forced out of the mainstream church. This ejection McGiffert understood as a sign of Christianity’s secularization, the ironic result of the church’s attempt to avoid secularization: by repelling Gnostic dualism, Christianity began to resort to ecclesiastical authority, also a sign of secularization.12 McGiffert proposed a new division for church history: primitive, catholic, Protestant.13 Although the Protestant Reformation recaptured some of the primitive Christian spirit, it kept the notion of an apostolic Scripture canon. This conservative move marks the Protestant Reformation as not “modern.” Contemporary Protestants do not in truth appeal to the “Word of God,” but to the continued action of the Holy Spirit in the hearts of believers. It is this fact alone, McGiffert claims, “which can justify Protestants in retaining the Scripture as a rule of faith and practice while rejecting the Catholics’ appeal to ecclesiastical tradition. The true statement of the Protestant position is not that the Word of God, contained in the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, but that the Spirit of God is the sole and ultimate authority for Christian ­truth—​­the Spirit of God who spoke through the Apostles and who still speaks to his people.”14 McGiffert here bluntly claims that the words of Scripture are not decisive in formulating a Christianity suited for the present.

Influences Albrecht Ritschl McGiffert was a R ­ itschlian—​­“of the left rather than of the right,” according to Ambrose Vernon, his friend and eulogist.15 As a graduate student in Germany,



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

73

McGiffert developed a strong interest in Ritschl’s theology. The Ritschlian allegiances of his mentor, Harnack, influenced not only McGiffert, but also Union student and later professor William Adams Brown.16 In his 1902 book The Essence of Christianity, Brown explicated Ritschl’s theology, devoting over sixty pages to the topic.17 Brown saw Ritschl as attempting to restore Christianity’s uniqueness, supernatural in origin but nevertheless grounded in history, and to defend Christianity’s uniqueness scientifically, claiming that “value judgments” were a form of knowledge as valid as that of the sciences.18 Ritschl’s achievement, in Brown’s view, was to have discovered and defined “the essence of Christianity as a historic religion.”19 Although historian William Hutchison claims that there was no Ritschlian “school” in America in the 1890s,20 the evidence suggests that it was developing: by 1902, McGiffert’s former student J. W. Platner could write to him, “What a nest of ­neo-​­Ritschlians you have at Union!”21 McGiffert early felt called to introduce Americans to Ritschlian theology. In a brief essay composed in Germany for the Andover Review in 1887, McGiffert wrote that to “understand the present state of German theological thought, it is necessary first of all to acquaint one’s self with that great movement which is known as Ritschlianism.” Ritschl, he explains, was concerned that Christianity had become too like a philosophical system and had lost its “practical” function. Standing against both the Hegelianism of the Tübingen School and orthodox confessionalism, Ritschl holds to “a keen and severe pragmatism.”22 McGiffert claims that Ritschlianism’s import lay more in its focus on “the historical element in Christianity” than in its ­anti-​­metaphysical and ­anti-​ ­mystical emphases, as other commentators had stressed.23 In the years to come, McGiffert often expounded Ritschl’s theology to American audiences. In 1899, in a popular essay, “The Study of Early Church History,” he noted the second edition of Ritschl’s Rise of the Old Catholic Church (1857) as marking the beginning of the modern study of the early ­church—​­a modernity in which McGiffert felt he was still living. In McGiffert’s view, Ritschl had overturned Baur’s assumption that early Christianity had developed by “a purely immanent process” of theological controversy; he had rather looked to outside forces in the ­Greco-​­Roman world, to the “environment,” to explain that development. McGiffert adds that today, some scholars deem Ritschl’s emphasis on the G ­ reco-​­Roman environment too narrow, and accord similar importance to “Oriental mysticism and theosophy.”24 At Union, McGiffert taught students that Ritschl had adopted Kant’s claim that humans can know only phenomena, how things appear, not how

74

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

they are “in themselves.”25 The application of Kant’s maxim (that there can be no knowledge of the ­Ding-​­­an-​­Sich) to the notion of God implies that God can no longer be understood philosophically as “infinite.”26 In their quest for God, humans cannot transcend their limitations, either through “feeling” (with Schleiermacher) or through knowledge (with Hegel). Kant and Ritschl, McGiffert claims, assure our contemporaries that they may believe in a realm of values that gives them faith in God, love, and beauty, even when these cannot be demonstrated scientifically.27 Ritschlians hold that religion has “nothing to do with theoretical judgments” about “God, the universe, or man”; rather, it is wholly “practical,” concerned with value judgments, with “life.”28 This emphasis, McGiffert writes, alters the whole method of theology and the basis of faith.29 McGiffert explained Ritschl’s claim that humans belong to two worlds, one of ­sense-​­perception and another of ideals. Faith in God leads Christians to believe that “ideals” will win out over the world of sense. Translating classical Christian teachings about God’s grace and human endeavor, Ritschl taught that belief in exalted spiritual powers completes humans’ own power and effort. Religion gives confidence that humans can win victory over the world (as McGiffert puts it) “because we believe in a moral purpose bigger than we and to which we give ourselves.”30 McGiffert summarized this aspect of Ritschl’s theology: “We are religious when we rise above our separate and single selves into the consciousness of a divine purpose.”31 Most important, McGiffert elaborated Ritschl’s teaching of the Kingdom. Ritschl, he reports, takes the goal of Christianity to be the establishment of the Kingdom of God, a Kingdom to be won by serving, not by exploiting.32 It is to be realized on earth, not in a ­post-​­temporal experience, as traditional Christianity and even Kant had postulated: eternal life is victory over the world here and now.33 Between the time that Ritschl wrote (1850s–1880s) and McGiffert’s teaching and lecturing in the early twentieth century, however, scholars of early Christianity had been forced to confront a new understanding of what Jesus had meant by the “Kingdom of God.” Although McGiffert knew the scholarship on early Christian eschatology, he saw how it differed from Ritschl’s notion of a Kingdom that Christians would build h ­ ere-​­­and-​­now: Jesus’ message of a speedy end of the world was not what was preached by modern Christian ministers.34 In his God of the Early Christians, McGiffert gives scarcely a word to Jesus’ preaching of the Kingdom and its meaning in its fi ­ rst-​­century setting; only when he discusses the disciples’ beliefs after Jesus’ death does he mention



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

75

their expectation of Jesus’ return and establishment of the Kingdom.35 The scholarship of Johannes Weiss, Albert Schweitzer, and Alfred Loisy on Jesus’ expectation of an apocalyptic, imminent Kingdom could not be definitive for his contemporaries. Presumably he thought, with his mentor Harnack, that the Synoptic Gospels’ apocalypticism had long ago been abandoned by Christians as irrelevant to their faith. The eschatologists themselves, it is worth noting, had expressed unease on this point. The Catholic Loisy could at least point to the development of the church as the transmutation of Jesus’ apocalyptic Kingdom; Weiss and Schweitzer, as Protestants, did not find this a satisfactory resolution.36 Echoing Ritschl, McGiffert claims that “the supreme aim of Christianity is to make the world the Kingdom of God,” a world where God’s will is done by all. Christians recognize Christ as divine because he mediates God’s purpose to ­them—​­that of building a kingdom of love and righteousness.37 McGiffert adopted Ritschl’s very language: Jesus won victory over the world, the goal for which Christians also strive.38 Ritschl’s social emphasis rested on a reinterpretation of the character of G ­ od—​­that it is God’s holy purpose “to promote the spirit of love among men.”39 McGiffert credits Ritschl with “Christologizing” the doctrine of God as no one had ever done before.40 The significance of Ritschl’s line of theism, McGiffert claims, is “that God is found in the realm of values; that he is interpreted primarily as moral purpose and influence rather than as substance; and also that he is reached neither by theoretical demonstration nor by mystical vision, but by the exercise of the moral will.”41 While Ritschl rejected any “scholastic” theory of biblical inspiration, McGiffert writes, he nevertheless took the New Testament as the n ­ orm—​­and did so “because it shows us what the followers of Christ believed before Christianity became corrupted and filled with the foreign ideas of philosophy.”42 Ritschl, in McGiffert’s view, offered a way for many out of skepticism to faith.43 The “many” may well have included the young McGiffert. Kant, Pragmatism, and Ritschl McGiffert understood Ritschl as a ­latter-​­day Kantian, and linked both to the philosophy of Pragmatism popular in his day. McGiffert argues that Pragmatist ­philosophers—​­even William ­James—​­had largely overlooked Kant’s influence on Pragmatism. He cites James’s claim that the line of philosophical progress runs not through Kant, but around him. McGiffert rather argues that Kant’s claim (although we cannot prove “­super-​­sensible realities,” we postulate them

76

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

in order to live a moral life) provided a clear link to Pragmatism. For both Kant and modern Pragmatists, the conception of God arises out of practical reason, not out of metaphysical speculation. Religion then is understood as “a creative act of the moral will. Only as we stamp purpose on the world and give it ethical meaning,” McGiffert asserts, “can we live our highest life and be true to ourselves.” This is Kant’s “great religious m ­ essage”—​­and it is “gen44 uinely pragmatic.” Another aspect of Kant’s thought that McGiffert lauded was his teaching that only disinterested actions, taken in accord with the categorical imperative of duty, were praiseworthy: this, he claims, helped to “emancipate” religion from its earlier ­carrot-​­­and-​­stick role of promoting virtue by an appeal to future reward and punishment.45 Kant’s enduring importance, McGiffert elsewhere wrote, lies in his “method of postulating spiritual realities on the basis of the needs of our moral nature.”46 His “profound insight” was to reverse the maxim “I ought because I can” to “I can because I ought”: faith can wait upon love, but not love upon faith. We must do our duty, McGiffert tells students, whether it ends in success or failure.47 Moreover, Kant’s claim that there is “no knowledge apart from experience” accords well with Pragmatism. Although Kant himself cannot be called a Pragmatist, McGiffert affirms that Pragmatists are Kant’s true successors: “It is he that has made pragmatism possible.”48 Ritschl is the third link. Today, McGiffert claimed, Ritschlian theologians affirm the harmony between Kant’s philosophy and Pragmatism.49 Kant and Ritschl are both “modern” in their stress on human worth and ability (not depravity) and on the value of this world, manifest in a strong social interest.50 Ritschl followed Kant in the reconstruction of religion on the basis of moral ­will51—​­a parallel to Schleiermacher’s attempt (and evangelicalism’s, in a different mode) to reconstruct religion on the basis of feeling.52 Despite his emphasis on “the moral,” McGiffert underscored the role of imagination in religion. Religion, the fruit of imagination, enables belief in the soul and its immortality, in God and his Kingdom. Christianity’s task is to discipline imagination by ethics, making ethical that which is imagined.53 Such comments expand Ritschl’s frame. McGiffert’s interest in modern German philosophy distinguished him from both Shirley Jackson Case, who shunned philosophy, and George LaPiana, who, although well grounded in the history of philosophy, did not engage with its modern German varieties.



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

77

Adolf von Harnack Often identified as a Ritschlian, Harnack adopted some (for example, the two realms, Spirit and Nature) but not all of Ritschl’s postulates.54 Among the several ways in which Harnack deviated from Ritschl’s theology, Johannes Zachhuber argues, was his denial that the true “nature” of Christianity was revealed first and foremost in its biblical or apostolic setting; rather, it is found in the whole history of Christianity. Although in most of his historical writings, Harnack avoided “fundamental systematic questions,” in What Is Christianity? he “separated the question of the value and truth of Christianity from the results of historical work.”55 Moreover, Zachhuber claims, Harnack abandoned Ritschl’s early attempt to link Christianity’s “historicity” to its (superior) place in world religions. With this, Harnack renounced a theological interpretation of history and embraced a “relativist historicism.” Although Harnack demanded “a separation of historical research from the realm of theological truth claims,” Zachhuber argues, he failed to answer how theological claims relate to historical reality.56 McGiffert, as we shall see, was much influenced by Harnack’s stress on the ­Greco-​­Roman context of Christianity in the second and third centuries as decisively changing the primitive Christian message. As McGiffert’s scholarly career developed, however, he progressively dropped Harnack’s notion, manifest in his popular writings, of a “kernel” of unchanging Christian truth as distinguished from the “husk” of the t­ ime-​­born forms in which that “kernel” had been encased; put differently, he abandoned the notion of unchanging “divine truth” that could be distinguished from “human conceptions and statements of that truth.”57 The mature McGiffert encouraged Christians to take an “agnostic” position about all matters that lie beyond the range of their experience. Historian Grant Wacker neatly summarizes McGiffert’s development as revealing a shift from what he calls “accommodating historicism” to “consistent historicism.”58 McGiffert on Harnack McGiffert was a graduate student in Germany when the second volume of Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte appeared in 1887. In the column that McGiffert then often wrote for the Andover Review, he calls the book “the event of the autumn in the German theological world.” Harnack’s treatment of this “classical” period of dogmatic history differs from that of all earlier historians. This

78

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

period, in which the church’s foundations were laid, Harnack argues, was the most important in all doctrinal history.59 First, McGiffert explains to American readers what Harnack meant by “dogma”: not theological thinking in general, but what emerged as official doctrine of the church. Dogma, not the outgrowth of the gospel pure and simple, is “the combined product of the gospel and of ancient ­Graeco-​­Roman thought and philosophy,” especially Platonism and Stoicism. This point is ­epoch-​­making, McGiffert writes, just as was Baur’s notion that Christian dogma was a product of conflict between Jewish and Pauline Christianity. Ritschl, however, has now overturned Baur’s notion, by showing “indisputably that Jewish Christianity had no such influence in the formation of the Catholic church as had been ascribed to it.” (Neither Baur’s emphasis on Jewish Christianity, nor Ritschl’s ­de-​­emphasis, I might add, served to foster positive views of Judaism.) Harnack rejected Ritschl’s claim that Pauline Christianity spurred the development of Catholic Christianity: neither Jewish Christianity (as Baur had maintained) nor Paulinism was a dominant factor. Rather, according to Harnack, Christian dogma developed as a result of “the power of G ­ reco-​ ­Roman philosophy working upon the gospel as its material.” Yet Ritschl and Harnack agree, McGiffert notes, that the development of dogma marked a degeneration from the teaching of Christ and the Apostles, and that the gospel is found in Christ’s life rather than in doctrinal formulas. Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte, McGiffert concludes, is “the first ­really original history of Christian doctrine which has appeared in Germany since the great work of Baur.”60 The work of scholars such as Otto Pfleiderer now seemed inadequate to McGiffert when compared with Harnack’s.61 Some years later, in 1898, McGiffert, now a professor at Union Seminary, reviewed the English translation (by Neil Buchanan) of Volumes 1–3 of the third edition of Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte. McGiffert repeats his earlier claim that Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte is “almost universally recognized as the leading work upon the subject.” Again he expounds Harnack’s thesis: the “large influence of the Greek spirit in the formation and development of Christian doctrine.” In McGiffert’s view, Harnack’s major accomplishment was to correct an older assumption that saw the history of doctrine “as a mere account of the formation and development of the several propositions in the creeds of the church or in the accepted systems of theology.” This mistaken approach, McGiffert alleges, resulted in “an entire misconception, not only of the history of doctrine itself, but also of the vital relation between Christian doctrine and contemporary life and thought.” Harnack does not limit himself to exploring



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

79

particular propositions, McGiffert writes, but rather takes on the larger project of “the church’s general conception of Christianity.” He shows how the historic doctrine of the complete deity and humanity of Christ were formulated from the notion of salvation as humanity’s deification, effected by the Incarnation. McGiffert criticizes the translator’s division of the various sections of the German original: Buchanan has made “chaos of the clear and admirable arrangement of the text.” As for the translation, it is “perhaps better than average,” ­but—​­McGiffert ­adds—​­that isn’t saying much!62 Years later, as we see from the notes taken by McGiffert’s son studying at Union, McGiffert returned to Harnack. Despite McGiffert’s dislike of the English translation of the Dogmengeschichte, he instructs his students to “become acquainted with it.” Harnack’s great virtue, he now claims, is the “sharpness” with which he formulated problems, the “fertility” of the questions he asked, and the suggestions he made. McGiffert adds a gossipy tidbit: some in Germany thought Harnack too radical to hold the commanding position in Berlin, so Reinhold Seeberg was brought there in 1895 to provide a conservative counterbalance.63 McGiffert also praises Harnack’s Mission und Ausbreitung des Christentums (1902; first English translation, 1908). In an essay for an unidentified manual of historical literature, he claims that this book was “far and away the most important work we have upon the spread of Christianity in the first three centuries.”64 McGiffert, however, faulted the Harnack School on some points. First, Harnack, in his view, did not take a wide enough interest in Christian thought aside from dogma. There was much to study in early Christianity besides the formulation of dogmas. A second problem: Harnack ended his history with the Protestant Reformation, a curtailment that largely bypassed Protestantism after the sixteenth century. McGiffert reminds students in Church History 3 that the subject of this course is precisely the history of Christian thought, not of doctrine.65 Harnack’s link to America is revealed in a note, “The Future of Church History,” that he wrote in 1889 to congratulate American church historians on their formation of the American Society of Church History (1888). Mourning the deaths, within one year, of several illustrious German church historians, Harnack urges younger scholars to continue the momentum, to keep the capital of their Wissenschaft “undiminished for the succeeding generation.” Although Harnack scorns church history’s appropriation by “Church parties” to advance their own ends, he nevertheless reminds readers, “we are servants of the Gospel.” He rues the o­ ver-​­specialization now being practiced by German

80

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

historians, and advocates a study of all of church history (“All our great Church historians have studied and lectured upon the entire history of the Church”)—​ ­yet students must learn to do independent work on some smaller aspect. If they do not, they will see secular historians take away branch after branch of the discipline: already philologists have taken from “us” “the department of Ancient Christian Literature and the editorship of the Church Fathers.” He urges cooperative projects, such as the edition of the Latin Fathers by “philologists of the Vienna Academy of Sciences” (that is, the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum). The American Society of Church History, Harnack proposes, is in an advantageous position to undertake work of this sort.66 McGiffert seemed poised to pick up Harnack’s challenge. As we shall see, he taught a broad range of church history, even as he undertook specialized work on topics such as the Apostles’ Creed. Similarly, he cooperated with Schaff in producing Eusebius’ Church History for the Nicene and P ­ ost-​­Nicene Fathers series. Still, it remains dubious whether McGiffert would have called himself, as a historian, “a servant of the Gospel.” McGiffert’s allegiance to his graduate mentor continued, although World War I doubtless strained relations. In January 1915, well before America entered the war, McGiffert heard a rumor that both Harnack’s son and his ­son-​ ­­in-​­law had been killed in battle. McGiffert’s letter to Harnack is notable for its sympathetic feeling, claiming that the young men’s “heroism . . . ​will remain as a precious legacy with those that loved them.”67 Harnack replied to his “much esteemed, dear colleague” that although the s­ on-​­­in-​­law did fall, his ­son—​­“Gott sei Dank!”—​­had not: “Gott schütze ihn!” He lost four nephews to the war. Harnack knows that sentiment in the United States, especially in New England, is against Germany and for her enemies, but he hopes that finally the truth about the war will be made known. With England, Russia, and France aligned against them, Germans are “fighting for our ­existence—​ ­not for ­world-​­domination (‘Weltherrschaft’), as people allege of us.” Yet, Harnack admits, Germany has sins and errors for which she will be ­punished—​­but we can with good conscience cross out the list of sins with which the outside world charges her.68 After the war, Harnack solicited McGiffert to help him publish two essays in American journals. The scholarly publishing situation in Germany has become very difficult, Harnack wrote. He will leave the English translation of the essays up to McGiffert.69 From subsequent correspondence, we learn that McGiffert placed one (on the Sic et Non of Stephen Gobarus) with the Harvard Theological Review, and inquired if the Journal of Religion at the University of



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

81

Chicago might publish Harnack’s essay on the Nicolaitians.70 (It did; the essay was translated by Shirley Jackson Case.)71 So amid international strife, friendship prevailed. American Pragmatism A third influence on McGiffert was American Pragmatism, particularly that of William James and John Dewey. McGiffert, as Ambrose Vernon put it, was a Pragmatist with a “translucent moral purpose.”72 In New York, not only was McGiffert a member of the Philosophical Club to which John Dewey belonged, he also was socially friendly with the Deweys.73 Although Dewey’s influence is not as obvious as that of Ritschl and Harnack, a “pragmatic” approach to Christianity undergirded McGiffert’s views: Christianity is about “practice,” the living of life. As early as 1887, McGiffert was describing Ritschlianism as “a keen and severe pragmatism.”74 Works such as William James’s The Will to Believe, McGiffert claimed, show that we can postulate realities that we cannot prove, and can live by faith in them. This emphasis, he explains, goes back to Kant, although Kant’s influence did not get felt in theology until t­ hree-​­quarters of a century later, with Ritschl. This emphasis, McGiffert adds, alters the whole method of theology and the basis of faith.75 For both Kant and Ritschl, faith is not passive, but active and creative, “a ­venture”—​­and James posits something similar in his idea of the “will to believe.” Proof and assurance rests in the future, not in the past.76 In a chapel talk in 1921, McGiffert contrasted the philosophies of George Santayana and William James.77 Whereas Santayana believed in the unchangeability of human nature, James endorsed such change. McGiffert cites James on the will to believe, pluralism, pragmatism, and radical empiricism: these are true Christian attitudes, he avers, which in Christian language is spoken of as the new birth, the new creation, the new heaven and earth. The possibility of making over human nature is the “very essence of Christianity.” But it is not enough to make conditions anew; humans themselves must be made anew. This remaking of human nature, McGiffert predicts, will not come about by supernatural means or by religious revival, but by worldwide education in schools and churches.78 Here, Pragmatism and McGiffert’s Protestant Liberalism meet.

82

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Christianity and Modernity Modernity, McGiffert frequently remarked, did not begin with the Protestant Reformation.79 Luther, conservative, intolerant, and religiously bigoted,80 had no interest in social reform, as evidenced by his opposition to the Zwickau Prophets and the Peasants’ War. His inattention to “the social and economic evils of the day” served to align the Reformation with the upper and middle strata of society.81 Luther’s Reformation remained incomplete, retaining too much of the “old system,” seen (for example) in his preaching of human depravity and helplessness, the wrath of God, eternal punishment, and hellfire.82 Luther and other early Protestants neglected missions, believing that only the Apostles had been charged to evangelize the world, a task also hindered by the preaching of predestination (God could save the heathen if he so willed, without the benefit of missionaries).83 While aiming in the right direction, Luther failed to carry through a Christocentric emphasis; his successors, forgetting his fundamental teaching, “put the Bible in the place he had given to Christ.” The Reformed church, for its part, wrongly assigned the Old Testament more weight than the New.84 On the positive side, Luther’s theology was always “practical”; speculation and “science [Wissenschaft] as an end in itself had no appeal.”85 McGiffert’s belief that the Reformation was unfinished owes much to Ritschl.86 Unlike theological conservatives past and present, McGiffert praised the Enlightenment as central to the birth of modernity. Only then were the foundations of democracy laid, the theory of natural rights espoused. Humans gained a new confidence in themselves, their achievements, and future progress. Rejecting their irreparable “fallenness,” they felt less need for supernatural redemption. Intellectual leadership passed from the clergy to the laity; humanitarian ideals and a more cosmopolitan spirit spread among the educated classes.87 Only now did Protestantism enter the modern world.88 Another e­ ighteenth-​­century movement, Pietism, shifted religious emphasis from dogma to “life.” This shift, McGiffert claims, had the beneficial effect of encouraging tolerance of other Christian sects. A l­ong-​­term result was the (welcome) limitation of “essential” beliefs to those that bore on personal piety and the Christian life, with an emphasis on “experience.”89 To transcend the division between Pietism and Rationalism, to recast traditional Protestantism, would be the task of the great ­nineteenth-​­century German theologians and their adherents elsewhere.90 Schleiermacher established religion’s seat in “feel-



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

83

ing,” in the consciousness of oneness with the infinite; religion thus entered the sphere of psychology.91 (McGiffert, however, thinks that Schleiermacher perhaps overemphasized religious experience.)92 As the distinction between “true” and “false” religions became irrelevant in academic study, the history of religion received an impetus.93 The development of modern science was of particular interest to McGiffert. He told Union students in 1924: “Many of the old beliefs about the physical universe . . . ​have been proved erroneous and are no longer generally accepted by intelligent men. As a consequence Christianity itself has suffered widespread discredit and thousands reject it because it seems inextricably bound up with an exploded astronomy, physics or biology.” Christians, McGiffert insists, may accept all facts discovered by modern science without hindering their faith. Christianity needed to be unhinged from “an outworn science.”94 Another major difference between traditional and modern Christianity, McGiffert claimed, was prompted by the ­historical-​­critical study of the Bible, which “destroyed” older views.95 Given advances in scientific knowledge, the Bible could no longer be “protected” by clever reinterpretations aiming to reconcile textual contradictions.96 The Jesus of the Gospels was “set free from the integuments in which the devotion and the misunderstanding of the Christian church enswathed him, and has been allowed for the first time to speak for himself.”97 The historical study of the New Testament, McGiffert writes, prompts theologians today to emphasize the great ethical and religious principles of Jesus. This emphasis marks a change from the past, when the “divine manhood” of Christ was rarely recovered from traditional affirmations regarding the Logos, one person in two natures, and similar formulas.98 Christians, McGiffert admits, cannot base their whole faith on Jesus’ teaching as reported in the Bible, since the genuineness of many of his sayings is in doubt. They can, however, appropriate for themselves the “controlling principle of his life”: to induce in us and others “the life of freedom from fear and sin, the life of complete victory over the world through faith in God his father and through devotion to his will,—​­and so to establish on earth the kingdom of God.” Jesus displayed his Messiahship in his steadfast imparting of faith in the Kingdom; here, we recognize his divinity. This, McGiffert proclaims, is all the God we need. Notions about the creation of the world, human origins, the historicity of Adam, the fall and the deluge, Jonah, the nature and attributes of the Absolute: “With all these matters Christianity has absolutely nothing to do, any more than with astronomy or geology or mathematics.” We

84

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

might put this revised theology into creeds, McGiffert suggests, not as tests of orthodoxy or heresy, but as “declarations of Christian purpose.”99 In McGiffert’s program, we see Ritschl’s influence, albeit with a pronounced retreat from the New Testament as the center of Christian life and belief. A New Christianity for a New Age Although other ages may have been more skeptical or even hostile to Christianity, McGiffert declared, our own has seen the most f­ar-​­reaching changes in “fundamental theological conceptions.” Those who have made the transition to this new era (such as Union professors and students) should remember that others are still in the midst of turmoil. Ministers and theologians must help those groping for “some firm ground to stand upon amidst the wreck and ruin of the convictions that they have held most sacred and most dear.” A minister needs a strong faith “to go without faltering into the very thick of the fight,” believing that God’s truth will prevail; “he must not shrink and falter and grow pale at every unfamiliar sound or sight.”100 Ministers must be “manly.” McGiffert considered the revised understanding of Christianity in his era “extraordinary” (one of his favorite words). New scientific knowledge, historical spirit and methods, views of the world, humans, and society have impacted theology: the theologian is challenged to fit “the eternal gospel” to the “needs” of the new age.101 Christianity today, in contrast to previous times, has “a vast confidence in the powers of man.”102 Moreover, modern scholars have learned to distinguish “religion” from “theology,” the latter being reflection on religion. This distinction, McGiffert claims, made possible the scientific study of the history of ­religions—​­a final step in religion’s “emancipation.”103 Among the fields that needed reconceptualization was history. While in former times, the Golden Age was imagined to be in the past, McGiffert wrote, our contemporaries look to the future.104 We study history not primarily to know the past, but (sounding a Deweyan note) to comprehend the present, the test of which lies in the f­ uture—​­not whether we agree with the early Christian Fathers. Orthodoxy teaches Christians to keep to the past; now, “we” encourage them to be true to the “opportunities” that the modern world affords: that is “Christianity’s business.”105 Today’s Christians need not think and do only as their forefathers did; they refuse to make a fetish of the past. Rather, they should crown the past with a better present. Their motto should not be “Back to Christ,” but “Forward with Christ.”106 Theology too, in McGiffert’s view, was in the process of reconstruction. It



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

85

must be adapted to the “peculiar wants of the age.” Christians must use language of their own time, or adjust earlier names (such as “Father” for God) to newer conceptions. The very figure of Christ does not remain static, for humans read themselves and their concerns into it.107 Some of the difficulties theologians now face, McGiffert contends, stem from formulations made in the distant past. For example, they are not based on the “life and work of Jesus,” but rather on notions of the eternal Logos, of God, conceived of as absolute goodness and absolute will. Only in our own day has Ritschl attempted theological reconstruction, and even he left much undone. Christian theology should be based solely on Christ, with the Bible considered simply as an “aid” to a better understanding of him. McGiffert echoes Ritschl: Christian theology is about life, a practical discipline, not a philosophy of God, of the universe, of man.108 New Emphases Despite McGiffert’s far more critical approach to the New Testament than Ritschl, his highly Christocentric theology reflects his Ritschlian allegiances. What was Christ’s work? To give ethical ideals and purposes: “victory over the world” (that is, superiority to pain, loss, and death), freedom from fear of sin (a reinterpretation of redemption), moral peace (divine forgiveness), moral power, “confidence in the permanent and independent worth of the human spirit” (eternal life), and to humans, a “new character” (regeneration). Moreover, he has “given us God. We believe in God because of Christ. We are sure of him because of Christ.” Those who think in terms of “substance,” McGiffert writes, could not see Christ as divine because there is no “divine substance” in him; but if we think in terms of “purpose,” then Christ is divine since there is “nothing higher than his purpose.” Affirming two diverse natures in Christ is not a feature of McGiffert’s platform.109 Unitarians, in his view, err in starting from God and working “down” to Christ as second; this is to “reverse the historic Christian order.”110 About the latter, he would have much to say in his discussion of early Christian belief. Along with Christocentrism, McGiffert, like other Liberals, stressed the Kingdom of G ­ od—​­another sign of Ritschl’s influence. Yet, as noted above, it was not the Kingdom uncovered by Johannes Weiss and Albert Schweitzer. For McGiffert, the K ­ ingdom—​­not to be identified with the ­church—​­is “the reign of God, of his purposes, of his ideals, of his spirit in the relationships and in the institutions of the world.”111 In the past, he alleged, to be a Christian

86

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

meant, in effect, “to be a Buddhist under another name (asceticism), or a Mohammedan (fighting for God), or a Jew (worshipping God and keeping his law).” For “us,” however, being a Christian means promoting the Kingdom of God through a life of Christian service.112 Another change in theological conception: God is interpreted in ethical rather than “physical and legal” terms, as a loving Father. The stress is on divine immanence, not transcendence.113 Abandoned is the old dualism of nature versus supernature, the separation of this world and the next. Likewise, the notion that revelation occurred only in the past has been replaced with the view of God’s “constant presence and the permanent inspiration.”114 Adopting ­Hegelian-​­inspired language, McGiffert proposed that Christianity teaches “the perpetual incarnation of God in ­humanity—​­the perpetual union of God and man.”115 Christians today cannot simply fall back on the creeds, as perhaps they once could, for Christianity has “broken its old bonds and has taken on new aspects which the fathers never dreamed of.”116 McGiffert’s pragmatic approach to Christianity emerged in several ways. In his view, attempts to turn faith into knowledge (for example, by trying to prove the existence of God or immortality) are “quite vain.” Christians do not need complete certainty to live rightly. Insisting on the necessity of infallible truth is dangerous, in that it leads to “bigotry and disunity.” It is the role of science, not of religion, to offer certainty. Rather, religion gives ideals, inspirations, and opportunities, “the invitation to venture all for a high and holy cause.”117 The function of God lies not so much in the realm of explanation, but rather in the help it offers as Christians strive to overcome the world’s evils. It is not possible, McGiffert reiterates, to prove in the abstract that God exists.118 The sacraments were among the aspects of traditional Christian thought and practice that McGiffert questioned. Since the notion of sacraments as conveyors of grace rests on a view of the depravity of “natural man” that modern theology discards, Protestantism has no place for it. Baptism, he writes, should rather be viewed simply as a dedication ceremony, and the Lord’s Supper, as a memorial of Christ or a token of Christian fellowship. As such, there is “no harm in them” and good can come from their observance. Perhaps it would be best to ethicize these observances and stop calling them “sacraments.”119 A former student reported that McGiffert warned that the sacraments could even be “dangerous” unless correctly ­interpreted—​­that is, by understanding baptism as the consecration of a child to the discovery and performance of God’s will, and the Lord’s Supper as a feast of thanksgiving for “knowledge of that will and the sacrifice entailed to embrace it.”120 Such is



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

87

what the ethicizing of the sacraments might entail. As McGiffert makes clear, modernizing Christianity would challenge many aspects of traditional belief and practice.

Roman Catholicism: Authority, Hierarchy, and Protest Institutional Hierarchy in Ancient Catholicism Catholic assertions regarding ecclesiastical authority and hierarchy, McGiffert tells students, had been developing since the early Christian centuries. He considers Augustine the chief architect of the Catholic Church’s claims to supreme authority on earth and as the only conduit to salvation.121 McGiffert speculates on the reason for Augustine’s view: given his tendency to skepticism, he needed an authority. (This need, McGiffert adds, “chiefly takes Protestants to Rome”).122 While Irenaeus believed that the church had the authority to pronounce truth, Augustine went further, asserting that it “had the authority to rule the world.” This view the papacy strove to enforce, and partially realized, in the Middle Ages; indeed, McGiffert writes, until today it forms part of the papal ideal. Recall that Augustine wrote (C. Ep. Man. 5) that he would not believe the Gospel unless moved by the authority of the Catholic Church. Such a belief gave peace to John Henry Newman (McGiffert cites his Apologia pro vita sua). Such claims, McGiffert comments, appear foreign to many today, but to those who “live in an atmosphere of the supernatural,” they seem natural. He adds: no wonder that a Catholic, with such a strong view of the church, can look with “pitying contempt upon the countless ephemeral sects that mark our Protestant Christendom.”123 Contemporary Roman Catholicism McGiffert took more interest in ­nineteenth-​­and t­wentieth-​­century Roman Catholicism than many Protestants of his day. He called the 1854 decree on the Immaculate Conception of Mary “a striking manifestation of reactionary spirit” that testified to the power of the Jesuits. The ostensible purpose of the 1870 Vatican Council, he tells students, was “to set barriers on [the] liberal tendencies of [the] age,” but the real aim was to provide a venue for the declaration of papal infallibility. When Protestants objected to that doctrine, Catholics responded, since you make the Apostles of the Bible infallible, why can

88

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

we not make the Pope so? Liberals, both Catholic and Protestant, McGiffert notes, trying to look on the bright side of the 1870 decree, claim that it could potentially free the Church from the bonds of the past (that is, a papal pronouncement could overrule past decisions)—​­but to date that claim has had “no practical effects either way.” The opposition of Old Catholics and others to the 1870 decree was largely fueled by historians, who, he implies, do not carry much weight with Vatican authorities. Now, both conservatives and liberals seem resigned to accept the decree.124 McGiffert on Roman Catholic Modernism Both in the classroom and in public lectures, McGiffert analyzed contemporary Catholic Modernism. Modernists, McGiffert tells students in 1917, considered Christianity to be at the “­cross-​­roads,” alluding to the title of George Tyrrell’s last book, published posthumously, Christianity at the ­Cross-​­Roads.125 In America, the launch of the Catholic Encyclopedia began in sympathy with Modernism, but soon dropped its support. The Modernist movement, however, became more widely known because of its condemnation. Mentioning works by Catholic Modernists Hermann Schell, Loisy, and Tyrrell, McGiffert notes Modernism’s rapid demise: “even six years ago we were right in the thick of the movement,” but now it is “absolutely dead.”126 For his Protestant students, McGiffert listed the factors that spurred Catholic Modernism: first and foremost, historical and biblical criticism; next, the principles of historical evolution and divine immanence. Modernists rejected the sharp contrast between natural and supernatural and the “externality” of traditional Catholicism. Some points of Modernist writing, in McGiffert’s view, approximate Protestant positions. Modernists, for example, see the Bible as a record of past religious experience, whose value lies in its promotion of faith. While they champion religious liberty, their social understanding of the church nevertheless differs from Protestant individualism. Modernism, McGiffert tells students, had the most vogue in France.127 McGiffert’s personal interest in Modernism was piqued by the 1907 decrees of Pius X, Pascendi dominici gregis and the “Syllabus” that condemned ­sixty-​­five “errors,” Lamentabili sane exitu. Pius, McGiffert tells students, aimed to retain Scholastic philosophy as the dominant mode of Catholic thought, limit the study of natural sciences, control professorial appointments in Roman Catholic institutions, and prohibit Modernist writings. He excommunicated Modernists who opposed the principle of absolute papal authority. To be sure,



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

89

McGiffert concedes, Modernists had deviated from Ultramontane Catholic teachings.128 In 1909, McGiffert’s colleague Charles Briggs wrote from Switzerland, glad to hear of his interest in Modernism, and urging him to take a more radical position. Briggs alleged, rather ungracefully, that when the two had talked prior to his departure, McGiffert sounded more sympathetic to the Pope’s judgment (in the 1907 decrees) than to the defenders of Modernism!129 In that very year, 1909, however, McGiffert gave the Dudleian lectures at Harvard on “Modernism and Catholicism,” a version of which was published in 1910 in the Harvard Theological Review.130 This essay gives his fullest assessment of Roman Catholic Modernism. Both Catholic Modernism and Protestant Liberalism, McGiffert here claims, are outgrowths of Christianity’s adjustment to the modern world, an adjustment prompted by science, history, psychology, and the theory of evolution, among other currents. Principles of Christianity’s growth and development had already found their place in biblical and historical criticism; affirmations of God as immanent in humanity and the world had been advanced, as had the role of human experience in religion; also important was the influence of Kantian epistemology. Moreover, he notes, Modernist Catholics emphasize the social element in religion.131 For most of its history, McGiffert continues Catholicism claimed that humans, “radically bad” and helpless, must be granted salvation from without, a claim that Protestantism inherited. Although Modernists rejected several traditional teachings, they did not necessarily warm to Protestantism: English Modernist George Tyrrell, for example, faulted Protestantism as too individualistic. Catholicism, Tyrrell claimed, favors “the social principle in religion over against the atomistic.”132 McGiffert devoted part of his Dudleian lectures to explicating Tyrrell’s 1908 book, Medievalism, an attack on papal absolutism. Papal absolutism, McGiffert comments, is not a new phenomenon: to be sure, the Jesuits championed it in the nineteenth century and succeeded with the 1870 declaration of papal infallibility, but its roots go back to Thomas Aquinas and other even earlier thinkers. Modernists thus are combating elements of tradition that go back many centuries. For example, Modernists like Tyrrell celebrate Catholicism’s unity, but reject notions of hierarchical ­ authority—​­ yet that link, ­McGiffert-​­­the-​­historian observes, has been in place since the second century.133 Against papal authority, Tyrrell champions the collective authority of bishops, seen as “servants,” if that authority rests on the consent of the people. Appealing to bishops as the teaching authority of the church, McGiffert adds, also

90

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

goes back to the second century. Even in the patristic era, bishops claimed final authority, standing against other Christians, if necessary; they came to be considered mediators of divine grace.134 The patristic era, in other words, stood at the beginning of developments that Modernists now protested. Moreover, McGiffert continues, Tyrrell rejected the notion of faith as “theology”; rather, it is “life.” Hence, every believer can be a judge of faith. McGiffert, agreeing, comments that this affirmation is at base Protestant, not Catholic; it is obvious why the authorities (and not just Ultramontanes) condemned Tyrrell’s position. To have fellowship in Christian life and work, McGiffert concludes, one does not need the official Catholic Church; in fact, the Vatican’s emphasis on hierarchy and infallibility stands as a bar to it. On the Protestant side, McGiffert welcomes the dwindling of the “extreme individualism” and competitive sectarianism of an earlier Protestantism, replaced by a spirit of cooperation for the good of humanity.135 McGiffert concludes his lecture on a positive note. Catholic Modernists (rightly) criticized Protestants’ granting supreme authority to the Scriptures, claiming that it hindered the development of modern thought. McGiffert rejoins that in theologies influenced by Schleiermacher, the emphasis on scriptural authority does not prevail. Authority is seen to rest elsewhere. Nor is modern Protestantism now “unhistorical,” as Catholics could formerly, with reason, charge. Both Protestant Liberals and Catholic Modernists, McGiffert concludes, seek a modern Christianity centered on Christ. Their mutual quest holds promise for the future.136 As the next discussion suggests, McGiffert entertained warmer feelings for Catholic Modernism than he did for Protestant Evangelicalism.

Evangelical Protestantism McGiffert charged traditional Christianity with overemphasizing individualism and personal salvation, a problem compounded by the Reformation and now manifest in evangelical Protestantism. He deems it a great shame, even “vicious,” that the early church had failed its mission by preaching a message of personal salvation to the exclusion of social and political ethics. This emphasis led later generations to think that society and politics were not “Christian” issues; hence they did not address problems of slavery, war, and capitalism.137 Today, McGiffert charges, evangelicals espouse too narrow an understanding of Christianity, making the gospel too simple. They take a “low view of



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

91

human nature,” focus on personal sin, and ignore the world around them.138 McGiffert especially disliked what he called evangelicals’ “crude and unintelligent” premillenarianism. Their ­ gospel—​­ individualism, pessimism, otherworldliness, supernaturalism, biblical literalism, and ­ authoritarianism—​­ is “opposed to liberalism in every form.” The Bible is not the final court of appeal for the Christian conscience; that is Christ himself.139 In times past, McGiffert asserts, evangelical leaders, revolting against the representation of God as arbitrary and absolute, went to the opposite extreme and took “all the iron out of Christianity and made it mere sentimentalism.” The “best and manliest” Christians, by contrast, prefer “a religion of conscience” in which obligations are sacred and duty has absolute authority: “This is the heart of the religion of Jesus.” Ministers, in his view, should preach “the imperative of duty, the commanding voice of conscience.”140 McGiffert’s Jesus, unlike the evangelicals’, emerges as a Kantian avant la lettre. Evangelicalism, McGiffert concedes, is not alone in emphasizing the personal: so do psychoanalysis, psychology, and mysticism. In whatever form, this tendency is dangerous. It represents a “swing back to the old narrow and selfish individualism,” losing “the splendid passion and vision of modern ­times—​­the greatest in Christian history.” Ethics should be social, “the fruit of personal religion,” spirituality and social enterprise reinforcing each other.141 Today, McGiffert dramatically posits, we can boast that “the Galilean has conquered” in that history has endorsed Christ’s message of greatness through service.142 McGiffert believed that the church was suffering a loss of leadership because it had stressed “unimportant things.” Evangelicals’ “negative ethic” focused only on private holiness. Their sin, he claims, is that “they have provided no great positive aims. They have been content with too little or have substituted meaningless or trivial things (dancing, etc.) for ­really important things. Evangelicalism represents a great betrayal. When it awakened the conscience of the world it gave it nothing worth doing save the pursuit of personal and negative virtue. It preached purity and unselfishness in private relations, but had nothing to say about public and national relations.”143 Evangelicals who seek only their own salvation, McGiffert brusquely charges, “ought to be kept out of the church.” Rather, the church needs to be ahead of the world in its ideals, to lead, not to follow. Protestantism too often caved in to “local influences”; Roman Catholicism, whatever its defects, has the structure to rise above the local. For example, if Protestantism were to advance to a new ideal, it would no longer “accept the capitalistic ideal here and the labor ideal there, the tariff here and free trade there, autocracy here and

92

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

democracy there.” The immediate goal, to McGiffert’s mind, is democracy and internationalism. What the next generation’s ideal will be, he cautioned, we cannot predict: ideals must change with the circumstances.144 McGiffert noted evangelicalism’s ill effects during the Great War. Its emphasis on “a converting instead of a teaching church” had served soldiers poorly. By putting the “new birth” at the center of Christian commitment, evangelicals failed to offer doctrinal or ethical instruction. The result? Surveys taken among soldiers showed that they were largely oblivious to or disgusted by religion as it was presented to them.145 McGiffert confessed to Union students that, as a boy, he had so disliked prayer meetings that he was accused of “irreligion.” By contrast, the reticence attending set prayer has some virtue, as, for example, in Quaker services. The Latin of Roman Catholic public worship, for its part, keeps religious emotion within bounds in that confession.146 From this standpoint, McGiffert faulted Billy Sunday’s evangelizing techniques. Ministerial students such as those at Union, he insists, should show their respect for God and their fellow humans by learning to prepare their church services c­ arefully—​­something Billy Sunday does not.147 Although McGiffert was invited to a meal (with “no financial solicitation”) to hear about Billy Sunday’s work, there is no indication that he went.148 Similarly, McGiffert criticized ministers who interjected their personal religious experience into services: nothing could be more “fatuous.” To do so, McGiffert warns students, is to confine your congregation “to an all too meager spiritual diet.”149 Was there hope for a better future? McGiffert believed so. Today, he told Union students in 1920, most earnest evangelicals do not separate personal salvation from ­character—​­nor do the most zealous Social Gospelers divorce social salvation from social character: “character” is the key. “Character” should be understood so that the man who claims that he is “saved” will serve his era in the spirit of Christ. Such an emphasis would encourage Christians to reunite “in the common task of bringing in the Kingdom.”150 McGiffert was too optimistic: within a few years, the Scopes trial would rally conservative Christians against his brand of Liberal ­Protestantism—​­and that of University of Chicago professors, about whom we shall shortly hear. What is needed now, McGiffert claims, is not “sentiment” or appeals to “mutual love,” but “cooperation and service of the community.” If we had a “morality of position,” it would not be enough to say that a man was “good” if he was honest and kind to his wife; he would also have to be a good employer who dealt with employees in a spirit of cooperation. Christians must be



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

93

concerned with poverty, with capital and labor, “how to elevate the lower classes and give them something worth living for.”151 McGiffert repeats Ritschl’s claim that the Kingdom of God is won by serving, not by exploiting.152 “God’s will is a social will,” which prompts us to serve.153 McGiffert knew that many outside the church were working to solve social problems.154 He regrets, however, that these (presumably leftist) reformers have no higher gospel to offer than the redistribution of property. He objects to opposing the material to the spiritual; that juxtaposition in early Christianity led to asceticism, an “unhealthful belief ” that stymied progress.155 Although man cannot live by bread alone, he remarks, without bread he cannot live at all.156 McGiffert conceded that evangelicals’ criticism of the Social Gospel had a point: the latter was often “superficial and empty and unspiritual.” Christianity, after all, is a religion as well as an ethic. Either a wholly individualistic or a wholly social approach to Christianity he deemed “emasculated,” “only half of Christianity.”157 To try to make religion “social,” McGiffert tells students, “is to externalize and desecrate it.”158 Rather, “personalize your religion; socialize your ethics.”159 Jesus was not a social democrat: his approach implied “benevolent paternalism,” as is seen in the parable of the laborers in the vineyard, to whom the householder gives the same pay despite their different hours of labor (Matt. 20:1–16).160 William Hutchison, in his classic study of Protestant Liberalism, confirms McGiffert’s lack of interest in the Social Gospel m ­ ovement—​ 161 ­despite his emphasis on service. Perhaps McGiffert’s somewhat elitist and paternalistic approach to the working classes helps to explain this lack.

Historiography From early in his career, McGiffert wrote and spoke, in public lectures and in the classroom, about historiography. His work as a graduate student translating and annotating Eusebius’ Church History for the Nicene and P ­ ost-​­Nicene Fathers series doubtless promoted this interest. His assessment of Eusebius hints at the historiographical practices he admired and those he spurned. Eusebius as Historian While praising Eusebius, McGiffert admits his limitations: for example, Eusebius failed to read the works of heretics he faults and was ignorant of the Latin

94

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

church and its literature. Nevertheless, Eusebius, of “sound judgment,” was far superior as a historian to most of his successors, who “disfigured” their works with legends of saints and martyrs, with “fables and prodigies” and other improbable ­tales—​­of little interest or value for Christians today. Eusebius usually rejected “spurious and unreliable sources,” despite his misguided affirmation of Abgar’s correspondence with Jesus, and Josephus’ alleged testimony to Christ. He accepted some points with childlike faith. Yet his ­oft-​­criticized Life of Constantine is not in McGiffert’s view “dishonest”; judged by the standards of his age, his credulity was not “excessive,” although scholars today are more skeptical of his claims.162 Still, McGiffert concedes, Eusebius had no concept of historiography as a “fine art.” He failed to grasp the “organic” whole of his history and lacked any notion of theological development. Moreover, Eusebius avoided what we consider “the most instructive part of Church h ­ istory—​­the history of doctrine.” (This claim reveals McGiffert’s own interest, one that sets him apart from both George LaPiana and Shirley Jackson Case.) Eusebius was careless with chronological details and, with his “desultory” method, sometimes lost the thread of his discussion.163 His “transcendental and dualistic” framework, namely, that history is a struggle between God and Satan, stands contrary to the postulates of historical development. Yet Eusebius’ thesis was copied by Christians up to the present, especially by those in the Catholic Church (Newman’s advocacy of “development” did not win, McGiffert adds).164 McGiffert ends his “Prolegomena” with a list of testimonies “for” and “against” Eusebius by ancient authors.165 Church History and Historiography In the early 1890s, before he began teaching at Union, McGiffert spoke several times at Lane Theological Seminary on the study of history and church history. He wished to impress upon his Ohio audiences the importance of the historical method, which, he alleged, controls all lines of investigation in our time. Studying history should neither lead to conservatism nor promote a relativism that obliterates the distinction between true and false.166 Today, the historical method—​­ ­ which examines origin and growth, development, relations to ­environment—​­is acknowledged to be “the only truly scientific method of investigation.” Studying church history by this method has prompted a fairer assessment of “true catholicity.” Only inorganic matter, on the one hand, and God, on the other, are exempt from historical treatment, which is appropriate



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

95

to any development in which humans have a role. Christianity as “an external visible institution” is ripe for investigation by this method.167 McGiffert’s interest in historiography and historical method continued over the years of his career. Speaking in 1898 on “History and Theology,” McGiffert faulted older church history books for failing to differentiate church history from dogmatic theology. This confusion deprived theologians of getting the “light and guidance” from historians that they needed to interpret Christianity for their own time. The task of the history of theology is to understand not divine truth, but rather “the thought of Christians of the past,” to learn what and why they ­believed—​­false beliefs included. Historians need not pass judgment on ­now-​­dead persons by present standards or declare their own beliefs. Rather, starting from Christianity’s origins, they must ask how and under what circumstances the first Christians reached their beliefs and imparted them to others. Only with a correct historical view, provided by historians, can theologians do their work.168 History is the standard to which theology must conform. Often, McGiffert charged, humans have been considered as “fixed and static,” the past as an “unchanging whole”: these beliefs have impeded historical imagination. Today we know that neither the past nor the present is stable, that human nature changes with beliefs, ideals, and environment. Differences among “races” or national groups are now attributed to environment and ideals, not to “blood.” Relinquishing the idea that humans occupy the center of the universe marks a change from an “egocentric philosophy.”169 The battles that McGiffert’s ­nineteenth-​­century predecessors had waged over “development” in Christian history had cooled. Yet many Christians, he charged, still imagine the early church as rapidly declining, from the “spring” of Jesus’ lifetime, through the “summer” of the apostolic age, to the “autumn” of philosophy’s influence on the faith, and the “winter” of ­church-​­state union under Constantine. “Spring,” they claimed, had sprung again with the Reformation, in whose sunlight they still lived.170 This view McGiffert would seek to correct, although he, too, sometimes pictured the early church as “declining.” McGiffert claimed that enlightened modern Christians, by learning to trace historical development, have emancipated themselves from “theological tyranny.” They no longer simply repeat what past generations thought, but think for themselves. Historical development, he argues, is more than the unfolding of a germ, in which the end is already given in the beginning, as John Henry Newman imagined; it is also more than Hegelians’ picture of “the mere unfolding of the Absolute.” McGiffert counters: evolution means a new

96

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

creation (a view supported by the History of Religions School), not just the “old in a new form.” Christianity has “no unchangeable essence, no static form,” although historians can distinguish the controlling “threads” from the subordinate. No “essence” of Christianity can be discovered by stripping off the husk of “local and temporary beliefs and practices.” Here, the mature McGiffert rejects the famous formula of his mentor Harnack on “kernel and husk,” and explicitly praises University of Chicago professor Shirley Jackson Case’s book The Evolution of Christianity.171

Provincialism: In the Present World, in History McGiffert, an advocate of the League of Nations, took a larger view of Christians’ engagement with the world than many Christian leaders of his day.172 Provincialism, he told the graduates of Western Reserve University in 1924, is a curse of contemporary Christians. Like the man of Isaiah 28:20 whose bed was too short for him to stretch out, many were still occupying “the procrustean bed of their early prejudices, and still clinging to the n ­ arrow-​­minded intolerance of childhood.” Prejudices, anomalous in today’s world, still prevail: East aligned versus West, labor versus capital, white versus black, Protestant versus Catholic, Christian versus Jew; in our time, the “ugly barbarism of K ­ lu-​ ­Kluxism,” Congress’s treatment of the Japanese, the hostility of many t­ oward the World Court and the League of Nations. Christianity’s principle of brotherhood counters this narrowness, but, even more, Americans need an education that acquaints them with other peoples. “Distrust and hatred of the unfamiliar are the mark always and everywhere of the barbarian,” McGiffert concluded.173 McGiffert excoriated provincialism in the approach to history as well, which he associated especially with the rise of ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy, on the one hand, and the growing strength of Protestant Fundamentalism, on the other. At Western Reserve University’s graduation in 1924, he rued that some consider history “negligible” and ignore everything “of ancient lineage.” He counters: “Were there no future we could conceivably get on without a past.”174 At Union’s graduation the same year, McGiffert decried chronological provincialism, as misguided as its geographical counterpart. The Great War, he observed, accentuated Americans’ focus on the present and their contempt for the past. The graduates, spiritual leaders of their generation, must avoid infection with



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

97

this “malady.” As Christian leaders strive to Christianize the world, students need to attend to the “heritage of other centuries.”175 Humanizing History Among McGiffert’s writings is a chapter (“The Humanizing of History”) that he wrote for an unspecified book. His point of departure was H. G. Wells’s Outline of History, which provides a terminus post quem of 1920. McGiffert aims to rescue Wells’s book from the disparagement of professional historians. Wells’s chapter on early Christianity, he claims, shows “an insight, a sympathy, a discernment” that many specialists lack: a scholar who has concentrated only on text criticism and sifting evidence could not have written this book. Wells “humanizes history” by focusing on “the countless multitude” who die unnoticed; to the extent possible, “he succeeds in making them live again in a real world.”176 Here, we see a recommendation for history “from below,” a challenge later taken up by social historians, microhistorians, and others. Another way in which Wells’s book “humanizes history,” according to McGiffert, lies in its freedom from ­“transcendentalism”—​­that is, no superhuman powers; “eternal principles and universal law” are invoked to explain human events. “To Eusebius of Caesarea, Augustine of Hippo, and countless other Christian historians, history was nothing but an agelong conflict between God and Satan.” Kant too (whom McGiffert otherwise favors) affirmed a hidden purpose in nature and, in this respect, was just as “transcendentalist” as Augustine, Orosius, Otto of Freising, and Hegel, whose approaches to history “dehumanize.” Even Auguste Comte and Karl Marx, by forcing history into stages, are guilty of a different kind of transcendentalizing; they apply laws that “do violence to much of human life.” In that for them, humans merely illustrate laws, they too dehumanize history. “Economic man” in McGiffert’s view is an “unnatural monster.”177 Still another way in which Wells humanizes history, McGiffert claims, lies in his appeal to evolution. Like Johann Gottfried von Herder, Wells goes back to the world’s formation and the growth of animal life; humans are not his starting point. This evolutionary approach shows that humanity is not a finished product, but is changing and growing. How have humans evolved? At least in the recent history of western Europe and America, “We do not expose our children; we do not sell our daughters into slavery; we do not cut off the heads of our conquered foes and hang them up as trophies in our streets; we

98

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

do not burn witches or even heretics; we do not prostrate ourselves upon our faces when the Mayor or even the President passes by.”178 Such changes show humans, even in recent historical time, to be evolving.

Studying Church History It is “absurd” (one of McGiffert’s favorite words) to imagine that Christians today could reproduce the simplicity of the apostolic church: the notion of a “second childhood” is in his view simply “the inanity of a decrepit old age.” We cannot “unlive our life,” going back through the centuries as if we lived there. Besides, there is no reason to idolize the Apostolic church, which was an “infant”; “manhood,” maturity, is better. The early church’s “very incomplete apprehension” of the Word of God developed more fully with time. By contrast, “we” today approach doctrines as human conceptions of divine truths.179 McGiffert impressed upon students that the history of doctrine was a relatively new field. In the Reformation era, the study of doctrine was for “polemical purposes.” Only at the end of the eighteenth century did the history of Christian thought begin to break away from a polemical form of systematic theology. The first such history, Johann Lange’s, published in 1796, now seems “a curiosity.” Throughout the nineteenth century, historians of Christian thought began to ask how dogma had arisen; previously, it had been assumed that the church began with dogma. Harnack’s Dogmengeschichte, in McGiffert’s view, is now the “greatest work on the subject.” “Become acquainted with it,” he advises students.”180 In addition to his classroom lectures and scholarly publications, McGiffert also explained new approaches to early church history to less specialized audiences, such as in his 1899 essay, “The Study of Early Christianity.” The early church, he here writes, needs a fresh examination: in the past, many problems were wrongly solved, false methods and principles were in play. What are some of the new findings and approaches? First, there are new sources, such as papyri documents, the Gospel and Apocalypse of Peter, the Didache, and the Coptic version of the Acts of Paul. The Pastoral Epistles are now relegated to the history of the apostolic age. Scholarship on the Apostles’ and the Nicene Creeds has uncovered older baptismal symbols.181 What new methods and principles should be brought to bear upon a revised church history? First, investigators must aim to free themselves from dogmatic and polemic interests. They must acknowledge the difference be-



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

99

tween the views and customs of the present and those of the early Christians. For example, Paul thought that slavery was legitimate. Another example, stemming from McGiffert’s own scholarship: it remains unclear whether or not Christians are obeying an explicit injunction of Jesus when they observe the Lord’s Supper. Second, church historians must commit themselves to a rigorous use of sources, possible only after dogmatic prejudice is broken down, and adopt a “wholesome skepticism.” Scholars must be “fearless” in their criticism of the sources. Here, Baur and the Tübingen School paved the way, even though today, scholars have abandoned their preconceived theories.182 Third, historians should approach the past “constructively” with insight and imagination, not to make it “vivid,” as did earlier novelistic writers, but aiming for a factual account. McGiffert reminds his audience that sources themselves are not “history,” but only the “scattered products of that history”; the historian must try to find what is back of them and beyond them.183 Fourth, historians seek multiple points of view. Baur’s rigid philosophical system that read “tendencies” into everything precluded this perspective, as even his students recognized. McGiffert notes that the second edition of Ritschl’s Rise of the Old Catholic Church (1857) corrected Baur’s “tendencies”; it opened “a new era in the study of early church history, the era in which we still live.” Traditionalists of the nineteenth century had no explanatory theory to set against Baur’s powerful arguments. Tübingen scholars such as Baur understood the evolution of Christianity as fueled by theological controversy; today, McGiffert alleges, historians look to ­extra-​­theological factors, such as ethics, social customs, and modes of worship.184 Transformations in Early Christian History As McGiffert proposed in his inaugural lecture, the transformation from the primitive to the Catholic Church was the “biggest thing in Christian history.” The significance of this early period, he tells students, differs greatly from what scholars previously imagined.185 For McGiffert, the great dividing epoch between the primitive and the Catholic Church did not come with Constantine but earlier, the era in which the authority of the Spirit, shared by all Christians, gave way to an appeal to the authority of the Apostles.186 McGiffert alludes to scholarly accounts detailing how the authority of charisma was transformed into that of office. Reviewing the first volume of The Catholic Encyclopedia in 1907, McGiffert puts the point bluntly: “As a matter of fact, modern study of the early

100

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Church has shown that the Catholic system, which was formerly condemned by Protestants as a mediaeval corruption, is of very early date. In all its essential features except the papacy it was in existence before the end of the second century, and much of it has apostolic as well as early patristic sanction.”187 Although it is harder to trace this transformation in the East than in the West, all elements were in place by the time of Athanasius. This early period is not a model for today, “yet no period [is] historically of greater importance.”188 Therein lies a paradox central to McGiffert’s thought: early Christianity demands the greatest attention from historians, but that period’s beliefs are of little use to his contemporaries.

Conclusion From his early writings onward, McGiffert emerges as an original thinker who aimed to bring Kantian and Ritschlian “pragmatic” approaches to bear on the study of church history. In this he followed his mentor Adolf von Harnack, but, just as Harnack deviated from Ritschl, so McGiffert eventually departed from Harnack on such points as whether Christianity had an “essence.” McGiffert argued that Christianity had confronted modernity quite belatedly; the Protestant Reformers were still “medieval” in many respects. He was sympathetic to Roman Catholic Modernists fighting some of the same intellectual battles that Protestants had waged in the nineteenth century. In ­present-​­day America, Protestant evangelicals who opposed the modernization of Christianity’s message stood as prime opponents. In his approach to history in general and Christian history in particular, McGiffert followed, and expanded, the treatment of “historical development” that had so exercised his predecessors. His views on what Christianity “should” have been, but which failed to be, color his treatment of early Christianity, to which we next turn.

Chapter 4

McGiffert’s Teaching of Early Christianity

What and How McGiffert Taught McGiffert’s theological views strongly influenced his u ­ nderstanding—​­and ­critique—​­of early Christianity. Constructing a “liberal church historiography,”1 he concentrated on the great theologians and on intellectual history, in contrast to George LaPiana’s focus on institutions and Shirley Jackson Case’s on social context. More deeply versed in the early Christian period than most church history professors of his day, McGiffert was quick to note the defects of early Christian teaching and practice as models for the present. McGiffert debunked pious approaches that he thought falsified the results of historical investigation and occluded the interests of religious devotion. The teaching of religion should not entail the imparting of “delusions.”2 Early Christians are not to be idolized; their counterparts today, he claimed, are more likely to embody true Christian ideals than did the Church Fathers. He frequently pointed out the damage patristic speculation had inflicted on Christians. Yet he faulted Protestant colleagues who tried to date “Catholic” developments as late as possible: those alleged “corruptions” are already found in the ­second-​­century church.3 Major deviations from Jesus’ message could be traced as far back as Paul. McGiffert scorned the search for an imagined “pure” Christianity of the Apostolic era. Teaching McGiffert was known as a beloved and electrifying teacher.4 Former student Henry Sloane Coffin deemed him the best lecturer he had encountered in either Europe or the United States; our course notes read like books, he added.

102

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

He was “the idol of the students” in that day, and “the more studious they were, the more they prized him.” Some, however, thought him almost too orderly and i­dea-​­oriented, with “little sense for worship.”5 McGiffert had strong views on various aspects of ­pre-​­seminary and seminary education. He advocated better coordination of language study, especially of Latin and Greek.6 Although most seminary students at Union had studied both languages before entry, he judged that they had limited facility at reading texts in the original languages. He reminisced: by the time he was thirteen, he had mastered Hadley’s Greek Grammar and probably “knew more Greek grammar than either Plato or Thucydides ever knew,” but could not read a word of their writings. No need to spend years on grammar, he concluded, which is soon forgotten and promptly abandoned after schooldays. The subject should be taught so that the average student learns to read the languages with comfort. He hoped that the study of Greek and Latin would not suffer the fate of Sanskrit, relegated to a few specialists.7 In his teaching, McGiffert often compared aspects of the ancient world with those of the modern, for example, the late ancient impetus to commerce and the growth of cities to that of modern Japan, or ancient structures that allowed for social advancement with America’s. The close relation between the Alexandrian “seminary” (the “catechetical school”) and the university prefigured, he thought, that existing between Union and Columbia.8 Although McGiffert was theologically liberal, students claimed that by temperament, he was not “modern,” but a rather knightly gentleman.9 A Union graduate described him as a teacher. Dr. McGiffert, he wrote, does not teach by inculcating culture (as did President Eliot at Harvard) or by melding students into his own views; rather, he creates an atmosphere in which he guides them in their search for truth. Students leave with “a certain power to gain ideas for themselves” and to obtain “a fitness for life which is better than polish.” In the course “History of Doctrine,” for example, McGiffert helped the student to understand how religious thought had developed. McGiffert, amid accusations concerning his Apostolic Age, set a brave example, the writer concluded; students learn to be courageous in their own thinking. From him they gain “an invigorating breadth of view.”10 Members of the Board of Directors, upon McGiffert’s death, affirmed his great success as a teacher, noting his “astonishing capacity to project himself into the mind of a thinker of the past and he spoke as though he were himself contemporary with the age which he was interpreting.”11 Students fondly recalled McGiffert’s mannerisms. They considered it



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

103

“quite the highest earthly reward of scholarly effort to hear him dryly respond ‘Exactly’ ” to their observations and answers to questions, how he added “to be sure” when he was throwing “a sop to orthodoxy and twitched his raised forefinger when he added ‘as a matter of fact’ ” to his radical correction of those views.12 Another favorite expression: “Nothing could be further from the truth!”13 In notes from his class lectures, we frequently encounter the words “absurd,” “demoralizing,” “precisely,” “vicious,” “splendid,” “magnificent,” and “extraordinary.” We can imagine that forefinger waving and the exclamation points conveyed by his voice. What McGiffert Taught To professors of early Christianity today, McGiffert’s course range seems daunting. In his early years at Union, he taught, in various semesters, “Church History, Parts I and II” (early and medieval church history; Part I covered up to 590);14 “The History of Christian Thought” (Church History 3);15 “History of the Apostolic Age”; “History of Protestant Christianity” (or “The History of Protestantism”), an elective; “The History of Christian Literature,” an elective; and seminars on Augustine and “Primitive Christian Creeds.”16 In 1897–1898, McGiffert taught, in addition to some of the above, “English Church History of the Reformation and ­Post-​­Reformation Periods” (Church History 26, also covering ­nineteenth-​­century Roman Catholicism and the Oxford Movement) and “History of the New Testament Canon.”17 Ill in 1903–1904, McGiffert apparently did not teach his proposed course on the Apostles’ Creed; a colleague offered to fill in.18 In addition, McGiffert offered “The New England Theology” (a seminar), and “The History of Protestant Thought” (Church History  4), which ranged from the Reformers through n ­ ineteenth-​­century 19 developments. Once McGiffert assumed the presidential role at Union, he took a somewhat reduced course load. In addition to some of the above courses, he taught an enlarged ­four-​­­hour-​­­a-​­week class on “Early Church History.” He also offered “History of Missions,” “The Development of the Christian Idea of God,”20 and (in 1917–1918) a new, short course on “Christianity and War.”21 He ceded his “English Church History Since the Reformation” to his colleague Frederick John Foakes Jackson.22 In the early 1920s, he and other Union professors offered religion courses at Barnard.23 The latter were part of Union’s outreach to Columbia and its women’s college, Barnard, which one of his daughters attended. As these course titles indicate, McGiffert taught across the spectrum

104

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

of Christian history, as had the ­nineteenth-​­century professors whose teaching I surveyed in Founding the Fathers. They also reveal that he maintained a busy teaching schedule while he was the Acting President and then President of Union. For two of McGiffert’s standard courses on early Christianity, notes taken by his son, Arthur Cushman McGiffert Jr., in 1915–1916 are extant. Also extant are McGiffert’s own lecture notes for, among other courses, “The Development of the Christian Idea of God”; “Christian Missions,” strongly focused on early Christianity; “The History of Christian Thought”; “English Church History”; “The History of Protestant Thought”; and his Barnard lectures on “The Evolution of Christianity.” Notes on these courses are orderly, complete, and detailed, quite different from the scraps and partial notes that remain from George LaPiana and Shirley Jackson Case. From these notes plus McGiffert’s published writings, we can gain a comprehensive idea of his approach to early Christianity. Church History 1

The introductory course, Church History 1, covered early Christianity’s history to 590 C.E. That date, McGiffert explained, marked the era when Christianity was still mostly contained within the Roman Empire; after that, it spread beyond the Empire’s bounds to Teutonic and Celtic peoples.24 Apparently in this class he did not detail Christianity’s eastward spread into Persian and Armenian territories, as he did in his “Missions” course. McGiffert recommends that students in Church History  1 buy three books, all by German authors. Wilhelm Moeller’s Church History [History of the Christian Church], he admits, is dull and heavy, but supplements the class lectures. Hans von Schubert’s ­one-​­volume [Outlines of ] Church History is “very useful,” the “best general outline.” The third, Rudolf Sohm’s [Outlines of ] Church History, a “philosophical estimate of movements,” can be read through in one sitting, he assures students.25 Presumably the volumes by McGiffert’s predecessor at Union, Philip Schaff, were too large and detailed for use in an introductory class. McGiffert may well have preferred other German works, but these books were either not available in English translation or existed only in such poor translations that he chose not to assign them.26 Scientific church history, McGiffert tells students in Church History  1, arose only in the nineteenth century, and in Germany. He singles out “four greats”: Johann Gieseler, August Neander, Ferdinand Christian Baur, and Ritschl



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

105

and Harnack, combined as the fourth. Since Gieseler’s text has the advantage of offering extensive extracts from the primary sources, McGiffert advises students to pick up a secondhand copy. Neander’s “delightful” and “inspirational” works are valuable for the author’s “broad sympathy” even with movements considered “heretical or discredited.” McGiffert deems Baur’s Hegelian and revolutionary church history more significant than these t­ wo—​­but even Baur’s work has now been surpassed by that of Ritschl and Harnack.27 McGiffert also alerts his Church History  1 students to some reference works of which they should be aware: J. P. Migne’s Patrologia Graeca and Patrologia Latina (“our great Thesaurus”) and the Berlin corpus (Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller), in the process of publication. Mentioning other histories, McGiffert calls Henry Gwatkin’s “disappointing”; the author wastes too much space on the persecutions. Louis Duchesne’s church history (probably Early History of the Christian Church) is the “best [translated] book in English on the first three ­centuries”—​­and by a Catholic, McGiffert adds. The book he most favors, however, Hans Achelis’s Das Christentum in den ersten drei Jahrhunderten, was unfortunately not available in English.28 Arthur Cushman McGiffert Jr. took Church History 1 in 1915. He saved notes (the content of which will be examined below) and a reading list from the course. From the latter, we learn that students were assigned some of the Apostolic Fathers, in either Lightfoot’s translation or that of the Loeb Classical Library. That the ­Ante-​­Nicene Fathers series was now in full use is shown by assignments from works by Justin Martyr, the Epistle to Diognetus, Tertullian, and Cyprian. From the Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers series, students were to read Eusebius’ Church History, Book V (translated and annotated by their professor), plus the first eight books of Augustine’s Confessions and any one book of the City of God. In addition, McGiffert assigned documentary sources from Joseph Cullen Ayer’s Source Book for Ancient Church History, plus the Benedictine Rule. Also listed on the syllabus are “conferences” on the required reading, although whether these were group discussions or private meetings with the professor or an assistant is not specified.29 Church History 3

The notes that McGiffert’s son took for Church History 3, on the history of Christian thought, in 1916 are extant. For books, McGiffert first recommends Joseph Tixeront’s (presumably) History of Dogmas, noting that the author is Catholic; Wilhelm Bousset’s Kyrios Christos (of which McGiffert

106

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

remarks, “1st class importance. Nothing equal to it recently”); and Kirsopp Lake’s Stewardship of Faith. In Church History 3, McGiffert offered a more extended discussion of the historiography of the field than in Church History  1. Again, although McGiffert lauds Harnack, he criticizes Harnackians for not taking a wide enough interest in Christian thought aside from dogma. Moreover, by ending his history with the Protestant Reformation, Harnack omitted much of Protestant “thought.” This course, McGiffert emphasizes, is intentionally labeled the history of Christian thought, not of doctrine.30 As we shall see, Shirley Jackson Case at Chicago faulted even this expansion of the topic as not doing justice to the social context, the “environment,” in which early Christianity developed.

Early Christianity: Its Appeal, Its Deficiencies McGiffert argued that the early Christian period was the era most in need of “fresh and thorough ­study”—​­and the one that would most richly repay its students. The progress recently made, he wrote in 1899, is due both to the discovery of new sources and to “the increasing dominance of sounder principles and methods of study.”31 In his courses and lectures, McGiffert traced the history of Christianity’s spread in the first few centuries. He (unsurprisingly) noted that the early Empire favored the dissemination of religions through its roads, systems of communication, and common language.32 Christianity benefited from Rome’s tolerance, unequaled until modern times. Christianity’s spread, however, was not exceptional, as every religion in that age had the opportunity to win adherents.33 Throughout his discussion, McGiffert implies that factors amenable to historical analysis, not supernatural intervention, promoted Christianity’s spread. Christianity, McGiffert claims, had multiple appeals. Unlike Mithraism, it had a united organization, “a compact and w ­ ell-​­disciplined army of aggression” that could appeal to “a variety of temperaments.”34 A mystery cult that offered more than its rivals, Christianity also included attractive elements (for example, monotheism and revelation) taken from Judaism. Moreover, it could boast Jesus as a real historical figure. It had social appeal for the lower classes, offering hope of a coming Kingdom. (Premillenarianism, he tells students, seemed attractive for “selfish reasons” to “the less desirable members of the community”; he cites Celsus’ complaint that Christians welcome unfortunates



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

107

with “unclean hands.”) Christianity preached charity and brotherhood, and encouraged moral strength.35 Promoting “virtuous living,” the new religion won many by “the contagion of its personal loyalty to Christ.”36 Somewhat later, Christianity developed a philosophical appeal (including a moral philosophy, a cosmology, and a doctrine of history) that could engage the “thinking ­classes”—​­whereas Mithraism offered no philosophy, and ­Neo-​ ­Platonism, which was only a philosophy, could not reach the masses. Christianity was f­orward-​­looking, in that it not only met existing needs, but also created (and met) new ­ones37—​­“meeting needs,” in McGiffert’s view, is a chief function of religion in general. (He criticized Catholic ethics as “theological,” not based upon “the needs and relations of men in the world.”)38 Early Christianity, in other words, had much that contributed to its successful spread. Given these attributes that promoted Christianity’s expansion, McGiffert warns students that historians of fifty years ago overestimated its rapid spread. (He urges them to consult Harnack’s Mission und Ausbreitung, paying particular attention to the maps.)39 Once Christianity had grown too strong to be crushed, but strong enough to be of service to the imperial power, “its destiny as the Roman state religion was assured.” Yet Christianity’s victory under Constantine and his successors found the church ill prepared for its new role. It was not, McGiffert claims, well suited to serve as a state religion. With its individualistic, otherworldly message, Christianity lacked a social or political reform program. Moreover, it was intolerant of all other religions. In the end, the Empire never became more than nominally Christian. The modern world, not the ancient, offers Christianity the opportunity to exert a large influence.40 Early Christianity’s Failures Success is not the whole message. McGiffert, a great debunker, also details the inherent deficiencies of the new religion. Unlike his n ­ ineteenth-​­century predecessors, who were ardent apologists for the glories that Christianity had brought to the world, he rather asserts that Christianity made no vast improvement in the ethical views and practices of the late Empire. He aims to correct false impressions of the Roman world at the time of Christianity’s origin. It was not (as earlier apologists alleged) a “dying” but an aspiring world. That active, eager, restless, curious age resembled the nineteenth century more than any other in between. Americans, McGiffert asserts, are in a good position to understand the Roman Empire.41 Another “pretty exaggerated” claim that McGiffert debunks holds that the

108

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

old Roman simplicity and “virility” were sapped by the time Christianity originated. That view, he notes, was promulgated by Roman satirists. Rather, the Roman world was improving morally, and this independent of Christianity. Philosophers were teaching that humans should live in accord with the law of nature. Nothing, he insists, could be less true than that the early Empire was a period of decay and skepticism.42 McGiffert deems the effects of Christianity on the ancient world much less salutary than had traditional churchmen. A chief problem lay in early Christian writers’ failure to devise an appropriate ethic. They did not consider Christian love the supreme virtue, but just one among many, and was often encouraged for the sake of reward, “laying up treasures in heaven.” “How little Jesus’ conception of a loving God controlled in this early period!” McGiffert exclaims.43 Although Jesus’ gospel had been primarily social (itself a view contrary to that of many of McGiffert’s predecessors), early Christians quickly abandoned this emphasis, replacing it with a ­world-​­denying message. Reading Ritschl into the Synoptic Gospels, McGiffert claims that Jesus’ preaching of the Kingdom had meant “the reign of the spirit of brotherhood here and now,” but Paul and other followers were not interested in social welfare or improvement. Rather, Paul’s exhortation to subject the flesh promoted asceticism; ascetic ideals thus achieved dominance from within Christianity, not from foreign influences. Ascetic propaganda encouraged humans to abandon the world, hence detracting from the Christian commitment to make the world into the Kingdom of God. Centering on heaven, the ascetic ideal stood against home, patriotism, public service, and social concerns.44 Early Christians, instead of becoming good citizens ­ here-​­­ and-​­ now, 45 yearned for citizenship in heaven. They completely lacked the ideal of social service. “Not the amelioration of society, not the service of the world, but one’s own salvation was the supreme end of life.”46 Given the Fathers’ view, McGiffert tells students, a man would not be asked to be “a good citizen of New York City but of heaven,” where quite different ethics might obtain. Their ethics embodied James 4:4, “friendship with the world is enmity with God.” McGiffert counters: such a person might as well “sit down and die.” To the “extremist” Tertullian’s claim that no Christian could attend a party, he rejoins: “Is this the Christian ideal? Ask yourselves!” The Fathers’ ideal continued long after anyone took it seriously. McGiffert considers it “vicious” that conduct and ideal do not even pretend to square. While pagan ethics taught humans to be in harmony with their environment, Christians were taught to revolt against it. Thus they had no interest in social reform or in changing the world, from



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

109

which they rather wished to escape. Hence they did nothing to alter social conditions, for instance, those pertaining to slavery.47 None of the later Church Fathers, he adds, imagined the possibility of widespread social transformation.48 To Augustine’s early focus on “God and the soul,” only those two, McGiffert objects: “Few more vicious sentiments have ever been expressed. A man must be a Christian not only in his public relations but also not only in his private relations.”49 And Augustine bequeathed to the Middle Ages this (to McGiffert, perverse) notion.50 At the end of his City of God, Augustine does not aim to convert the Earthly City, but to demolish it: not transformation of the world, but escape from it.51 Nor, in McGiffert’s rendition, did Christianity vastly improve the intellectual life of the late Empire. Rather, Christianity put an end to classical culture and imbibed the “oriental” understanding of evil. Education degenerated: the Christian educational system was “more bigoted, superstitious, monastic and narrow” than the classical. The scientific spirit was lost, replaced with a “benighted” view of the physical universe.52 McGiffert deemed unfortunate for later developments Augustine’s disregard for knowledge of the physical universe, which for him was to be derived only from the Bible, not from observation.53 Christians were often hostile to inquiry and questioning. Once Christianity gained ground, “tolerance [was] displaced by intolerance, urbanity by bigotry.”54 Christianity also failed to improve ethical life in the Empire. Far from being the instrumental force in putting an end to gladiatorial shows, it opposed all entertainments as worldly. In fact, Christians showed little concern for the issues of “life” or of cruelty; they overlooked “the inviolability of human personality.”55 Nor did Christianity elevate the position of women, as is often claimed: their position was “no higher in 500 A.D. than in 500 B.C.” Asceticism undermined the sacredness of the family. McGiffert finds no evidence that Christianity improved home life; in fact, marriage was degraded, from the time of I Corinthian 7 onward. Moreover, Christianity’s o­ ften-​­vaunted prohibition of divorce was motivated mainly by its attempt to prevent second marriage.56 Christians, McGiffert continues, accepted the institution of slavery (indeed, the church was a ­slave-​­holder) and upheld the rights of private property. Men were taught to stay in their places, not strive to change their earthly lot. Although Christianity may have “softened” the m ­ aster-​­slave relationship, it only confirmed the institution by “turning attention to heaven.” Slavery was undermined, McGiffert argues, not by Christianity, but by economic changes

110

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

and the development of a less agrarian, more industrial society. As the industrial and commercial classes grew in the later Empire, the supply of free labor increased, with a resulting decline in the landed aristocracy’s power. The slave supply simply diminished as Rome retreated from its conquest mode.57 Slavery died along with the ­de-​­emphasis on agriculture: “Christianity had nothing to do with it,” McGiffert insists. Freedmen became an important constituency as Christianity grew, spreading through clubs and guilds.58 To be sure, Christians were known for their c­ harity—​­but pagans, too, practiced philanthropy. For both groups, however, giving was largely for the sake of the giver, not for that of the recipient. McGiffert argues that charity must look to permanent improvement, or it is “inevitably pauperizing and economically demoralizing,” as was the case with Christianity.59 The “papal doctrine” of poverty as a higher religious state has little foundation. ­Self-​ ­sacrifice, when not demanded by the interests of serving the Kingdom, is in fact a sin. By contrast, wealth can give a man larger opportunities for doing God’s work in the world and thus advancing the Kingdom.60 Emphasizing charity as a form of penance did nothing to cure poverty. Indeed, the notion of penance, in McGiffert’s view, stands against ethical progress. While acting as a check on bad behavior, penance failed to inspire or promote “progress in ethical ideals.” In McGiffert’s estimation, that progress had stalled until modern times.61 Despite threats of punishment, on the one hand, and promises of heavenly reward, on the other, early Christians’ morality was not strong. Conciliar decrees of the third century show that “gross sin prevailed.” If Christians had practiced the social ideal it should have, McGiffert tells students, “doubtless the world would have been made over long ago.”62 The Christian church today, he believes, is more sensitive to points on which the Fathers were “obtuse”: slavery, alcohol and drug traffic, religious liberty, the emancipation of women, the relations of labor and capital, and internationalism.63 “Our” idea of Christianity as demanding a life of service, McGiffert tells Union students, was foreign to early Christians, who understood salvation as escape from the world. The notion of salvation “from the world, not of the world,” continued to dominate the thought of the Middle Ages.64 Indeed, he adds, some Christians in our own day still (wrongly) imagine immortality and future salvation as the heart of religion.65 By contrast, McGiffert argues that the Fathers’ “gloomy view of human nature” was disproved by the idealism shown by the many who so readily sacrificed during the Great War.66 As the above comments suggest, McGiffert deemed it futile to try to re-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

111

trieve the social views of Christian antiquity for the present. Unlike earlier generations of Protestants who yearned to recapture the early Christian life for their own time, McGiffert pointedly showed how deficient that life was. Modern Christian values, in his opinion, are far preferable to the ascetic, otherworldly views of the early Christians. “Our” claim that the Christian life is primarily one of social service, he repeats, was practically unknown.67 Yet, recalling the time and place in which Christianity developed, McGiffert tempered his criticism: “To ask men to believe in God the Father Almighty, when they had known only the petty gods of Greek and Roman myth; to ask them to believe in Jesus Christ, not only dead and risen but coming to judgment, where they had known only Dionysius or Attis or Adonis or Serapis: this is asking great things of them.”68 Here, he positions Christianity in relation to the ­Greco-​­Roman “pagan” world only. Judaism remains in the shadows.

Christianity in the First Three Centuries In his various classes and lectures, McGiffert detailed the broad course of early Christianity’s development. I here select some features that reveal his particular interests. McGiffert placed Christianity in the context of the s­ o-​­called mystery religions of the era, as did Shirley Jackson Case. Here, he goes beyond Ritschl’s reconstruction of the first Christian centuries. Although the mysteries may have had no direct influence on Paul, he “breathed the atmosphere in which they flourished,” and interpreted his experience of freedom through Christ in similar ways.69 It was, McGiffert posits, as a mystery religion that Christianity conquered the Roman E ­ mpire—​­but one that retained cosmological and ethical elements not embraced by other cults. Some features of the mystery religions (individualism; the promise of immortality and redemption) put them in competition with Christianity.70 While the mystery cults contributed “sacraments and mysticism” to nascent Christianity, the liberal Judaism of the Diaspora contributed the important features of “morality and law.” The fact that Diaspora Judaism had no temple, images, or ceremonial aspects paved a road (as McGiffert put it) across which Christianity walked. To be sure, Judaism was held in contempt by the larger society: don’t be misled, he warns students, by attractive depictions. Unlike Diaspora Judaism, the old national religion of Israel was failing to meet the needs of the people.71 If Diaspora

112

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Judaism paved the road, the ways parted quite rapidly, in McGiffert’s estimation. In this he followed his mentor Harnack, who in turn was influenced by Ritschl’s teaching on this point. On the social makeup of early Christians, McGiffert held varying ideas. On the one hand, he told students, Christianity was largely a l­ower-​­class movement; the “superstitions, prejudices and obscurantism” of those classes found a home in Christianity, “like the Salvation Army and fundamentalists” today.72 On the other hand, he sometimes stressed that the main clientele came from what is now called the lower middle class: those who practiced small trades, artisans, traveling peddlers, soldiers, and ­sailors—​­and freedmen.73 In any case, the appeal of Christianity to “higher” or more educated classes came only later, as Christianity developed a more philosophically amenable message. McGiffert found many points on which to fault Paul, who taught little about Christ’s life, character, and principles of conduct. Instead, Paul’s gospel of salvation appropriated the message of a dying and rising lord and “ethicized” it. McGiffert thinks it unlikely that Paul at the beginning of his career preached his later mystical doctrine of salvation, for such a teaching would have been entirely foreign to his followers. He proclaimed no social agenda and offered no teaching on economics or politics; rather, his message is “personal salvation, eventuating in purity and love of brethren.”74 Most important for later Christianity, it was Paul who extended to Jesus the notion of deity.75 McGiffert accuses Paul of “universalizing” his personal experience of religious and moral struggle. Life, he counters, is sometimes not a struggle, but shows “harmonious development.”76 Paul imagined Christianity as a religion of salvation, not (as McGiffert clearly prefers) one of “opportunity.”77 Working within an imperialistic framework, Paul “wanted to win the Empire and dominate it.” He could leave churches to run themselves soon after their founding, because, McGiffert adds, unlike the case of some mission lands today, converts did not belong to “an alien or lower civilization.”78 ­Second-​­Century Christianity: Morality and the New Law McGiffert was not shy to express his opinions on what Christianity “should” be and on how much the church’s teachings had deviated from this ideal. This propensity comes to the fore in his reflection on some (but not all) s­econd-​ ­century figures. He often criticized ­second-​­century teachers who described Christianity as a “new law”; this, he charged, downplayed the novel aspects of Christian teaching. The Apostolic Fathers in general (excluding Ignatius),



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

113

while presenting Christianity as independent of Judaism, proclaim it as a “new law,” as a “moral system based on divine sanctions.” For them, Christ simply serves as revealer of these sanctions and as judge; they are largely silent about his saving work. They fail to conceive Christianity as offering “free and full and repeated forgiveness.” Christianity is linked with Jewish teaching, not with the mystery religions.79 McGiffert considers the ­second-​­century Apologists’ understanding of Christianity even more deficient. Their writings express “very little about Christianity as a saving faith. Very little about the real heart of Christianity.” To them, Christianity was “little more than natural religion. For some of them Jesus Christ might never have appeared.” Appealing to the Old Testament, they consider Moses a “great Christian Father.” (“Altogether too much O.T.,” McGiffert comments to his introductory Church History class; “nothing of the needs Christianity was fitted to.”) But the Apologists did sense that highlighting the philosophical aspect of Christianity could appeal to the educated classes: Christianity is not for the ignorant alone.80 Justin Martyr, McGiffert tells students, imagined the essence of Christianity as “a revelation of divine sanctions for morality” or as “a moral system wholly to which are attached the sanctions of reward and punishment.”81 Christianity is basically a “universalized and devotionalized Judaism” or (in an apologetic mode) as “a universal religion, as old as creation.”82 Although Justin’s Christ is held to reveal the true philosophy, he seems not to perform new deeds or offer new teachings. McGiffert comments to students: “It’s perfectly clear that Justin has no idea why Jesus Christ died, yet he must explain it, for it’s a terrible fact to have this son of ­man—​­the Logos, ­die”—​­yet he does not offer a theory of atonement or appeal to Christ’s suffering on humans’ behalf. If we were left only with Justin’s mention of Christ’s death, we might well wonder, “why?” McGiffert will return to Justin when he expounds Logos theology. Other ­second-​­century Apologists added little to Justin’s narrative. Harnack, McGiffert tells students, thinks that Christianity became bankrupt with these Apologists.83 McGiffert finds the Apologists’ attacks on their ­long-​­dead pagan opponents “artificial, w ­ indmill-​­fighting.” Their stock ad hominem arguments appear “rather absurd.” The most they seem to argue is, “ ‘We’re no worse than you!’ ” McGiffert counters, “Is that all they can say?” If the Apologists were the Christians’ best case, we would find Christianity’s victory a mystery!84 Moreover, the Apologists’ opponents raised many telling points. Celsus’ criticism of Christians’ lack of patriotism was “­well-​­taken.” McGiffert outlines Celsus’

114

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

objections: Christianity attracted mainly the lower classes; is philosophically weak on, for example, the resurrection of the flesh; and its claims are not historically true. Moreover, Christians are arrogant.85 Porphyry (whose critique, McGiffert notes, has now been recovered largely from Macarius Magnes’ Apocritica) constitutes another example of a pagan who outwitted Christian opponents. He knew the Old and New Testaments “about as well as any Christian Father” and pinpointed the inconsistencies. He attacked Christian doctrines, such as the creation and future destruction of the world; the latter defamed the world by separating it from God. Likewise, the doctrine of the Incarnation implied a distance between God and humans. A modern liberal might well agree with many of Porphyry’s criticisms, McGiffert tells his students: “Many of us would say that Porphyry is the real religious man here.”86 ­Second-​­Century Heroes: Christianity as a Religion of Salvation Some few s­econd-​­century Christian writers, in McGiffert’s view, understood Christianity more adequately. To ­these—​­especially Ignatius and ­Irenaeus—​­he gives special notice. Ignatius of Antioch

McGiffert’s discussion of Ignatius shows how rapidly n ­ ineteenth-​­century controversies regarding the number and “authenticity” of Ignatius’ letters had faded.87 Granting, with little comment, seven letters to Ignatius, McGiffert argues that he should not be lumped with the Apostolic Fathers. Unlike the latter, who interpreted Christianity as a “law,” Ignatius was influenced more by the mysteries: he understands Christ’s Incarnation as imparting immortality to the flesh, teaches that salvation involves a “physical” union with Christ through participation in the Eucharist, and borrows the language of the mystery cults (Christians are ­fellow-​­initiates [Eph. 12]; the Eucharist is the “medicine of immortality” [Rom. 4]). McGiffert admits that although Ignatius’ claim that salvation as a union or mystical identification with Christ does not seem natural to “us,” it was common in eastern Christianity at his time.88 Unlike colleagues who stressed Ignatius’ eagerness for martyrdom, McGiffert, noting Ignatius’ “humility,”89 found scholars’ concentration on martyrdom aberrant. He rather emphasized the tolerance of the Roman government and implied that Christians, with their lack of patriotism, clannishness, and



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

115

other faults, were not “altogether unblameworthy.” The tortures inflicted on Christians have been “greatly exaggerated”; most ancient Christians were usually about as safe as “we are.” Moreover, Christians’ response to persecution fostered a wrong idea of Christian life, namely, that suffering for the faith was good, that the present world was not worth much, that Christianity “stood for [the] nothingness of this world.” It is not “wholesome,” in McGiffert’s view, to imagine oneself always as heroic. Suffering and possible martyrdom tended to ­self-​­glorification. Worst of all, the Christian response fostered a wrong attitude to the state, “one of the most unfortunate things for the history of Christianity,” in his opinion.90 McGiffert contrasts Ignatius’ view of redemption with Paul’s: for Paul, redemption is release from the flesh, not its deification, and is accomplished by Jesus’ death and resurrection, not by his Incarnation. The catholic church rather adopted Ignatius’ view, teaching that redemption is of the flesh, not from it. This point influenced Athanasius and the Council of Nicaea, as well as the notion of Christ’s “real presence” in the Eucharist.91 One Pauline theme, however, does pass into church teaching through Ignatius: Christianity as freedom from the Jewish law. Paul, John the Evangelist, and Ignatius agree that Christianity is a religion of personal salvation offering eternal life, union with the divine Christ.92 How speedily Christianity elaborated its own n ­ on-​­Jewish message! Irenaeus of Lyon

In Irenaeus, McGiffert finds an early Christian writer whom he genuinely admires in most respects. In his view, Irenaeus is “one of the few ­really original and creative thinkers in the history of the church.” He criticizes modern scholars (including Harnack)93 for the “control” they have tried to exert over this figure, making him largely “an a­ nti-​­heretical and old Catholic Father.” McGiffert, by contrast, hails Irenaeus as a resourceful, constructive theologian, “the most important theologian of the early church.”94 By McGiffert’s reckoning, Irenaeus was the first Father who taught that Christianity brought something new; by doing so, he “outflanked the Gnostics” while also retaining inherited traditions, combining Ignatian mysticism with the legalism of the Apostolic Fathers.95 McGiffert finds it impossible to exaggerate his significance.96 He devotes more time to Irenaeus than to any other early Christian writer prior to Augustine. McGiffert’s celebration of Irenaeus as a constructive theologian, not “merely” as a heresiologist, distinguishes his interpretation from that of other historians in his era.

116

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

McGiffert argues that Irenaeus’ union of two lines of t­ hought—​­Christianity as law and as promise, as morality and as heavenly redemption,97 mystical union with the divine Christ and repentance and ­obedience—​­ensured him a “permanent place in Christian theology.”98 But, McGiffert concedes, with this combination, Irenaeus (unfortunately) lost Paul’s gospel of liberty and interpreted salvation as a reward for human merit.99 He made Paul “permanently acceptable to the Catholic church and permanently innocuous.”100 McGiffert’s interest in Christology, a distinguishing mark of Ritschlians, emerges in his discussion of Irenaeus. Unlike the Apologists, McGiffert claims, who ignored the consequences of Adam’s Fall, Irenaeus taught that salvation means both release from sin or Satan and deification: the divine life given to the first humans, who then lost it, is restored by Christ. Irenaeus’ doctrine of recapitulation marks the first time in Christian history that a place was found for “the whole of Christ’s life.” Thus Irenaeus accords Christ a centrality that is missing in the Apologists: the Logos is not an “other” God, as for Justin, but is God revealed. “To Irenaeus,” McGiffert tells his students, “Christianity is a religion of the Incarnation.”101 By focusing on Christ’s entire life, Irenaeus avoids the sterile later debates (as McGiffert sees them) concerning Christ’s “Person.” Irenaeus’ double emphasis fades, however, when he treats the sacraments. Here, he bypassed the “ethical aspect” and claimed that mystical union with Christ is achieved through “mere participation in certain sacraments.”102 McGiffert cites Irenaeus’ claim that the Eucharist brings “incorruption” to its partakers, and compares it to Ignatius’ famous statement that the bread of the Eucharist is “the medicine of immortality.”103 This view, to McGiffert’s mind, marks Irenaeus as a “­thorough-​­going sacramentarian.” In Irenaeus’ combination of a legal understanding of salvation with sacramentarianism, McGiffert finds the “historic Catholic system complete in all its main features.”104 Irenaeus’ approach to “heresy” McGiffert found more troublesome.

Early “Heresy” and Schism Gnosticism

One of McGiffert’s students recalled that he often sympathized with “heretics,” prompting student skepticism about the glories of the Christian tradi­ nostics—​­a tion.105 This sympathy is revealed in McGiffert’s treatment of the G sympathy that seems lacking in his assessment of some of the p ­ roto-​­orthodox



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

117

Christian writers of the era. McGiffert also emphasized the role of ­“heretics”—​ ­Nestorians, A ­ rians—​­in missions and praised the ethical slant of their teaching.106 McGiffert, to be sure, had limited knowledge of Gnosticism; Nag Hammadi discoveries were far in the future.107 He (like some others of his time, including Shirley Jackson Case) believed that there had been a ­pre-​­Christian Gnosticism.108 He critiqued as insufficient Harnack’s “­one-​­sided” approach to Gnosticism (namely, as the “acute philosophizing [Hellenizing] of Christianity”). Rather, McGiffert counters, Gnosticism was eclectic, incorporating elements of the mystery religions.109 To McGiffert, the Gnostics were the “greatest Christian thinkers of the second century,” syncretists and theosophists who were influenced by oriental cults. Considering Christianity a new “revelation,” they developed a philosophy of life through the allegorical interpretation of texts. McGiffert believes that since doctrinal standards and creeds had not yet been established, Gnostics should not be considered heretics: they “acted in good faith.” The Gnostic system of aeons, intermediaries between God and the world, was a profound, “not trivial,” conception. He denies Irenaeus’ allegation that Gnostics’ primary interest lay in their interpretation of the Demiurge as the God of the Jews and their claim that the Old Testament was not a Christian book. (Based on Irenaeus’ account, McGiffert concedes, it would be easy to ridicule the Gnostics.) Rather, the focus of their interest was redemption. Like Paul, they hoped for the human spirit’s escape from the world. Christ’s work, as they understood it, was to liberate humans from their material environment. Knowledge of Christ and through him, of the divine will, provided the means of redemption, but only “spiritual” people possessed this immediate knowledge. Yet Gnostic teaching also allowed a place for redemption through conduct (for example, through ascetic living) and through sacraments, as indicated in Irenaeus’ Against Heresies I.13. Moreover, Gnostic biblical interpretation influenced that of the church: since Gnostics appealed to Paul, the orthodox “reinterpreted Paul in ­anti-​­gnostic ways.” Paul, however, unlike Gnostics, kept a base in Judaism, taught a n ­ on-​­docetic message, and emphasized faith over knowledge.110 Despite his praise for aspects of Gnosticism, McGiffert concedes, “if Gnostics are right, what is left for Christians to stand on?”111 Against Gnostics in particular, McGiffert notes, ­second-​­century churchmen devised a not strictly biblical concept: ex nihilo creation (he cites Tertullian, Against Hermogenes). McGiffert finds “little of religious interest” in this topic, even though it became an established tenet of the faith.112 Particular views of creation have nothing to do with Christianity’s message of redemption

118

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

and are better left to science. McGiffert concludes his discussion of the Gnostic conflict in The God of the Early Christians with these words: “The Christianity that emerged from the conflict and was handed down as the orthodox faith was not a mere gospel of salvation . . . ​but a theology and a cosmology, a doctrine of God and a philosophy of the universe.”113 For students in Church History 3, McGiffert lists some extra reading materials: Wilhelm Bousset, who sums up the results of (then) modern research; the article on Gnosticism in James Hastings’s Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics; Eugène de Faye’s “excellent” account, in French; and Adolf Hilgenfeld’s collection of sources on heresy.114 Whether students’ skills in French and German were adequate to the task, we do not know. Marcion

Most notable, in McGiffert’s view, was the “great Christian reformer, Marcion.” McGiffert deems Harnack’s study of Marcion “admirable.” His own book on the Apostles’ Creed highlighted Marcion as the chief opponent against whom the Creed was directed.115 McGiffert tells students that from Paul, Marcion took not mysticism, but his teaching of justification by faith alone, repudiating all law. He reinterpreted God as pure love and mercy, and denied that the Jewish God is also the Christian God. McGiffert styles Marcion “the most consistent Paulinist of the second century,” in this respect a precursor of Luther.116 Scholars in later decades, to be sure, would recover a more “Jewish” Paul, but McGiffert’s assessment was common to his era. McGiffert highlights Marcion’s signal influence on p ­ roto-​­orthodox Christians’ conceptualization of God. Only as a result of the debate with Marcion did they even name the categories of divine justice and goodness, which they struggled to reconcile. Marcion, he writes, had “a splendid faith in moral influence and in the supremacy of spiritual values.” Unfortunately, Marcion thought it necessary to add more to his theology of ­salvation—​­namely, to take on a doctrine of creation. This unnecessary baggage entangled him in Gnostic dualism; hence Marcion’s fate became entwined with theirs. Otherwise, McGiffert implies, Marcion might have been seen as the great early Christian champion of a theology of salvation centered on the loving God of Jesus.117 That Marcion weeded out “Jewish” elements in early Christianity does not faze McGiffert. Marcion’s importance for later Christianity, McGiffert claimes lay in what he prompted the church to reject and what to define. The Apostles’ Creed was formulated in response to Marcion; a first version was produced in Rome



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

119

around 150. Against Marcion, the church taught that the Creator and Ruler of the world was the God of Jesus, who would be God’s agent in judgment.118 Contra Marcion, the Creed’s emphasis on Jesus’ humanity and material reality, McGiffert argues, is signaled in the clauses on his birth, death, and resurrection. The mention of “Mary the Virgin” serves not to highlight Jesus’ miraculous conception, but his fleshly, particular birth.119 Late in life, in his History of Christian Thought, McGiffert claims that for a generation and more, scholars denied that Marcion was a Gnostic because they envisioned Gnostics as “speculative theologians” and Marcion seemed not to fit this category. Today, McGiffert counters, “we” do not consider them such. Since Gnostics’ interest, like Marcion’s, was “primarily religious and practical,” there is less reason to differentiate them. Yet Marcion, unlike the Gnostics, was “democratic” in his notion of redemption and lacked a “mystical” concept of salvation. Not until modern times has anyone else so taught the gospel of salvation, unobscured by a preaching of judgment and punishment. Marcion expressed “a tremendous faith in the power of love.”120 To McGiffert’s eyes, the ­Gnostics—​­and ­Marcion—​­set some, perhaps much, of the agenda for late s­ econd-​­and early ­third-​­century “mainstream” Christian writers, for Irenaeus in particular. To his own contemporaries, McGiffert could recommend Marcion’s emphasis on salvation, a loving God, and a “practical” approach to Christianity. Marcion joins the ranks of Protestant Liberals. Montanism

McGiffert took a long perspective on the problem of religious authority. He argued that modernity’s break with traditional Protestant notions of biblical authority represented a greater religious crisis than did the Reformation: the latter disclaimed the authority of bishop and creed, but not of the Bible. The notion of apostolic authority continued to reign (even among Unitarians), setting limits to what could be read into the Bible. Starting in the ­post-​­apostolic age, belief in present inspiration was lost; only the authority of the past counted. Who objected to this way of thinking? Montanists;121 hence their importance in church history. Affirming “the constant presence and the permanent inspiration of God,”122 they took a “practical” approach to religion, one not theologically driven.123 Montanists’ favoring of present experience over past tradition resonated with the effort by Protestant Liberals and Catholic Modernists to develop a Christianity suited to the twentieth century. McGiffert’s description of Montanus himself, however, is far from complimentary: he was a man of

120

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

“neurotic temperament, a marked psychic, of the type that sees visions and hears voices.”124 McGiffert explained Montanism’s origins and the role of the women prophets to his Church History 1 class. In recent times, he reports, Ritschl and Harnack have demonstrated Montanism’s larger significance, and Nathanael Bonwetsch has collected the fragmentary texts pertaining to the movement. Wishing to recreate the apostolic, ­Spirit-​­filled age, Montanists affirmed the universal priesthood of believers and an immediate Second Coming, even as the mainline church grew hostile to Premillenarianism.125 They reverted to “primitive principles,” but in time their legalism began to dampen enthusiasm and “check the freedom of the Spirit.” The church’s censure of Montanism had ­far-​­reaching consequences: prophesy was thrown into disrepute; a double standard in ethics came to prevail.126 The mainline church rejected Montanists’ ascetic standard, for if all Christians had been forced to espouse asceticism, McGiffert speculates, perhaps 90 percent of them would have departed the church.127 Since Montanists made no doctrinal innovations, why did the church condemn them? McGiffert answers: church officials deemed the prophets and their prophecies “unseemly,” “distasteful.” An important, though sometimes veiled, point in the church’s reaction rested on Montanists’ rejection of episcopal authority. As became clear with Irenaeus, the church would look to the past, rejecting “­present-​­day prophecy.” In opposing the Gnostic and Montanist movements, the church arrived at a new conception of itself:128 hence, for McGiffert, the great importance of the second century as a watershed in the church’s development as an institution. Setting Standards: Canon, Creed, Bishop Irenaeus’ Contribution

McGiffert highlights Irenaeus’ contribution to canon formation through his focus on “apostolic writings,”129 opposing Gnostics’ appeal to the Apostles themselves as authoritative figures. To counter Marcion’s collection of Christian writings, Irenaeus claimed apostolic authorship for various books later called the New Testament. (The canon, however, would not be fixed for another two hundred years, McGiffert reminds students.) To provide guidance on how to interpret the sacred books, Irenaeus added a Rule of Faith.130 Irenaeus, in McGiffert’s view, clearly set Christianity on an ­anti-​­Marcionite path. As important as these moves would be for later Christianity’s develop-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

121

ment, McGiffert scores their negative (to him) features. Here again, we see the Liberal assumptions that governed his judgment. Affirming “the apostolic” as the norm, he alleges, requires one to look to the past, not to living prophets and teachers of the present. Irenaeus’ principles thus entailed “the permanent loss of the primitive trust in ­present-​­day revelation.” The present, in effect, was “put under bondage to the past.” Moreover, McGiffert charges, Irenaeus read anything he wished into the ­so-​­called apostolic teaching.131 Irenaeus, McGiffert argues, ushered in a major change in Christianity: truth was defined as what was given by the Apostles in an apostolic canon, formulated in the Creed, and interpreted and guaranteed by the bishop. All teaching and practice was to be traced back to the authority of the Apostles.132 According the bishop the right to interpret the apostolic teachings formed the basis for the theory of Apostolic Succession, a move with serious consequences. As persecution and heresy forced a more united organization upon Christianity, bishops in fact “became” the church. Now, there was no need to convince dissenters that the church’s teachings were true; bishops could simply declare them heretics and exclude them. These were the principles, McGiffert declares, upon which the catholic church was built.133 Such thinking, McGiffert tells students, would later culminate in sole authority being invested in the bishop of Rome: “agree with him or out you go!” Apostolicity, not ethics or sound doctrine, became the norm. Church history has proceeded on this assumption down to the present. From the church’s claim that all its doctrines could be found in the Apostles’ writings “arose the falsifying of history.” When, with time, the Apostles themselves had been largely forgotten, the church substituted the notion of “tradition.” Today, the Roman Catholic Church claims to find the teachings of the Council of Trent and the doctrine of Papal Infallibility in the New Testament. Traditions, McGiffert remarks, proliferate and are easily fabricated.134 For him, the appeal to “the apostolic” had unfortunate consequences for the ­church—​­and dire ones for Christian historiography. His critique of “­backward-​­looking” Christianity presents a sharp contrast to his praise for Montanists’ refusal to be tied to the authority of the past. Church Organization and Offices

While the Apostolic Fathers and Apologists had led Christianity in wrong directions, the church’s “splendid” organization was one of early Christianity’s attractions. Even in the fourth century, the ­re-​­paganizing emperor Julian

122

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

copied some of its features. McGiffert goes even further than Harnack in erasing Judaism from the equation. Jewish Christianity, he asserts, had no conception of a Christian “church”; that notion came from Paul and the Gentiles. From the Jews, however, Christians borrowed the conviction that they were heirs to a covenant.135 McGiffert points to the Gnostic controversy as spurring the development of the concept of a catholic church, one that has “remained normative ever since.” All essential features were in place by the ­mid-​­third century. In the fourth century, even though an individualistic and otherworldly concept of salvation did not fit well with the concept of a state church, the church nevertheless found its place as a saving institution in the doctrine of the sacraments. Sacramental theory became “the very essence of Catholicism.”136 Concern for ecclesiastical organization arose early. The Apostolic Fathers feared that the freedom enjoyed by the earliest Christians, their dependence on the Spirit, could lead to “dangerous excesses.” (McGiffert refers to I Clement on the need for order and Ignatius’ claim of “no Church or Christianity apart from Bishops.”) Thus was promoted churchly exclusivity.137 Lecturing at Harvard in 1901, McGiffert listed three concerns that fostered the development of church officers: proper administration of charities, orderly services, and the exercise of discipline.138 McGiffert rehearses for his Church History 1 students some options that modern scholars had posed regarding the development of church officers. (1) ­High-​­Churchmen hold that the Apostles appointed a single bishop for each church. (2) Lightfoot argues that bishops and elders (presbyters) were originally two names for the same office; this view, McGiffert comments, is favored by Presbyterians. (3) Edwin Hatch claims that elders (presbyters) and bishops were originally different offices: elders attended to the liturgy, and bishops, to finances. (4) Rudolf Sohm holds that only bishops, not elders (presbyters), were the original ecclesiastical officers. McGiffert favors Sohm’s position. Viewing “presbyters” as priests, he thinks, was a somewhat later development. The rise of these officers represents one step in the secularization of the ­church—​­that is, how it came under nonspiritual control.139 McGiffert argues that the duties of early officers (for him, as for Sohm, “bishops”) centered on the Eucharist, as suggested in Ignatius’ letters. When the Eucharist came to be understood as a sacrifice and a sacrament, the officiant was restyled as a priest. Increasingly, not b­ elievers-​­­in-​­general, but only the clergy, were thought to constitute the church. Cyprian’s writings show that sacramental and sacerdotal theory was fully developed by the third century. The bishop now



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

123

stands as the guarantor of truth, the canon of Scripture and the rule of faith alone having proved inadequate to the task. Finally, the notion that grace is tied to episcopal succession completes the process. This is “­high-​­churchism,” McGiffert proclaims, but it is not “primitive Christianity.”140 How much notions of the church have changed, he exclaims! While the Shepherd of Hermas I.4 could (amazingly) posit that the church was that for which the world was created, moderns no longer imagine the church as an end in itself.141 Controversies over Forgiveness and the Rise of Episcopal Authority

Despite this concern for ecclesiastical organization, and despite primitive Christians calling themselves “the elect,” “the saints,” the church after some decades seemed “not so holy.” From the time of the Shepherd of Hermas, the church was understood to be “for those who had failed and wanted another try.”142 Like George LaPiana, McGiffert considered this relaxation of standards beneficial for the church’s outreach: otherwise, it would have been restricted to a tiny group of “saints.” ­Second-​­century conflicts over the Roman bishopric, McGiffert tells students, were key to the reduction of mortal sins to a mere three (apostasy, murder, and adultery, based on the western reading of Acts 15:29). Callistus, declaring himself the successor to the Apostles, decreed that all could have their sins forgiven; even adultery was not a mortal sin. The church was no longer understood as a community of saints, but as “an ark of salvation,” a mixture of bad and good. Biblical passages (the parable of the tares and the wheat; the clean and unclean animals of Noah’s ark) were solicited to endorse this view. (McGiffert Jr., seemingly bored, draws a picture of Noah’s ark and Mount Ararat in the margin of his notebook.) McGiffert considers Callistus’ a “very advanced position,” but it evoked opposition from Hippolytus, leader of the strict sect. Hippolytus deemed it scandalous for the church (in McGiffert’s words) to “throw open wide the golden gates and let poor sinners in.” Although Hippolytus regarded himself as a bishop, he is not so counted in the chronology of Roman bishops. This schism, McGiffert claims, has caused “all sorts of trouble to Church historians.”143

124

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Cyprian, the Founder of the Catholic Church

A new step, McGiffert tells students, in conceptualizing the church’s power emerged in connection with the Decian persecutions, when a schism arose between the rigorist Novatian and the “laxer” Cyprian of Carthage regarding the reinstatement of apostate Christians. The greatest sin, according to Cyprian, was violating the church’s unity, for only in the church could a person be saved. “Cyprian stood on the principle of Callixtus,” McGiffert claims: the church is the ark of salvation and its bishops possess the “saving grace.” He cites Cyprian’s claim that the church is founded on the bishop, that “Extra ecclesiam nulla salus est.” For Cyprian, the unity of the church lies in the episcopate, collectively deemed the successor to the Apostles. Now, a “genuine Catholic principle” has been e­ stablished—​­namely, that the church is not identical with the Christians who constitute it. The bishop alone controls saving grace, and only he may observe the true Eucharist. Here arises sacerdotalism, although (McGiffert claims) Cyprian knew nothing about the supremacy of the Roman bishop. The Lord’s Supper is now seen as the great sacrifice that atones for sins and feeds regenerate human nature.144 Although McGiffert favored Cyprian’s more forgiving policy ­toward sinners, he critiqued the ­high-​ ­church “sacerdotalism” that accompanied it. With LaPiana, he resisted this narrowing of “who constitutes the church.” Nevertheless, McGiffert continues, the catholic theory of the church remained incomplete with Cyprian, who (still) thought that the validity of the sacrament depended on the moral character of the priest. With the Diocletianic persecution, however, this principle was abandoned when many clergy proved apostate. Clergy as well as laypeople were now deemed sinful, lacking moral rigor. The ensuing Donatist controversy raised this question anew: did the validity of the sacraments depend on the priest’s character? The church formulated the position, held ever since, that the sacraments were valid as long as the priest remained in good standing.145 Such claims, for McGiffert, mark decisive changes in Christian thought and practice. Although Cyprian entertained an idea of a collective episcopate, McGiffert continues, this idea could not then be put into practice, since the conciliar system had not yet developed. When it did, in the fourth and fifth centuries, bishops as a g­ roup—​­now an absolute, not a constitutional, m ­ onarchy—​­would gain a voice. McGiffert, however, unlike LaPiana, did not emphasize the weakness of the conciliar model, its failure to produce the desired unity. For McGiffert, Cyprian is “the founder of the Catholic church,” given his views on



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

125

bishops, sacraments, the church, and apostolic succession.146 Unlike Protestants who saw “Catholicism” as a late patristic development, McGiffert placed it considerably earlier. The Alexandrians McGiffert turns to the Alexandrians, known for their free thought and philosophical approach. Alexandria, McGiffert tells students, was “the Athens of the day.” Now, questions of cosmology, metaphysics, and epistemology prominently enter Christian discourse:147 not an entirely welcome turn. McGiffert appears torn between his high admiration for Clement’s intellectual generosity and Origen’s daring thought, and his own “pragmatic” theology that disavowed metaphysical speculation. Clement of Alexandria

Unlike the Apologists, McGiffert tells students, Clement considered Christianity the final and true philosophy for its own sake, not simply as a superior form of Judaism. Although holding knowledge higher than ­faith—​­the “image of God” signaled ­“rationality”—​­Clement nevertheless claimed that all could be saved. Christianity is designed not only for “religious aristocrats,” as some Gnostics posed: for Clement, “a Gnostic is not born but made.” In McGiffert’s view, Clement had one of the “most hospitable minds the world has seen”; he would acknowledge truth from many sources, “even from the devil!”148 McGiffert admired “hospitable minds.” McGiffert claims that Clement’s writings, unlike Irenaeus’, lack any mystical element. The notion of deification was “entirely foreign to him,” nor did he imagine that baptism created a new divine nature; his thought is in the realm of the “moral” rather than the “physical.” Some of Clement’s teachings, to be sure, seem scarcely Christian, such as his advice on conduct in the Paidagogus. McGiffert also rejects Clement’s emphasis on apatheia as “peculiarly alien to the Christian ideal”: to call the whole life of emotions unworthy leaves “no room for religious aspiration and devotion or for human sympathy and brotherly love.” Clement’s ideal of apatheia offers a way to prove oneself “superior to passing vanities.” Yet Clement, less ascetic than many of his era, urged Christians to remain in “the world,” working to transform lives and faith in society. As a teacher of ethics, he had no peers among the eastern Fathers.149

126

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

Yet McGiffert believed that Clement had unleashed upon theology problems that haunted it until recent times. His notion of the Logos, for example, “kept theologians busy for a number of centuries.” McGiffert finds the Incarnation beside the point in Clement’s scheme, for Christ the Logos is eter­ bsolute”—​­into nal.150 Clement introduced a new conception of ­God—​­“the A Christian thought, which “has played havoc with it ever since.” Moreover, he assumed that there was a conceptual contradiction between “the Absolute” and God the Father of the world. Only recently and in a few places (such as Union, we may presume) was that notion abandoned, McGiffert tells students. Clement, “the father of philosophical theology,” contributed three major ideas: God as a metaphysical absolute, the Logos as reconciler, and eternal life as knowledge.151 On treatments of the doctrine of God, we shall see more below. Origen

McGiffert, again, speaks in exclamation marks: Origen’s importance for Christian theology can hardly be overstated! Theology after Origen, he tells students, became the “Christian history of men’s thought about his ­ideas—​­for or against.” Students are amazed that Origen assumed the presidency of the “theological seminary” when he was only ­twenty—​­presumably their age. Like many of his time and since, McGiffert had no kind words for Rufinus as translator of On First Principles: “being stupid,” he claims, Rufinus “let a good many things through.”152 (McGiffert more decorously puts it in his History of Christian Thought: Rufinus was not as “­clear-​­sighted or ­keen-​­eyed” as he might have been.) Origen’s treatise On Prayer shows that his interests were practical as well as ­speculative—​­for McGiffert, always a positive factor.153 Again, it is the doctrine of God that causes difficulties: Origen’s set theological problems for centuries to come. That Origen began On First Principles with a discussion of God proved “prophetic”; systematic theologians followed it until modern times.154 McGiffert applauds Origen’s concern to defend divine justice, adding that if his solution had been accepted, Christianity might have explored the transmigration of souls. Predictably, McGiffert faults Origen’s doctrine of the Trinity as “not based on experience but on an antecedent conception of God.” Since God’s relation to the world through the Son is one of Origen’s prime themes, the Son’s subordination cannot but come to the fore; as Logos, the Son serves to reconcile transcendence and immanence. The Holy Spirit, by contrast, figures only because it appears in the baptismal formula;



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

127

Origen’s theology does not need it, McGiffert claims, since the Logos serves the purpose.155 McGiffert will return to Logos teaching when he treats the doctrine of God more fully. Other aspects of Origen’s teaching bring more praise from McGiffert. Marveling at the phrase in the Declaration of Independence “all men are created equal,” McGiffert comments that this is not a statement of fact, but an ideal promulgated in the age of Romanticism. To make that a “fact” supported by theology, one would have to espouse Origen’s theory of the creation of all human souls before the world’s ­creation—​­and the authors of the Declaration, he muses, “were too little theological for that!”156 McGiffert declares “magnificent” Origen’s conception that the purpose of the material world is “to train and bring back fallen spirits (humans) to God.” (McGiffert’s son, the notetaker, apparently found Origen less fascinating: he here pens in his notebook a question to the friend sitting next to him: “ask her if [she] doesn’t want you to be rather ­materialistic—​­salary you know, etc.”)157 Oblivious to his son’s indifference, the senior McGiffert waxes enthusiastic over Origen’s eschatology, which he proclaims an “extraordinary and splendid conception.” Origen’s view of the final restoration of all spirits, including (sometimes) even the devil, shows him as “an optimist, a universalist.” Although opponents deemed Origen’s notion of the casting off of bodies a great offense, indeed heretical, McGiffert praises his openness; he did not claim his speculations as infallible. If Origen’s ­open-​­mindedness had been followed, later Christians would have been saved “untold misery.” Origen’s approach, however, is very different from the “modern experimental method”:158 instead of “studying God’s activities as revealed in nature and history,” Origen asked, “What is spirit?” and other philosophical and metaphysical questions.159 Such abstractions do not sit easily with the “experimental method.” McGiffert compares the function of Origen’s deployment of allegory to that of modern biblical criticism: it sought to “remove the historical and moral difficulties which beset the Old Testament,” thus performing the service for the ancient church that “the historical method” does for the modern. Christians in Origen’s time read the Old Testament allegorically in order “to find religious value in tales [?] no longer believed.”160 Thus the “defects” of the Jewish Scriptures were minimized, while their prophecies, reinterpreted in Christian terms, “supplied the church with an armory of apologetic weapons surpassing anything to be found elsewhere.”161

128

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

The Doctrine of God McGiffert’s critique of Clement and Origen’s “metaphysical” discussions suggests how problematic he found the early church’s formulation of the doctrine of God and its attempt to fit Jesus into the Trinitarian scheme. His course “The Development of the Christian Idea of God” was entirely devoted to the issue. McGiffert recommends Baur to students as still offering the best treatment of this theme in the early Fathers. Harnack and Ritschl, he notes, abandoned the older approach that simply followed the Apostles’ Creed in elaborating the doctrine of God.162 “The early history of doctrine,” McGiffert claims (echoing Harnack), “is very largely a history of the way in which the gospel of Christ was overshadowed and displaced by a philosophy of the infinite which had no relation whatever to the gospel of Christ.” For most of Christian history, this philosophy of the infinite was considered the Christian doctrine of God.163 McGiffert deemed the doctrine of the Trinity “incomprehensible unless approached h ­ istorically”—​­that is, by understanding the circumstances and thought processes that prompted it. The doctrine is “not based on experience but on an antecedent conception of God.” European theologians today, McGiffert is sure, could scarcely interest themselves in Trinitarian relations as the Church Fathers discussed them.164 Little did he sense that within a few years, ­Neo-​­Orthodox theology would overwhelm his assessment of what “European theologians” might propose. Monotheism? One of McGiffert’s most e­ ye-​­catching claims was that monotheism remained relatively unimportant to the earliest Gentile Christians. For them, he argues in his Taylor Lectures at Yale in 1922 (published as The God of the Early Christians), monotheism was not an “original endowment.” ­Second-​­century Apologists were the first to discuss monotheism in cosmological and metaphysical terms. Early Gentile Christians, to the contrary, were drawn to the religion because of Christ, and “added” God later; they worshipped Christ before they worshipped God. Modalists’ identification of Christ with the Father, McGiffert argues, was motivated by resentment against “the indignity done him by those who would subject him to another ­God”—​­that is, who accorded Christ only secondary status. The interest of ­second-​­and ­third-​­century theologians



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

129

who made monotheism the key teaching of Christianity, by contrast, was not ethical, but “ontological and cosmological”; philosophical, not religious. Even though Modalism was condemned as a heresy, its proclamation of the oneness of God and Christ, and the true divinity of Christ, won out in later formulations.165 That God is to be interpreted Christologically (as Ritschl proposed) was obscured by the doctrine of the Trinity as classically expressed.166 In any event, McGiffert asks students, is Christianity strictly monotheistic, given that its devotees affirm Christ (and sometimes angels) as divine and even consider themselves “deified”? Angel and saint worship became so popular in the early centuries, he reports, that Christianity seemed almost “as polytheistic as paganism.” Nowhere in the early Fathers’ writings did he find any religious, ethical, or practical reasons given for preferring monotheism to polytheism. McGiffert was dismayed at the early Fathers’ lack of concern for the moral character of God. Only as a result of the debate with Marcion did they even name the categories of divine justice and goodness. Again, Marcion stands as a ­quasi-​­hero in the impetus he gave to Christian theologians’ reconceptualization of the divine.167 Logos Theology: Its Proposers, Its Opponents The God of ­second-​­and ­third-​­century theologians, McGiffert dramatically proclaims, was a “philosophical abstraction,” one not easily reconciled with the God of love. How can this “abyss of darkness” be the same God that the church proclaims as the one “who reveals, who is personal, the Father?” If God is conceived as transcendent Being, how can humans know him? Mystical yearning to know what cannot be wholly known is, in McGiffert’s view, “a counsel of despair.”168 The Logos concept, McGiffert tells students, was in effect a rescue mechanism for this dilemma: it offered a way to equate the Abyss with the Christian God. Identifying the Logos with Christ, however, still left God the Father unexplained, left him just as he would have been conceived if there had been no Christ or Christianity.169 The Logos teaching provided thinkers like Justin with a way to acknowledge that Jesus is God, but not ho theos, the God. Indeed, for Justin, through all the world’s ages, the Logos has revealed truth to wise and devout men of many nations, culminating in the revelation of Christ.170 Existing before creation, the Logos is the Second God of the Old Testament theophanies, who later appears in Christ. The concept provided a means of mediation between “the God of philosophy and the God of religion.”

130

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

McGiffert comments that “by distinguishing God the Father as revealed in the Old Testament from the Son of God incarnate in Christ, and by identifying the Logos with the latter rather than with the former,” grave and lasting confusion was introduced into Christianity. This understanding “left the contradiction between God the absolute, on the one hand and God the creator and ruler of the world and the father of Jews and Christians, on the other hand, quite unresolved.” If, with the Modalists, Christ had been identified with the Father, McGiffert thinks that the difficulty would have vanished. The deity of Christ thus got entwined in the “wholly philosophical” Logos Christology: the doctrine of the Trinity tried to express both aspects.171 McGiffert concludes The God of the Early Christians with these words: Had it not been for philosophical difficulties, he [Jesus Christ] would himself doubtless have been recognized as the one God of all the ­earth—​­as he was by the ­Modalists—​­but philosophy made it necessary to distinguish between a god apart and aloof and a god dying and rising again for our salvation, and so the theologians, while they gave Christ all the functions of the supreme God, refrained from ascribing to the supreme God all the experiences of Christ. . . . ​Religion speaks in the historic doctrine of the deity of Christ; philosophy speaks in the Logos Christology, which means the distinction of the Son from the Father, and that, too, even though both are declared to be equally divine.172 The problem of mediation is thus for McGiffert a key issue of s­ econd-​­and ­third-​­century theology. Clement of Alexandria, by viewing God as “the Absolute,” so stressed divine incomprehensibility that the need for mediation became imperative: the Logos ensured God’s immanence, affirming that God works in, mediates to, the world. Likewise in Origen’s scheme, the Logos reconciles transcendence and immanence, with the Father (ho theos) by his will always begetting the Son (theos).173 To be sure, opponents, whose interests were (in McGiffert’s view) primarily religious or ethical, challenged this philosophical Logos theology. (By “religious,” McGiffert here signals Christocentric devotion and trust in divine providence.) In the third century, Paul of Samosata tried to break the influence of Alexandrian speculation. On the other side, modalists such as Sabellius opposed subordinationism. Much later, Schleiermacher with his Christocentric theology protested this philosophical approach. His theology, McGiffert



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

131

reminds the class, is modalistic: hence Sabellius’ position can be considered “very modern.”174 The Doctrine of the Trinity McGiffert deems the Trinitarian and Christological controversies to have been fairly useless. Given his pragmatic, ­anti-​­speculative approach, his Christocentric emphasis, and his insistence that theology should be based on “experience,” Trinitarian doctrine fails: centered on philosophy, it has little relevance to contemporary Christians.175 McGiffert suggests that if Stoic metaphysics had reigned instead of Platonic, the doctrine of the Trinity would have been considered “unnecessary.” Christians could have satisfied their religious interest by finding God in Christ.176 Belief in the deity of the Son, he adds, stems from a “redemptive interest.”177 Here again, Christocentric religious devotion is set against philosophical speculation. The Arian Controversy and the ­Fourth-​­Century Councils McGiffert stressed the role of Lucian of Antioch in spurring the Arian controversy. The discovery of Lucian’s role, he tells students, is a relatively new emphasis: a generation ago, we knew nothing about Lucian, but now Gwatkin and Harnack have shown that he was the developer of the Arian position. For Lucian, although Christ is the Incarnation of the Logos, he is not God but an intermediate being between God and humans. The views of his pupil Arius are somewhat better known.178 Arianism’s strength, in McGiffert’s view, lay in its “negative quality,” that is, in its protest against the “Alexandrian identification of Christ and God.” Like others of his day, he claims that Arius’ controlling interest was intellectual, not religious. McGiffert doubts, however, that Arius’ opponent, Athanasius of Alexandria, truly overcame the subordination of the Son: his theology can be understood as Logos Christology combined with Modalism, whereas Arians combined Logos Christology with Adoptionism. Logos Christology thus undergirded both schemes, and its effects on later theology, in McGiffert’s view, were never entirely surmounted. He recommends to students Archibald Robertson’s “Prolegomena” to Athanasius’ writings in the Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers series as “very, very good.”179 Describing the Council of Nicaea, McGiffert emphasizes Constantine’s interests, the role of the “middle party” (mainly “ignorant,” simply wanting peace), Eusebius of Caesarea and his creed, and how the additions and changes

132

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

to the Council’s Creed transformed what might have promoted unity among factions into an “extreme partisan formula.”180 The Creed of the Council of Nicaea, McGiffert reminds students, differed f­rom—​­and did not develop ­into—​­what is now called the Nicene Creed: a generation ago, F. J. A. Hort showed that the “Constantinopolitan” Creed was a revised form of the Creed of Jerusalem. The later Creed, which came to be called “Nicene,” was deemed more suitable for church use in that it contained no anathemas, included reference to Christ’s work, and omitted Athanasius’ phrase “of the ousia of the Father.”181 Logos theology, McGiffert emphasized, was not full Trinitarianism. In particular, it lacked reference to the Holy Spirit. Justin, for example, had no notion of the Trinity; he nowhere discusses the Holy Spirit, which has no special function distinct from that of the Logos. Rather, it was the baptismal formula that spurred the formulation of the doctrine of the Trinity: “except for it the church would have contented itself with two persons in the Godhead instead of three.” McGiffert cites Basil of Caesarea’s On the Holy Spirit as a “striking illustration” of the problem the Fathers encountered in assigning the Spirit a place and activity of its own.182 The Council of Constantinople in 381, however, brought the Holy Spirit to greater prominence. The “threeness” in Trinitarian doctrine, McGiffert claims, derives from the Church Fathers’ adoption of Platonic philosophy; had Stoicism prevailed, the ­one-​­ness of the Godhead would rather have been emphasized, with stress on the deity of Christ.183 McGiffert, like others of his time, finds the Cappadocians’ interpretation of the Nicaea formula “­semi-​­Arian”: they emphasized the three hypostases as much as the “one substance.” He distinguishes their position from that of Athanasius, who did not, in McGiffert’s view, teach a genuine doctrine of “Trinity,” but envisioned one being with three forms.184 One point in Trinitarian doctrine McGiffert found particularly objectionable: the lack of discussion about the larger compass of God’s Fatherhood. The doctrine of the Trinity simply assumed that “Father” meant (only) “Father of the Son.” There was no elaboration of how God was “father” in any other sense.185 Rectifying this omission by developing the notion of God’s “fatherhood” constituted a central core of McGiffert’­s—​­and Liberal Protestantism’­s—​ ­theological affirmation. The doctrine of the Trinity, McGiffert concedes, met a philosophical problem: how to bring God near through Christ. Yet if today Christians no longer posit a chasm between God and the world, the need for the Logos as a mediating device drops out. He tells students: “In modern times where immanence



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

133

prevails the Trinity fares more or less badly. If a man starts with transcendence and believes in immanence only through Christ then [the] Trinity may help him. But if he starts from immanence then it’s unnecessary.”186 Mediation schemes such as Logos Christology perhaps seemed necessary in a thought world dominated by Platonic ­philosophy—​­but not in the twentieth century, where different assumptions reign. Augustine’s Doctrine of God While the Cappadocian interpretation prevailed in the eastern church, the West favored Augustine’s view of one personal God living in a threefold relation. By “Person,” McGiffert warns students, do not imagine three distinctive entities within the Godhead.187 He acknowledges that Augustine’s view sounds modern: it conceives God as “social,” affirms “a society in God.” Yet, he counters, no explanations of the Trinity account for this social view; theologians simply explained the doctrine after the fact.188 Moreover, Augustine’s emphasis on God as a “person” afforded him a way to highlight God’s almighty will:189 he extended the notion of the philosophical Absolute from the category of substance to the category of will, McGiffert thinks, “with devastating results.”190 Why “devastating”? McGiffert (who championed the category of “will” as central to humans’ promotion of “spirit” over “nature”) probably had in mind the theory of predestination, which ran counter to his own view of God’s relations with humans and the need for human effort in service of the Kingdom.191 God as absolute will, McGiffert tells students, is difficult to reconcile with human freedom.192 His arguments show how far he had deviated from his Calvinist predecessors. McGiffert further holds that Augustine’s view of God was “obscured by the conception of sacramental grace”: God gives himself through the sacraments.193 Augustine’s religious experience, McGiffert argues, pointed to the nearness of God, yet different theories (of the Absolute or of the Trinity) controlled his theology.194 Augustine’s conversion entailed identifying the ­Neo-​ ­Platonic “Absolute” with the personal God, a move that in McGiffert’s view prompted “great confusion.”195 In the end, McGiffert found it useless to enter debates over which Church Father’s theology was more suited to present needs. Some church historians in America, he alleges, were championing the theology of Athanasius, with its stress on God’s immanence, over that of Augustine, as more in accord with modern emphases. McGiffert, however, considers it a “sorry thing” if all that

134

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

divine “immanence” conveys was a return to ancient Greek theology! The Greek Fathers thought of God under the category of substance; if they had any view of God’s “immanence,” it was primarily physical, not ­ethical—​­completely foreign to the thought of our contemporaries.196 “Physical” signals doctrines of God that start from “divine substance.” Today, McGiffert claims, God is described in ethical, rather than “the old physical and legal” terms, as a loving Father whose immanence is stressed rather than his transcendence.197 Anthropomorphic notions of God bordering on “superstition” or implying that God can be manipulated for human purposes must be roundly rejected. McGiffert finds it “extraordinary” that only in modernity did Christian theologians explore the notion of God’s ethical c­ haracter—​­more in the last fifteen or twenty years, he declares, than in Christianity’s first 1,900. Is Calvin’s God, conceived as “power,” even Christian? he asks.198 The contemporary church, however, has often failed to note these new conceptualizations. How did the latter come about? McGiffert supplies some answers. Once the old dualism between nature and supernature was abandoned, ideas of the miraculous, salvation, and revelation needed revision. The notion of God’s Fatherhood, influenced by ­nineteenth-​­century scientific and historical thinking, “has almost turned upside down the traditional Christian system.”199 Moreover, Kant’s maxim that there can be no knowledge of the ­Ding-a​­­ n-S​­ ich implies that God can no longer be understood philosophically as the “infinite.” Thanks to Ritschl, the doctrine of God “is becoming Christologized as never before”:200 God is understood through Jesus, not vice versa. Last, the emphasis on God’s love was strengthened by modern humanitarianism and the study of the historical Jesus: God cannot be imagined as being worse than humans. The modern view of social service, McGiffert suggests, influenced this newer conception of God, rather than vice versa.201 Theology, after all, is a human enterprise.

Christology Genuine Christian theism, McGiffert reiterates, interprets God in light of Christ; it makes God Christlike. Jesus’ divinity is shown in the fact that his “moral standards and principles” are “those of God himself.”202 With these views foremost in his mind, McGiffert, unsurprisingly, critiqued Christological developments of the patristic era. He starts with Christianity’s earliest decades. For Gentile Christians, McGiffert emphasizes, Christ’s humanity, not his



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

135

divinity, posed problems.203 Logos theology, under the influence of Platonic philosophy, implied that God was unapproachable; hence, “Christ is made ­God”—​­but not “God” pure and simple.204 McGiffert considers kenosis theory “the most vicious” of the Christological theories: “There is only one Christ,” he retorts, and Christology must be based on the historic Christ, the man Jesus.205 Recommending works by Dorner and Harnack, McGiffert warns students that the various Christological positions of the Church Fathers assume the strong opposition between God and humans.206 He returns to Justin, for whom Jesus’ Virgin Birth places him midway between a man chosen by God to be the Messiah and a preexistent divine Logos who becomes Incarnate.207 McGiffert, however, cautions against aligning belief in the Virgin Birth too closely with belief in Jesus’ divinity. In the second century, for example, many who believed in the Virgin Birth did not believe in the deity of Christ, “who were in fact thorogoing [sic] Unitarians.” On the other hand, neither Paul nor John believed in the Virgin Birth, but they affirmed the deity of Jesus.208 There is no necessary correlation between the two beliefs. McGiffert addressed various early forms of Christology. Adoptionists, stressing the ethical element in Gospel teaching, wished to restore simple faith in the man Jesus Christ; for them, “religious interests” in a personal God were threatened by heavy theological speculation.209 (Once again, McGiffert pits “religion” against “theological speculation.”) The ascription of total difference between God and ­humans—​­“wholly diverse ­natures”—​­hints at how both adoptionism and docetism could arise as solutions to Christological dilemmas.210 Nor did Athanasius overcome this ascription of difference: the Logos performs miracles, while the human element suffers and dies.211 The Chalcedonian formula, McGiffert claims, did not explain the human and the divine in Christ; it simply stated “two natures,” not “two persons.”212 It tried to hold the divinity and humanity of Christ in an “unstable equilibrium,” yet two diverse conceptions of religion, “the ethical and the mystical,” here struggled against each other.213 The West, concerned with Christ’s “real human nature,” opposed Christological expressions (probably Cyril of Alexandria’s, and certainly Eutyches’) that left “no truly human life”; for them, Jesus’ life is simply “the life of God on earth.” The end result, McGiffert thinks, might have been reached earlier, “­pre-​­Apollinaris.” Although the Chalcedonian formula is now held to be orthodox, who, he asks, supports it? “It has no real grip on theologians.”214 Augustine’s religious experience, McGiffert tells students, centered on nearness to God, not to Christ. In fact, Christ seldom appears in his writings,215

136

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

and even then mostly in his “Homilies on the Gospels,” not in his more technical theological treatises. The Christocentrically focused McGiffert charged that Augustine’s system was “absolutely complete” without Christ. Moreover, Augustine had no developed theory of Christ’s work; he mentions Christ’s example of love, trust, and o­ bedience—​­but not much else. He failed to speak about Christ from “his own religious need.” McGiffert urges students to consult the works of Harnack and Loofs on the subject.216 In the 150 years after Chalcedon, the church, “fatigued” from controversy, simply repeated the Chalcedonian formula without any deeper understanding of Christology. The later controversy over one or two wills in Jesus “seems very barren. How [does it] concern us?” McGiffert asks. The mystical interpretation (the transformation of the human through union with the divine) and ethical (the divine personality influences the human personality) jostle for primacy. For McGiffert, this dichotomy shows that “what Christianity is” is open for debate.217 Except for highlighting different conceptions of Christianity, the Trinitarian and Christological developments could be “dismissed as unworthy of notice.”218 McGiffert implies that if Christians had rejected the assumption of “total difference” between divinity and humanity, they might have avoided the baffling intellectual complications of these controversies that so threatened the unity of the church. They might have understood the importance of the Incarnation in showing that “our common humanity” is divine, the spirit of God being present at all times and places. They would have recognized that humans need “no magical or sacramental grace,” but should rather recognize their “divine sonship.”219 These arcane debates of Christian antiquity convinced McGiffert that ancient Christianity, far from serving society and the state, had turned its back on the world. Only in modernity, when God’s immanence was championed, was the dualism between human and divine in Christ overcome: Christ, if he was human, must be divine, as all men are. Now, the assertion of the one claim entails the assertion of both.220 Humanity and divinity are no longer pitted against each other.221

Creeds The creeds of the ancient church, the Apostles’ Creed in particular, were of considerable interest to McGiffert. With the possible exception of the Apostles’



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

137

Creed (because there is “so little theology in it”), these creeds, he believed, constituted a great problem for ­twentieth-​­century Christians: “the deluge” lay between them and “us.” Even devout churchgoers find the creeds “unpalatable” and have revolted against them. In McGiffert’s view, creeds serve the same function as Paul’s “schoolmaster” of Galatians 4:2, who trains children for “the freedom of Christian thought and life.” Creeds should not be used as a test of orthodoxy or as polemic.222 McGiffert perhaps here recalled his own brushes with heresy charges. Changing some details of the creeds, McGiffert avers, does not help: their whole structure and underlying purpose “are alien to our modern way of looking at things.” A “complete transformation of fundamental principles” is needed that will unearth the gospel buried in the creeds. If new creeds are devised, they should offer a practical program for Christian life, not just a theoretical statement of faith. They must encourage union among Christians, rather than creating the divisions that creeds often did in the past. The present age, McGiffert claims, marked by a “very wholesome agnosticism,” recognizes that human knowledge is limited, that some problems can remain unsettled: the new creeds should respect that limitation and rather deal with “life.”223 McGiffert’s major work on the early development of the creed was his 1902 book The Apostles’ Creed.224 The dogmatic development of creeds, McGiffert here argues, was spurred by Gnostic and heretical views. Dangerous doctrines (dualism; two gods; no salvation of the body) needed to be countered. Irenaeus placed the standard in the teaching of the twelve Apostles. Although the creed that he cites is not identical with the later Apostles’ Creed (“the Old Roman Symbol” was still fluid), McGiffert finds “irresistible” the conclusion that Irenaeus testifies to the existence of the Roman creed.225 In his Apostles’ Creed, McGiffert takes aim at some theories of his mentor, Harnack. He (contra Harnack) finds no traces of the creed earlier than Irenaeus. Moreover, Harnack had argued that the creed was developed for missionary purposes; McGiffert, for polemical purposes. (Since Marcion was in Rome circa 145 and Irenaeus around 150, the dates, he claimed, support an ­anti-​­heresy argument.) McGiffert asks students to note the pages in his book that give the original form of the Creed and Rufinus’ additions.226 Explaining the phrases of the Creed, McGiffert claims that “and the Holy Spirit” is simply an addition from the baptismal formula; he finds it “significant” that nothing more is said. McGiffert invites students to reflect on the “extraordinary” omissions from the Creed: if it were designed as a missionary statement (as Harnack thought), you would expect references to the preexistence, divinity,

138

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

and Messiahship of Christ, his teaching and works, the salvific purpose of his death, the Kingdom of God, and baptism. But these points are not even mentioned. The Apostles’ Creed, unlike the Westminster Confession, McGiffert concludes, was not meant as a summary, let alone a complete statement, of the faith. As theology developed, churchmen either had to create new creeds or (more frequently) interpret the old to fit new circumstances. As early as the late second century, Irenaeus and Tertullian read into the Creed all their Christian beliefs. To be sure, the Creed’s “elasticity” allowed for new interpretations, but it nevertheless set limits, reining in “free speculation.” This elasticity allowed Roman Catholics to use the Apostles’ Creed until the ­sixteenth-​­century Council of Trent without expressly inserting their own, more developed theology. “An extraordinary fact!” he exclaims. In his notes, the younger McGiffert puts an exclamation point after his father’s claim that the creed represents “ ‘a lower development’ (!).”227 Again, McGiffert’s son seems startled by his father’s more radical views. Although the Apostles’ Creed gives little explicit help on the essentials of Christianity, McGiffert adds, Christ himself gave a standard: if any do God’s will, he shall know his teaching ( John 7:17). Christ’s plain and simple test provides comfort amidst uncertainty on other points. Whether Christ has two natures and two wills, whether the human soul is propagated with the body, whether Christ’s resurrection body differed from his earthly body are points “of little value to your life or to my life,” he concludes. John 7:17 contains all the doctrine a person needs, even if we do not know whether sprinkling or immersion is the proper mode of baptism, or whether the bread and wine were ­really turned into the body and blood of Christ. Jesus did not tell the fishermen to believe in the Trinity and then follow him; No! he said simply, “Follow me.”228

Sacraments The rubric under which McGiffert discussed early Christian baptism and the Lord’s Supper often engages the category of magic. Sacraments imply the ­well-​ ­known postulate of magic, that the realm of the physical can affect that of the spiritual. McGiffert recommends the Encyclopedia Britannica’s article on “Magic.”229 One of the faults of Augustine’s system, McGiffert alleges, was that grace was assumed to work “chemically,” as it were, transforming humans from bad to good.230



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

139

McGiffert explicates for students the multiple meanings of baptism in early Christianity (for example, repentance for failure to keep the law; a mystical or physical union with Christ; a transformation of nature; a sacrament; a “magical rite”). During Jesus’ lifetime, baptism could have been no more than a “baptism of repentance”; later, it represented a belief in his Messiahship. Moreover, the commandment to baptize is not well attested: the triune formula of Matthew 28 is not found elsewhere in apostolic times. Rather, we find baptism described as being buried with Christ (Paul) and performed in “the name of Christ.” The baptismal formula of the Apostles’ Creed has God, Christ, and S­ pirit—​­not the triune formula. From this evidence, McGiffert concludes that Jesus never gave the command to “baptize all nations” in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, as Matthew 28:19 attests.231 At first, only adult baptism by immersion was practiced. Infant baptism would be “absurd” if baptism signaled merely repentance. By contrast, if water has a magical effect, “it makes no difference whether the person baptized knows anything about it or not.” McGiffert marvels at infant baptism’s “remarkable” hold on the Christian church. Another distinctive feature: by the third century, McGiffert adds, anybody could baptize, even a woman.232 As for the Lord’s Supper, McGiffert tells students that within the New Testament itself, there are two different concepts. In Matthew and Mark, Jesus at the Supper comforts his disciples in face of impending disaster; in Paul, the Supper reminds Christians that Jesus has died. While McGiffert discussed this topic, earlier so dangerous for him (a little footnote on the Last Supper spurred his heresy trial), his son scribbled in his notebook, “Heresy! So not instituted by Christ but just grew up.” “Extraordinary!” exclaims McGiffert: neither Protestants nor Roman Catholics eat a ­meal—​­as suggested by the New ­Testament—​­but take a bit of bread and wine. He deems Paul responsible for this change, which he then traces through the Didache and Justin. Later, the common meal was abandoned, even forbidden.233 McGiffert emphasizes how much the meaning of the Lord’s Supper changed: originally, it expressed joy and thanksgiving. Then, departing from their Hebrew roots, Christians called it a sacrifice of Christ’s body, not of “the flesh of bulls and goats.” Soon a mystical interpretation arose: participants unite with Christ’s flesh and blood in the elements (for example, Justin, Apology 66). A “realistic doctrine” of the Lord’s Supper goes back to Paul and is common in the early church, McGiffert insists, setting this claim against Protestant interpreters who wish to place this interpretation late. Faith was not

140

A r t h u r Cu sh m a n Mc Gi ffer t

necessary; even infants could take the elements. With this magical teaching, McGiffert claims, “Christian life became reliant on external things.”234 Although Augustine’s religious experience, as described in the Confessions, was “mystical and immediate,” this was counterbalanced by his later stress on the sacraments and the authority of the church.235 McGiffert finds the notion that the sacraments convey grace (which limits the ­human-​­divine relation) to be inconsistent with Augustine’s own religious experience. The Eucharist, for example, unites Christians to Christ’s body, but only through the conduit of the church. Moreover, Augustine’s teaching on the sacraments, in McGiffert’s view, seems misaligned with that on predestination. He tells students that Augustine tries to meet the objection “by saying God predestines man’s partaking of the sacraments too.” While the necessity of the sacraments was taken into Catholic teaching, the idea of predestination was less enthusiastically received and, in McGiffert’s view, remains confused even to the present.236

Conclusion McGiffert’s approach to early church history was decisively colored by his Liberal Protestant understanding of what Christianity was meant to be and how it should be construed to prove serviceable for humans of the early twentieth century. From the time of Paul onward, in McGiffert’s view, the message of Jesus had been distorted, infiltrated by philosophical considerations regarding (among other points) God as “Absolute” that had no helpful place in religion. He did not, however, think that Christians today should simply retreat to the teachings of Jesus the Jew: the twentieth century had a far better understanding of humans’ place in the larger world, of society and science, than had Christians of earlier eras. Today’s Christians, he implied, should seize the freedom to reshape Christianity into a message of “opportunity” and “service.” His brusque dismissal of cherished traditions, doctrines, and creeds, I suspect, must have startled more of his students than just his son, on whose class notes we depend for much of our knowledge of his teaching. Yet, we gather from reports, McGiffert was not only admired for his scholarship, his intellectual courage, and his dynamic teaching, but more, loved.

Chapter 5

LaPiana’s Life and Writings

Life Among the papers in the Harvard Archives pertaining to Giorgio (George) LaPiana, who taught church history at Harvard Divinity School and University from 1915 to 1947, is a “Memoir” of his life.1 This and the reminiscences of his friend and successor, George H. Williams, constitute the two main sources for a biographical reconstruction.2 Other points can be inferred from his books, articles, and lectures. Writing his “Memoirs” proved a less sweet task than LaPiana had anticipated: the “roses and lilies” of his imagination disappear, he confessed, while the “­ill-​­smelling weeds” remain. The many wrong directions he had taken seemed all too evident. LaPiana also warns any potential readers that he cannot, at his advanced age, claim “absolute fidelity” for his memories.3 Reading the “Memoirs” is also not a sweet task for the contemporary historian. Transcribed in the late 1960s when LaPiana was around ninety, the pages are completely disordered, with bits of paper stuck in randomly, some with dates and topics, others not. Frequently, there is more than one version of a section. The first part of a lecture may be in one box and folder, the rest of it somewhere else. The disorder of LaPiana’s papers is most certainly not the fault of inattentive archivists: LaPiana himself was the culprit. LaPiana’s sister Angelina (who taught Italian at Wellesley College)4 hired a woman named Nancy Greer to read her elderly brother’s papers aloud to him, which he then edited for changes and ­corrections—​­but between every session, LaPiana mixed up the pages. An undated letter from Greer to “Miss LaPiana” explains that although she dutifully works with “the Professor” to order his files, he jumbles them again after she leaves. Greer hopes that at the

144

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

end of the project she will be able to order the chapters, but so much is now mixed up by Professor LaPiana himself that she despairs. Greer thinks that she should not accept further payments from Miss LaPiana unless the latter understands that she is not to blame for the lack of progress.5 Despite the disorder and random labeling of the files, however, a wealth of material on LaPiana’s teaching and ­writings—​­much previously ­unexplored—​­awaits the patient researcher. Early Life Giorgio LaPiana was born in the town of Piana degli Albanesi, near Palermo, Sicily, in 1878. Toward the end of the fifteenth century, Albania had been seized by the Turks; refugees fled to Sicily and founded the town, memorializing its Albanian origin in its very name. Even today, LaPiana reports in his “Memoirs,” their descendants speak Albanian and use Greek in their liturgy.6 Piana degli Albanesi boasted two Catholic churches, one devoted to the Greek rite and the other to the Latin. Two of LaPiana’s brothers were baptized in the ­Greek-​­rite church, while George and his other five siblings, in the L ­ atin-​­rite one. George’s father, apparently hedging his bets, hoped that one son would become a bishop in the ­Byzantine-​­rite church, and another in the ­Latin-​­rite.7 Far from George becoming a bishop, however, he increasingly distanced himself from the Catholic Church during his Harvard years. The LaPiana family dated to the sixteenth century, when a member of Charles V’s army, stationed in Palermo, had married a young woman from Piana degli Albanesi. George’s father, who had been trained as a civil engineer and later served as an agricultural land manager, was liberal, even ­anti-​­clerical, for most of his life; by contrast, his mother, who died in 1904, was very religious. Nevertheless, LaPiana recalls that he had little religious education at home, although an old servant woman told him and his siblings Christian legends and taught them prayers.8 Moreover, an uncle who had been an Augustinian friar in Rome (displaced when religious orders were officially abolished after the reunification of Italy in 1870) lived with the family and perhaps exerted some religious influence.9 The father’s ­land-​­management business was profitable until the end of the nineteenth century, when poor crops and ­leftist-​­inspired political upheavals led to the family’s impoverishment.10 George Williams, LaPiana’s successor at Harvard and confidante, adds that the father had served as steward on the estates of the wealthy, and hence was financially affected by the unrest.11 When



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

145

striking workers let crops rot in the fields, the army was brought in to suppress Socialists. With his father bankrupt, his mother sold embroidery work to help support the family. Although, as we shall see, LaPiana was highly sympathetic to social reform, he might with good reason fault Socialist and Communist workers for damaging his family’s welfare. Moreover, leftists often allied themselves with what LaPiana labeled “totalitarian” positions.12 A staunch advocate of democracy, he strongly opposed “totalitarianism” in all forms and spent much time and energy challenging Fascism in Italy. Once well established in a professorship at Harvard, he nearly gave up publishing on early Christianity in order to combat Italian Fascism in his lectures and writing. When he was seven, George went to live with family friends in Palermo for ­schooling—​­but soon, burned in an accident, he returned home. Two years later, he was sent to the seminary school in Monreale, by which time he already had acquired some Latin and had begun to learn Greek. The library at Monreale, an archepiscopal foundation dating from the late fifteenth century, became one of his loves. There he gained an early acquaintance with patristic writings, especially Augustine’s, whose rhetoric he found enticing. Yet, he recalls, even as a youth he worried that he might be “walking on the difficult path of agnosticism.”13 Education and Vocation At eighteen, LaPiana started his studies at the theological college at Monreale. The curriculum was divided into three branches: Dogmatic Theology (Thomas Aquinas), Moral Theology (Alfonse de Liguori), and Canon Law. Both theology and philosophy were taught from a Thomistic viewpoint, in accordance with Leo XIII’s 1879 encyclical, Aeterni Patris. When government officials inspected the school, they roundly denounced this antiquated approach: Aquinas might suffice for theological studies, but philosophy should be “modern.”14 Later in life, LaPiana reflected on the education given to youths at seminary schools. Such boys, he claimed, tend to grow up not only ­narrow-​­minded, but full of s­ elf-​­importance, condescending to laymen as “beings of a different species.” Belatedly they encounter a different world, but their early training often leaves them with “mental and social inhibitions.”15 Was LaPiana regretfully recalling his own early education? Most significant, LaPiana claimed, was the complete lack of historical training at the seminary school. In fact, there was no professor of ecclesiastical history. This absence he found doubly strange since history had occupied a

146

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

prominent place in the curriculum at the lyceum, where Jesuit instructors had taught students modern approaches (for example, that historical reconstruction was subject to human prejudice and distortion). Yet, LaPiana wryly remarks, the religious principles that governed their teaching “left a certain elasticity in historical exegesis.”16 Given these deficiencies, young George undertook historical study on his own, focusing especially on the medieval to modern periods, including that of the Risorgimento. To Italian lay historians of that era, he recalls, Giuseppe Mazzini, Giuseppe Garibaldi, and Vittorio Emanuele II “were almost epic heroes who had rescued Italy to the ranks of free n ­ ations”—​­but reactionary clerical historians disparaged them as atheists. LaPiana later suspected that the revolutionary spirit then coloring Italian history must have informed the Director of Studies’ hesitation to introduce historical studies at the theological school. This prejudice against history persisted, even though the Archbishop of Monreale, himself a historian, had written the history of the church in Sicily. Students who had previously attended the lyceum, aware of the gap in their education, read history on their own in the school’s library. The last year that LaPiana was a student at Monreale, the school finally secured a professor of “sufficiently modern” tendencies to teach ecclesiastical history. Moreover, at eighteen, LaPiana had received permission to read some “Forbidden Books” regarding doctrine, although not those classified as “immoral.” In this way, he was allowed to study historical works that explained (and critiqued) the Protestant Reformation.17 At twenty, LaPiana had exhausted the program at the theological school, but due to his youth, he had to wait two years to take Orders. In the interim, he taught Greek, Latin, and ancient history at the seminary school. On September 20, 1900, LaPiana made his profession in the cathedral of Monreale. He was now an ordained priest of the Roman Catholic Church. He had imagined that celibacy would prove easy: this assumption, he confessed, proved an illusion.18 He later wrote, “Human nature does not yield easily to being molded anew by voluntary renunciation of all the good things of this life.”19 Marriage, after all, is sanctioned by the law of nature. LaPiana later wryly noted that the vow for the priesthood involved celibacy, not chastity. In light of this comment, one cannot help wonder about his activities during his year of study in Geneva, when he kept his priestly status incognito. Looking back, he suspects that he spurred some of his students to reject clerical celibacy and leave the priesthood; under conditions of the 1929 Concordat between Benito Mussolini and Pius XI, however, former clerics such as these would be barred from



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

147

teaching positions in public schools.20 As we shall see, LaPiana’s hostility to obligatory clerical celibacy colored his teaching on early Christian asceticism. Modernist Interests On a trip to Rome around 1905, LaPiana met Ernesto Buonaiuti, who would greatly influence both his historical work and his ­anti-​­Fascist convictions. (Buonaiuti’s historiography and its influence on LaPiana will be detailed in Chapter 6.) Buonaiuti, slightly younger than LaPiana, had earned his Ph.D. by age twenty and was already a professor of ecclesiastical history at the Pontifical Roman Seminary.21 Although LaPiana would learn much from Buonaiuti’s writings and friendship, the latter espoused a more mystical Catholicism and had greater confidence in future social and ecclesiastical reform than did LaPiana.22 In his last year of teaching at Harvard, LaPiana devoted his opening convocation ­lecture—​­“Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision of ­Life”—​­to his recently deceased friend.23 At the Monreale seminary school, Buonaiuti’s version of ­Modernism—​ ­one that linked h ­ istorical-​­critical scholarship with religious c­ ommitment—​ ­found a warm response outside the classroom. LaPiana helped to form a club (the “Club of Last Truth”) whose participants discussed ­historical-​­critical approaches to religious and social issues. Most of the student body joined. LaPiana, however, reflected that his commitment had been halfhearted: simply attending to external measures of church governance, as some colleagues advocated, was insufficient to secure liberalism in the church. Clubs such as this would arouse the suspicion of the Vatican and lead within a few years (1910) to the requirement that those who held official positions in the church, including teachers, must subscribe to the ­anti-​­Modernist oath.24 LaPiana barely escaped censure by Catholic authorities regarding his p ­ ro-​ ­Modernist allegiance. At the Monreale seminary school, he had promised not to teach Modernist ideas, but soon (“inadvertently,” he later claimed) he broke his promise. During Pius X’s pontificate, an Inquisitor was sent to the school to investigate Modernist tendencies; he gave Rome “a very bleak report.” La Piana remained at the seminary school until 1907, when he was informed that his position would be dependent on making an ­anti-​­Modernist profession of faith and taking an a­ nti-​­Modernist oath. Conservative colleagues, it seemed, had protested his teaching. LaPiana resigned the Chair of History and left the school.25

148

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

More Education Where to go? LaPiana yearned to be in a place that would allow him liberty of thought. He considered A ­ merica—​­but this would not be his first step. Rather, he requested permission from the Archbishop of Monreale to study at the Catholic University of Fribourg. Unbeknown to his superiors, he did not head to Fribourg, but to Berlin, Heidelberg, and Munich, finally settling in Geneva.26 In Geneva, he found the intellectual and social liberty he had sought: he went as a layperson, not revealing his clerical status and (as he put it) forsaking “the promises he made at his ordination.”27 He studied Byzantine literature and the history of religion (comparative religion). Receiving a Licentiate in letters in 1908, he reluctantly returned to Sicily.28 In Palermo, the Cardinal Archbishop offered LaPiana two positions: as director of the college of San Rocco, a school of choice for Sicilian noble families, and as s­ometime-​­teacher of history at the lyceum in Palermo. George Williams describes San Rocco as a “­quasi-​­municipal school no longer under direct ecclesiastical jurisdiction,” although staffed by priests as well as laymen.29 Apprising the archbishop of his Modernist leanings, LaPiana was told that if he kept his views to himself, there would be no problem; at San Rocco, he would not be asked to take an a­ nti-​­Modernist oath. In his “Memoirs,” LaPiana writes that he now regretted his clerical status: it grated on him,30 probably more so after his year of freedom in Geneva. He confessed that he became secretly infatuated with an attractive young mother of one of his charges at San ­Rocco—​­but offers no further comment on the incident.31 He remained at San Rocco for four years, from 1909 to 1913.32 During his time at San Rocco, LaPiana pursued a doctorate at the University of Palermo. His dissertation focused on a manuscript he had discovered in the National Library of Palermo, which contained a dramatic homily attributed to Gregory of Nyssa. He argued that the Byzantine liturgy, so theatrical, was developed from dramatic sermons such as this. The dissertation (Le Rappresentazioni sacre nella letteratura bizantina dalle origini al secolo IX, con rapporti al teatro sacro d’Occidente) was printed in 1912 by the Greek monks at Grottoferrato monastery in Rome. Some years later, he would give ­English-​ ­speaking readers a sample in his study “The Byzantine Theater,” published in Speculum in 1936.33



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

149

America As early as 1907, when LaPiana resigned his position at the seminary school in Monreale, he had considered America as a possible refuge offering intellectual freedom. In 1913, three of his brothers and his sister Angelina, already in the United States, invited him to join them.34 I strongly suspect, however, that it was not merely the opportunity for a family visit that enticed him. Since the 1907 Vatican decrees against Modernism, and especially since the 1910 requirement of an a­ nti-​­Modernist oath for teachers and priests, the Vatican hierarchy had been in hot pursuit of Modernist offenders. The trip to America might have seemed propitious for more than one reason. In August 1913,35 LaPiana sailed for the United States from Naples on the German ship the Moltke. After a month in New York, he settled in Milwaukee, where one brother was studying medicine while another ran the family drugstore.36 LaPiana had imagined that he might organize a “religious cultural school,” but church officials rebuffed him, refusing even to discuss his proposal.37 During his year in Milwaukee, he studied the educational system and edited an Italian newspaper, Corriere del Ouest. He also wrote a novel, Sulle Rive dei Grandi Laghi (On the Shores of the Great Lakes), which was published in his newspaper in 1914. Dwindling finances, however, interrupted these projects, and an Italian priest indicted the novel as immoral and scandalous.38 While in Milwaukee, LaPiana also wrote a report on the social and economic conditions of foreign groups in the city (“Italian Immigrants in America”).39 The patterns he uncovered resembled those that later researchers would observe among other immigrant groups in America. LaPiana reports that majority of the approximately 9,000 Italians in Milwaukee in 1915 derived from Sicily and southern Italy. Although they had been farmers in Italy, they mostly became common laborers in America. LaPiana details their wages, domestic arrangements,40 housing, and sanitary conditions.41 He highlights educational issues: children usually went to public, not parochial schools, and were rapidly Americanized, although only a few attended high school. Older Italians in the community, however, had a high illiteracy rate, about 50 percent. He rebutted the common assumption that Milwaukee’s Italians were aligned with the Mafia.42 LaPiana’s work on Italian immigrants in Milwaukee, I suggest, spurred his interest in immigrant groups in ancient Rome, a subject that would serve as his prime research topic a few years hence.

150

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

To Harvard: Writing and Teaching Not finding suitable permanent employment in Milwaukee,43 a discouraged LaPiana was about to return to Italy when a Unitarian minister who had befriended him, the Reverend Lyman M. Greenman, contacted friends at Harvard Divinity School about LaPiana’s situation. (By now, the Great War raging, a return to Italy would be difficult.) Harvard offered LaPiana a modest fellowship for 1915–1916: this offer marked a turning point in his life. He accepted, after being assured that he need not become a Unitarian, that the Divinity School was nondenominational, and that it imposed no creeds.44 In his “Memoirs,” LaPiana writes movingly about his arrival in Cambridge on a cold, rainy fall evening: “All alone confronted with the problem of a new life, new experiences, and perhaps, new disappointments. This deep sense of being alone, of having left behind a whole life, and to begin a new one when one is no longer a youth, filled me with anxiety and cruel doubts about the road to follow.”45 Written so many decades later, the words poignantly attest to the loneliness and anxiety with which he then wrestled. He was, after all, approaching middle age and still had no settled life. At Harvard Divinity School, LaPiana first served as an assistant to George Foot Moore, whose writings he greatly admired and whose book stemming from the Morse Lectures in 1922 (The Birth and Growth of Religion) he translated into Italian.46 He was also encouraged by the ­then-​­editor of the Harvard Theological Review (James Hardy Ropes, professor of New Testament criticism) to publish his own scholarship. His first contribution was “A Review of Catholic Modernism” in 1916.47 A second early contribution was a translation of Ernesto Buonaiuti’s “The Genesis of S. Augustine’s Idea of Original Sin,” published in 1917.48 By the ­mid-​­1920s, the Harvard Theological Review would become his chosen venue for his long articles on ancient Rome and early Christianity: “The Roman Church at the End of the Second Century” (1925) and “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire” (1927).49 (These and other essays will be discussed in the next chapters.) From that time on, LaPiana directed most of his writing activities to combating Fascism and to analyzing Vatican politics with the Italian state. Hundreds of pages of unpublished material on these topics lie in the Harvard archives. When America entered the war in 1917, LaPiana was enlisted by the Italian ambassador to keep an eye on ­pro-​­German Albanians who were numerous in Massachusetts. He accepted “the unpleasant but necessary ­task”—​­­spying—​



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

151

a­ nd deciphered documents written in Albanian. (Many Albanians, he adds, came to see that their fortunes lay with the Allies, not with Germany.) During the war, LaPiana also taught French at the Loomis School, as well as a course in church history at Harvard.50 At the end of the war, he became a naturalized citizen of the United States.51 Taking this step prompted him to bring a few hundred of his books from Sicily. The rest, remaining in Palermo, were destroyed by bombs in World War II. Toward the end of his life, LaPiana donated about two thousand books to the Harvard Library.52 In October 1922, Fascists seized the Italian government and Mussolini’s dictatorship began. LaPiana’s initial optimism that Italy would return to democratic government quickly faded. He became active in a­ nti-​­Fascist groups. His allegiances precluded his return to Italy (except for a brief research trip) for twenty years or more.53 Teaching at Harvard When LaPiana first arrived at Harvard in 1915, he was appointed as a Teaching Fellow for two years and then as an Instructor for one year. Before his arrival, no Roman Catholic had been a professor at the Divinity School. Some “narrow” (as he calls them) Catholics from the Boston area protested his appointment, but Harvard President A. Lawrence Lowell and others protected him from these and later attacks. Liberal Catholicism was unknown in America, LaPiana claimed, and he was eager to introduce it at Harvard.54 He reports that many American churchgoers considered Harvard Divinity School a “center for heretics”; the School’s few students, he discovered, were largely rebels against their earlier conservative educations.55 By 1928 or 1929, LaPiana had been appointed to the History Department at Harvard, in addition to his position at the Divinity School. He aimed to supplement that Department’s lack of offerings on Italian history with courses on Medieval and Renaissance Italy, and Modern and Contemporary Italy.56 When historian Gaetano Salvemini arrived in the United States, a refugee from Mussolini’s Italy, LaPiana secured special funds to pay his Italian colleague for lectures at Harvard. LaPiana lauded the Harvard History Department’s pioneering role, early in the twentieth century, in promoting the new German “scientific historical method” devoted to research based on primary sources. Since then, he reflected, the Harvard History Department had launched two book series, which by the time he was writing his “Memoirs” had reached around 170 published volumes.57

152

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

In 1922, LaPiana gave the (“very well paid”)58 Lowell Lectures on the beginnings of the Latin church in Rome.59 The next year, he was appointed Assistant Professor of Church History at Harvard, and in 1926, Full Professor, a fast promotion by today’s standards. After teaching in the summer session at Columbia in 1926, he was granted time off for research in Rome on the ancient Roman church.60 While in Italy he spent much time with Buonaiuti. The scholarly work he undertook in Rome resulted in his essay “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire,” published in the Harvard Theological Review. Pondering the research he had undertaken for his essays published in that Review, LaPiana confessed that he had much more material left over; three other chapters were drafted but never finished.61 LaPiana was invited to give a second set of Lowell Lectures in 1930, commemorating the 1,500th anniversary of Augustine’s death. He reports that although the lectures were well received, he lacked the courage to publish them. Why? So much had already been written on Augustine, “few new facts could be added to what was already known.” He had early resolved to publish only new research, to abstain “from the facile task of compilations with which many young men initiate their scholarly career.”62 An interesting aspect of LaPiana’s teaching career at Harvard concerns his request to be appointed to the Radcliffe faculty. A strong supporter of women’s education, he initiated an effort to have Radcliffe women and Harvard men together in the same classrooms. The Harvard administration, he reports, “was adamant and refused all concessions”: “It was the first effort made by Harvard in defense of its masculinity.”63 Moreover, in his teaching, LaPiana gave considerable attention to the topic of deaconesses in the early church, emphasizing themes that scholars half a century later would reclaim.64 His close friendship with his educated sister Angelina perhaps stimulated these interests. In 1932, LaPiana was appointed the first incumbent of the John Hopkins Morison Professor of Church History.65 Active in the circles of American medievalists, he was a Senior Fellow at Dumbarton Oaks in academic year 1943– 1944, where he lectured on Byzantine history and directed the research of junior fellows in the field.66 In July 1947, upon his retirement, LaPiana became the John Hopkins Morison Professor of Church History Emeritus. He remained active in the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, of which he had been made a Fellow in 1922.



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

153

­Anti-​­Fascist and Other Activities Once the Fascists came to power in 1922, LaPiana was persona non grata in Italy. With difficulty he secured a visa for six months of study in Italy in 1926: since the Italian consul in Boston had been informed by Roman police of LaPiana’s ­anti-​­Fascist activities, LaPiana traveled to New York to secure his visa. Buonaiuti met him in Rome and housed him at his villa on Via Alberoni until he could find a convenient residence. By this time, Buonaiuti had been excommunicated and deprived of his chair at the university. Groups of students (including patristics scholar Alberto Pincherle) met at Buonaiuti’s house to discuss religion and hear him lecture. LaPiana joined this group and accompanied them on a summer retreat at the Benedictine monastery at San Donato, above Subiaco. LaPiana later marveled that the Jesuits of Civiltà Cattolica tolerated this group, but he recalled that even the archconservative Pius X had acknowledged the pure intent and ascetic practices of Modernist leaders. In the fall, he joined another excursion that took in Assisi. At the end of his time in Rome, LaPiana gave a dinner for the Cicolo Buonaiuti.67 This would be his last trip to Italy for twenty years. He returned to do six months of research in Italy only in 1948, after the fall of Mussolini and Italy’s devastation in World War II. In horror he witnessed the ­war-​­ravaged Italy: “ruins and destruction such as Italy has never suffered in her millenarian history.”68 After Buonaiuti’s dismissal from his professorship in 1931, due to his refusal to take a Fascist oath, LaPiana joined with t­wenty-​­five other Harvard professors who appealed to the League of Nations in protest against the oath that Mussolini’s government had imposed on all Italian university professors. The Geneva Institute of Intellectual Cooperation among Nations, a wing of the League of Nations, refused to intervene and ignored the pleas of several European universities against the actions of the Fascist government. Of those professors in Italy holding chaired appointments, only eleven refused to take the oath; these were immediately relieved of their positions.69 Buonaiuti’s fate was sealed, and LaPiana’s hatred of Fascism, intensified. Some years later, t­oward the close of World War II, with the Allies in control of Italy, a government decree reinstated ten of the eleven professors who had refused the Fascist ­oath—​­but not Buonaiuti. The reason? The Vatican had again intervened: it had excommunicated Buonaiuti for teaching the history of Christianity (as LaPiana put it) “according to the views and by the

154

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

method of scientific historical criticism and not according to the dogmatic method of the Jesuits and of the Pontifical schools.” This sentence would not be revoked. LaPiana concluded that liberty and democracy in Italy were prob­ arvard—​­the encourageably a lost cause.70 In the year of his retirement from H ments for which had not been ­subtle71—​­he delivered the opening convocation speech lauding his ­recently-​­dead friend, “Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision of Life.”72 It was not only Modernists and ­anti-​­Fascists that LaPiana defended: in 1948 in Boston, he lectured on “The Catholic Church and the Jews” at the Community Church. Here, he emphasized the campaign waged by Civiltà Cattolica against Jews and Freemasons.73 In the 1930s and 1940s, LaPiana and his fellow countryman Gaetano Salvemini translated into English essays on Italian Fascism that had been gathered from various Italians in exile. After much labor, they abandoned the project when they realized that their views might prompt an adverse reaction: some Americans greatly admired Mussolini and his reforms.74 Salvemini (and LaPiana, to a lesser extent) believed that ­Italian-​­language Catholic priests in America, with few exceptions, were carriers of Fascist propaganda.75 Most Americans, LaPiana claimed, do not understand what Fascism is.76 In 1943, he and Salvemini ­co-​­authored What to Do with Italy?, a work that speculated on Italy’s probable fate after the defeat of the Axis powers in World War II.77 In this book, the authors argued that the Church had repeatedly condemned freedom of conscience, speech, press, and free association. The Vatican, LaPiana wrote, tolerates democratic regimes when it must, and compromises by ­necessity—​ ­but the Church’s antidemocratic doctrine remains unchanged even when she reluctantly compromises.78 Fascism, LaPiana noted, unlike Nazism, looked upon the Catholic Church as “a valuable instrument for the fascist ­so-​­called reconstruction of Italy as well as for the fascist prestige abroad.”79 Fascists thought that the Church could bring spiritual unity to Italy, and thus restored it to “its place of prestige.”80 LaPiana, by contrast, excoriated Mussolini’s alliance with the Vatican. Mussolini, he told a class, was canonized by Pius XI, who called him “the man sent by Providence to ­re-​­establish religion in ­Italy”—​­and, LaPiana added, “to furnish the papal treasury with a hundred million dollars squeezed out of the pockets of the l­ong-​­suffering Italian people.”81 The Catholic press largely fell in line: the “providential man” had saved Italy from atheists and Bolshevists.82 A cardinal hailed Mussolini as “the new Constantine, the founder of a new Christian Empire.”83 (Fascists, LaPiana explained, often proclaimed their recovery of Rome’s ancient heritage, taking as their symbol the old Roman f­asces—​­a bundle of



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

155

s­ ticks—​­surmounted by an axe.)84 Italian clergy even celebrated the Fascist intervention in Spain.85 The Concordat of 1929 Among other topics on which LaPiana lectured extensively, aside from those on early Christianity, was the Vatican Concordat of 1929 between Mussolini and Pius XI. These lectures were based on his research on the history of concordats between the Vatican and various countries through the centuries. Hundreds of pages from this project remain, which LaPiana never published. If he had, George Williams claims, this book “might have become his magnum opus.”86 LaPiana himself estimated that he had amassed enough material on the concordats for five or six monographs.87 His interest in this subject stemmed from his disdain both for the Fascist government and for papal complicity with Mussolini. From the ­mid-​­1920s onward, LaPiana turned much of his attention to the Italian situation. Lecturing to students at Union Theological Seminary, LaPiana defined a concordat as “an agreement concluded by the government of a state and the Pope, concerning the exercise of the Catholic religion within the state. It implies therefore the recognition by the state of the right of the Supreme Pontiff to govern the Catholic Church within the state.” Pius XI, the pope during most of Mussolini’s dictatorship, concluded more concordats than had any of his predecessors. By concordats, the Catholic Church was granted not only freedom of action in the countries with which it contracted, but also privileges, financial subventions from the government, and the right to offer religious education; the Vatican, for its part, conceded that bishops must take an oath of allegiance to their respective governments. Through this measure, “a system of collaboration of Church and state was introduced in most European states.”88 By concordats, popes in essence delegated their ecclesiastical, and to some extent, their spiritual powers over the local church to the rulers of the various countries.89 LaPiana outlined the combative politics that led up to the Concordat of 1929, which made Vatican City a state with its own jurisdiction. Before the final agreement was reached, fiery disagreements erupted between Mussolini and Pius XI, but neither side in the end could refuse to ratify the agreements without losing face and power.90 Pius XI boasted that the 1929 Concordat was “the best ever made by the Holy See” because it not only contained the practical regulations of other concordats, but also “declarations of principles concerning the nature of the Church and of pontifical sovereignty.” According to

156

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

the Vatican’s interpretation, the practical aspects of the Concordat were to be interpreted in light of these principles, not in accordance with state theories.91 The absolutist conception of the state assumed by the representatives of the Fascist government, however, was antithetical to Catholic doctrine; their conception was not mere theoretical speculation, LaPiana adds, but was “put into practice with ruthless energy.” Mussolini’s arguments with the Pope over laws about freedom of religion, recognition of ­non-​­Catholic cults, marriage law, and state education show points where the Italian government did not intend to interpret the Concordat and the accompanying treaty as did the Pope.92 Moreover, Mussolini’s Catholic orthodoxy was called into question when he uttered such s­ emi-​­heretical statements as this: “If Christianity had remained in Palestine and had not come to Rome it would have died out like many other Jewish sects of the time.” This claim, LaPiana notes, seems to deny the divine character of Christianity. Il Duce clearly had a different idea of why “Rome” was great than did Pius XI. The Vatican had to tolerate statues all across Rome of heretics (for example, Giordano Bruno) and anticlerical nationalists (for example, Garibaldi, Cavour): the Fascist regime did not remove them, as ­pro-​ ­Vatican circles had hoped when they so enthusiastically championed Mussolini. When new laws gave legal status to ­non-​­Catholic cults, granted them the privilege of religious marriage, and declared that religious marriage was not obligatory for Catholics who preferred the civil form, Catholic forces registered their disappointment.93 In concluding the Lateran agreement of 1929, the Vatican got some temporal and monetary advantages, but bishops and priests were obliged to take an oath of allegiance to the Fascist regime and to relinquish any voice in political matters.94 Only belatedly did Pius XI realize that Fascism had enslaved the Church and that its policies were (in LaPiana’s words) “­anti-​­christian, pagan, and barbaric,” that Fascism had degenerated into “a pagan worship of the state.”95 In medias res, LaPiana found it hard to predict what would come of the Lateran agreement. He felt sure that Italy would not retreat to the Pope’s claim on Rome and the Papal Estates, in return for which agreement Vatican City became an independent state.96 Both sides were mistaken in their expectations; neither got from the other what it had hoped. From LaPiana’s viewpoint as a historian, the best solution to the problem of ­church-​­state relations, and the one most likely to succeed in modern times, “is the radical solution of having no relations at all, under a regime of religious freedom within the limits or moral decency and the requirements of public order.” Faithful American Catholics have espoused this solution. Yet even Catholics, glad that due to the 1929



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

157

Concordat the Pope was no longer an alleged “prisoner in the Vatican,” worried that it would be misunderstood by a­ nti-​­Catholic groups, not to speak of worry for the internal organization and policies of the Church.97 In 1944, looking ahead to war’s end, LaPiana spoke to an audience at the Community Church of Boston. In view of the Vatican’s constant collaboration with reactionary powers, its denunciation of c­ hurch-​­state separation, its claim that freedom of conscience, speech, and assembly are “all diabolical inventions,” would it be prudent, he rhetorically asked, to foster and increase the political power of the Vatican? To support its political claims? To entrust it with the solution of problems such as that of Italy’s future government? The spiritual and moral values of Christianity, he urged, “will be better protected in a regime of freedom, of social justice and of economic readjustment in which the notion of private property shall exist only in relation to the common good. This was the spirit of early Christianity.”98 Elsewhere, he concluded: “Christianity does not fare well under any dictatorial regime, be it of the left or of the right. . . . ​The Church has nothing to gain and on the contrary everything to lose by favoring modern dictatorships. It is now evident that the free democratic institutions in which religion enjoys all freedoms under the law are the most favorable to the maintenance and progress of the religious spirit.”99 LaPiana’s Other Activities On American Education

LaPiana, having witnessed the Fascist takeover of education in Italy, strongly endorsed democratic, public education in America. In 1923, secondary and elementary school teachers in Italy were dismissed if not appropriately ­pro-​ ­Fascist; the list of secondary school teachers so relieved of their positions ran to 254 pages.100 In his 1949 lectures at Butler University, “The Totalitarian Church in a Democratic State,” LaPiana addressed education in America. He notes Catholic theologians’ views that the family and the Roman Church, not the state, are the prime arbiters of education. He also outlines Catholic bishops’ attempts in n ­ ineteenth-​­century America to exempt Catholic schoolchildren from participation in readings of the (Protestant) Bible in public schools or in singing sectarian hymns. He traced episcopal exhortations from the 1850s onward that every parish should have parochial schools and provide students who attended public schools with religious instruction.101 When the Supreme Court decision McCollum v. Board of Education (Illinois, 1948) struck down the provision for religious instruction to be given in public schools, LaPiana

158

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

notes the Catholic bishops’ reaction. In a statement of November 1948, they argue that the decision was a manifestation of “secularism,” not intended by the Constitution, which never mentions the words “separation of Church and State.” The bishops argue from other documents that the Founders thought religion was necessary for the happiness of America’s citizens, and that they desired cooperation between church and state. Moreover, the bishops claim, religious denominations have a right to government financial support for their schools. McCollum, in effect, was against the intent of the framers of the Constitution.102 LaPiana, while conceding that the bishops acted with good intentions, defends the Court’s decision: the Court never forbid religious education in general, only in public schools. Here, he claims, lies the basic divergence: Catholic teaching holds that religion is the integrating force to education, and school is the place where children should learn it. This view, however, cannot fit with the American Constitution, and hence the “wide chasm” that separates the ideals of Catholicism from those of American democracy.103 For the modern secular state, LaPiana elsewhere writes, “a religion imposed by force ceases to be a free activity of the spirit”: it has no value in God’s eyes. “An a­ -​­religious (not irreligious) state and an ­a-​­political church are correlated factors both essential to a modern democracy.”104 LaPiana has clearly deserted traditional Catholic principles and thrown his lot with “secular” America.

End of Life LaPiana’s interest in religion faded over the course of his years at Harvard. Although he still identified himself as a Catholic, he did not attend the church of his birth, which had so gravely disappointed him.105 In some undated pages for a talk or essay entitled “Unitarianism and Modernism,” LaPiana claims that he remains “outside any ecclesiastical organization,” although “officially” he is a Catholic Modernist and has not joined any Protestant denomination.106 George Williams relates a story he heard from a mutual friend: LaPiana, while working in his garden, was once accosted by a young priest passing by. The priest asked LaPiana why he never attended Mass, and began to argue with him. LaPiana silenced the intruding priest by stating that the latter’s views had been declared heretical. The priest did not pursue his harangue, and as far as extant materials reveal, LaPiana did not return to church.107 In the last year of his long life, however, LaPiana seems to have experi-



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

159

enced a change of mind. He now asked for two funerals, one connected with Harvard and the other according to the rites of the Catholic Church. Williams provides a detailed account of LaPiana’s religious state in his last months. From this rather disturbing narrative, it is clear that LaPiana had slid into senility and had little awareness of himself and his environment. A team of friends (including Williams) surrounded him, urging him in Italian to be reconciled to the church. Apparently LaPiana had earlier made clear that if he did decide to partake of the sacrament at the end, his willingness to do so signaled no renunciation of his scholarship. Now the time was at hand, and an I­talian-​ ­speaking priest friend had been summoned. After a lengthy encouragement, LaPiana was brought to utter “Va bene.” Since the priest thought LaPiana was not in a condition to take the Eucharist, unction was all that was given. The rite was ­performed—​­but LaPiana immediately forgot what had happened. This seems an unsettling end for a historian who had courageously kept his high standards of scholarship amidst religious and political intimidation. LaPiana died at age ­ninety-​­three in late February 1971.108

Chapter 6

LaPiana’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches

LaPiana’s Modernism The impetus to the Modernist movement, George LaPiana claimed, began with the “irrefutable conclusions” of biblical studies and historical criticism, and soon spread to “the whole history of thought and of ecclesiastical institutions.” Aiming “to do away with all the ancient meaningless formulas and absurd terminology” of dogmatic theology, and thus to rejuvenate the church, the Modernists “were struck down and silenced” before they could develop their constructive program.1 Modernists, he tells students, had a larger goal than (merely) the church: “Modernism aimed at making Christianity the leaven of national, political, social and economic life and therefore the principle of a larger and humaner [sic] life which may embrace and harmonize all these. It conceived of the Church as an instrument of world civilization rather than of ­world-​­renunciation: and so it tried to understand sympathetically and to cooperate with all the generous hopes of the modern democratic movement.” Points of the Modernist platform, LaPiana concedes, were not particularly original: its appeal to individual experience could be found in Protestantism and its appreciation of the church, in traditional Catholicism, while its conception of a “dynamic Christianity” was borrowed from evolutionary theory, and its immanentist tendency, from contemporary philosophy. Combining these diverse strands proved difficult.2



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

161

LaPiana on Modernism in Italy The ­socio-​­political character of Italian Modernism, LaPiana claimed, distinguished it from Modernism’s course in other countries. English and French Modernists did not have the Vatican situated in their backyard, clamoring to reclaim temporal sovereignty.3 The Italian movement started in the political arena, with Romulo Murri, but attention soon shifted to the church and its hierarchy. Here the leader was historian Ernesto Buonaiuti. The Vatican condemned Murri when he was elected to Parliament: Catholics had been forbidden to take part in political life. LaPiana, however, faulted Murri as a theological reactionary who had endorsed Scholastic philosophy until the moment he was excommunicated. LaPiana awards pride of place in Italian Modernism not to Murri, but to Buonaiuti.4 Not long after LaPiana arrived at Harvard, he published “A Review of Italian Modernism” (his first E ­ nglish-​­language essay) in the Harvard Theological Review. The Church’s alliance with the old Italian aristocracy, he writes, meant that its hierarchy had largely been drawn from those who scorned the democratic movements that had led to Italian unification and the formation of the Kingdom of Italy. When the new government abolished religious orders and many ecclesiastical benefices, transferring their estates to the public domain, the link between aristocracy and Church was broken. Theological education was restricted to seminaries alone, whose conservative culture cut students off from new intellectual currents afoot in the more liberal state universities. When the nascent Modernist movement was condemned, some priests tried to keep their Church positions; others left to teach; some lived the life of laymen; others were simply out of work.5 LaPiana’s bitterness at the sacrifice of a generation of intelligent young priests is palpable in this article. He himself was among those who had embraced Modernist i­deals—​­and his salvation, if it was such, was to find a new career on a new continent. LaPiana on Characteristics of Modernism Traditional Catholicism with its static conception of Christianity, LaPiana observed, could not but set itself against Modernism. It deemed change mistaken. Modernists, by contrast, argued that the mistake lay in refusal to change. To them, the church was not the Kingdom of God on earth, but a relative and “possibly unnecessary institution.” Endorsing the principle of divine “immanence,” Modernists recognized other branches of Christianity. Condemnation

162

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

by Rome was ­“inevitable”—​­and was, LaPiana tells students, carried out in a spirit of brutality worthy of Prussia! “Pushed to the wall,” Modernists were ordered either to leave the Church, or to repent and ask forgiveness. Some did one, some the other, some feigned repentance. Modernism failed, LaPiana claims, because it found no response among Catholic laity in the Latin nations. Perhaps a new interpretation of religion will arise after the war. The old theocratic theology must bear some responsibility for, and pay the consequences of, the cataclysm. Yet, he added in 1917, the movement still is not dead: “it is a question of submarine warfare.”6 LaPiana himself, now in friendlier waters, was among those manning the submarines. LaPiana also analyzed Modernism in relation to Vatican politics. Throughout the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, he writes, the Vatican sought to centralize all ecclesiastical power in the hands of the Pope and the Curia; Modernism was one form of opposition to this aim.7 Modernism’s “negative contribution” lay in exposing the impossibility of an accord between the theocratic churches and the modern spirit. Its “positive contribution” lay in championing “immanence” in religion and in resolving conflicts internal to Catholicism, between Catholic and Protestant interpretations, and between science and faith.8 Background: Leo XIII and Scholastic Theology LaPiana looked back to the reign of Leo XIII to find the beginnings of the intellectual and social unrest associated with Modernism. Politically, Leo XIII had taken a chance on ­nineteenth-​­century democratic currents (LaPiana noted that Rerum Novarum was sometimes called the “Magna Charta” of the Christian Democracy movement). Leo’s ­Vatican-​­controlled concept of democracy, however, was not modern. Catholic intellectuals of the time, including LaPiana, had entertained great hopes for Leo’s reforms and encouragement of historical scholarship. Catholic conservatives, especially the Jesuits, resisted reform, and their conservatism found encouragement in the policies of Leo’s successor, Pius X.9 In LaPiana’s view, Leo XIII’s success in making Thomism the official theology and philosophy of the Catholic Church had detrimental effects. Students were taught to hunt for fallacies, to build syllogisms with subtle distinctions and subdistinctions, rather than to think “philosophically.” Leo mistakenly imagined that young men so trained would become a faithful core, eager to help reclaim the Papal Estates. Young clerics armed with this Scholas-



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

163

tic theology went out to do battle with biblical studies, historical criticism, and political ­science—​­and they failed.10 Those eager to become scholars belatedly recognized the inadequacy of their Thomistic training for engaging modern thought and social organization. They were forced to reeducate themselves, to acknowledge that (even) the New Testament had “evolved.”11 No less radical was the change demanded by historians’ scholarship on the church. Apologetic history from Eusebius onward, which cordoned off social influences on the church’s allegedly miraculous growth, LaPiana writes, “has for long ages been the postulate of all Catholic ecclesiastical history. Historical criticism has purged our minds inexorably of these prepossessions. To [historical] criticism, Christianity is a fact like any other, subject to the same laws of development, permeated by the same political, juridical and economic influences, liable to the same variations.”12 Critical historians did not find at Christianity’s beginnings the “germs” of later dogmas (as did John Henry Newman),13 but rather an “originally formless and undogmatic” religion. Profound revolutions of formulation, LaPiana tells students, have marked Christianity since its inception. The new ­critical-​­historical study tellingly pointed up the ways in which Scholasticism had distorted the patristic tradition. (For example: traditional Catholic scholars who studied Cyprian and other Church Fathers read back into the third century views on Roman primacy that were quite recent.)14 Modernists, by contrast, held that the Catholic Church’s development grew through the ages, inspired by the spirit of Christ (LaPiana cites Fogazarro’s Il Santo: “the Church is a laboratory of truth in continuous action”).15 In retrospect, neither Leo XIII’s social nor his intellectual plan solved Catholicism’s problems. Ways Out for Traditional Catholic Scholars? With Pius X’s condemnation of Modernism, LaPiana charged, traditional Catholic scholars panicked: they either rushed to deny the results of critical and historical studies, or to interpret them in ingenious ways that attempted to keep traditional doctrines intact. Few such scholars were prepared to master the necessary scholarship and lapsed into an easy ­pseudo-​­history. LaPiana acidly comments, “That may explain why writers of history are many, though historians are few.” Decades later, LaPiana regretted that the Church remained “authoritarian,” catering to the many “whose intellectual training and habits of mind are such that they must rely primarily on authority for guidance in their moral life.”16 LaPiana did not live to see the flowering of a more liberal Catholicism in the decades following Vatican II.

164

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Modernism’s Failures in America LaPiana’s Failed Publishing Venture

One activity in which LaPiana engaged on behalf of Italian Modernists involved the (Unitarian) Beacon Press of Boston. During his years at Harvard, he reviewed manuscripts for this press; as compensation, he suggested that press officials assist Modernists in Rome. He showed them plans drawn up by Buonaiuti (and presumably himself ) for establishing a nondenominational School of Religion in Rome, designed for both American Protestant students and Italians who wished to study outside the auspices of the Roman Church. Several small Protestant theological schools in Rome, LaPiana imagined, might merge with the new institution. He dreamed that this American School might grow to the rank of those established in Rome by Germans, Austrians, and the French.17 Beacon Press sent a representative, Henry Foot, to Rome to assess the situation. As LaPiana writes, this did not go well: Foot knew no language other than English and “his theological culture left something to be desired.” Foot advised Beacon Press against sending aid to Italian Modernists because the circumstances of religion in Italy (in his view) suggest that “no access could be foreseen for propaganda on religious liberty.”18 The ­LaPiana-​­Buonaiuti plan failed. Modernism’s Larger Failure in America

A School of Religion in Rome was not the only failure: Modernism never caught on in America. Several young Americans who had encountered Modernism while at the American College in Rome, LaPiana admits, were sympathetic, but were warned by an (unspecified) bishop not to engage in any Modernist propaganda. LaPiana views the “Americanist” movement as having taken a step t­ oward adjusting Christianity to modern society; he praises bishops such as James Cardinal Gibbons, John Ireland, and John Lancaster Spalding. Most American bishops, however, rejected their liberal views and complained to Rome. (Despite the liberal bishops’ failure to change American Catholicism, LaPiana notes, their writings, translated into French, Italian, and German, strongly influenced European clergy.) Roman theologians faulted the new s­ ocial-​­reformist order, the Society of Saint Paul, as Protestantizing in its seeming “disparagement of the mystical and devotional emphasis.” Leo XIII agreed, as manifested in his 1899 encyclical, Testem Benevolentiae.19 LaPiana, as



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

165

noted earlier, found the few Modernist currents afoot in American intellectually weak, and from the 1920s to the 1940s, I­ talian-​­speaking clergy in America eager to praise Mussolini’s Fascism. LaPiana, however, credits Gibbons, Ireland, and Spalding with prompting Leo XIII to reflect on social issues, a prompting that contributed to Rerum Novarum. When Leo was about to condemn labor unions, they rushed to Rome, LaPiana reports, and warned him that this move would be “a death blow to American Catholicism.”20 Gibbons claimed that if American Catholic workers were asked to choose between their church and their economic and social needs, “there is no question which they will choose. We will be left alone in the churches to sing our hymns” (in another version, “to sing the Miserere alone”).21 “This will be the end of Catholic activities in America.” Leo, impressed, began to study social problems, and in his encyclical he recognized “the right of workers to strike when exploited and the right to be paid wages sufficient for an honest living.” LaPiana argues that these bishops should be credited with urging a decision that advanced the development of American social institutions.22 Even if Modernism failed to make much headway on American shores, democratic, progressive currents gained some foothold.

Influences: Ernesto Buonaiuti Historian and Modernist Ernesto Buonaiuti was the most important influence on LaPiana’s developing views. In the next chapter, I note Buonaiuti’s influence on points of LaPiana’s treatment of early Christianity, as well as the ways in which LaPiana struck an independent course; here, I detail aspects of the life and writings of this historian of Christianity, little known in the E ­ nglish-​ ­speaking world. He was the ­standard-​­bearer of a historically oriented Modernism in Italy. Born in Rome in 1881, Ernesto Buonaiuti early revealed his formidable academic talents. He entered the Roman Pontifical Seminary at age fourteen on a scholarship, earned his Ph.D. by the time he was twenty, was ordained in December 1903, and was appointed Full Professor at the Pontifical University of the Apollinare when he was only ­twenty-​­three.23 After Pius X issued Pascendi dominici gregis in September 1907, Buonaiuti lost his professorship. Within a month or so, the anonymously written Il Programma dei ­Modernisti—​­the foundational document for Italian ­Modernism—​­was published, whose author was only later revealed to be Buonaiuti.24 Challenging Pius’ charge that a destructive

166

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

philosophical system grounded Modernism, he argued that biblical and historical criticism, including the view of Christianity’s historical development, had led Modernists to question traditional Catholicism’s utility for the present.25 Although Buonaiuti considered the title “Modernism” inappropriate (since the movement’s goal was not to promote novelties), he claimed that it had met with the harshest opposition “that any spiritual movement has ever encountered.” He believed, however, that the opposition’s harshness signaled the movement’s ultimate success:26 Modernist critique had hit home. The Vatican excommunicated all who were involved with Programma’s ­publication—​ ­although no one then claimed authorship.27 Buonaiuti’s academic career, however, did not end with his dismissal from the “Apollinare.” In 1915, he was awarded a more prestigious position as Professor of Church History at the University of Rome.28 Here, the ­Vatican—​ ­­supposedly—​­could not touch him. Yet he was excommunicated again in 1924, this time a “personal” excommunication, for allegedly heretical opinions expressed in an article on Paul’s view of the Eucharist.29 Under Mussolini’s regime, Buonaiuti lost his post at the University of Rome, regaining it only years later, after the dictator’s fall. As part of the settlement of the “Roman Question” between Mussolini and the Vatican in 1929, the Fascist government agreed to ban from public office all excommunicated Catholic clergy, including professors. When Mussolini balked at the Vatican’s demand that Buonaiuti be expelled from his chair, a compromise granted him a “research leave” to prepare a critical edition of the works of Joachim of Fiore.30 More troubles awaited. In 1931, the Fascist government required all university professors to take a Fascist oath of allegiance. Of the around one thousand professors then in Italy, only eleven refused, Buonaiuti among them. These, including Buonaiuti, lost their positions and salaries, and were excommunicated. During this period of expulsion, he wrote his t­ hree-​­volume History of Christianity.31 Between 1903 and his death in 1946, he wrote over thirty books and hundreds of articles, essays, and book reviews.32 In his last years, Buonaiuti composed a memoir, Il Pellegrino di Roma (The Pilgrim of Rome).33 At Modernism’s inception, he writes, Italians were beginning to awake from centuries of foreign intellectual domination and welcomed “revitalization.” Modernism could have offered a way to the future, but Pascendi instantly withered the movement. He faults the Italian clergy for directing their energy into social and political movements, supporting the Popular Party, which Buonaiuti believed had prepared the way for Fascism. Buonaiuti, ­anti-​­Marxist, aimed rather to infuse socialist currents with a Christian spirit.34



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

167

Buonaiuti disseminated Modernist ideas through the journals he edited. The Jesuits, LaPiana tells students, feared that Buonaiuti’s Rivista Storica Critica would become more popular than their Civiltà Cattolica. They worked to have Buonaiuti expelled from the “Apollinare,” and to have Rivista put on the Index. Buonaiuti then started the journal Religio, but Jesuits again attacked him, this time for having violated the a­ nti-​­Modernist oath he had at one point taken to escape excommunication. (Buonaiuti so much wanted to be in the good graces of the Catholic Church, LaPiana reports, that he compromised with authorities.) The excommunication held and Religio ceased to exist. Undefeated, Buonaiuti founded a third review, Richerche Religiose. Unrepentant during his several illnesses, he refused to retract his views.35 A year before he died on Easter Sunday, 1947, Buonaiuti wrote a “last will.” In it he said: One ideal has sustained me throughout my life, that of reviving all the genuine Christian values and to contributing to their transfusion into the new ecumenical civilization, of which my suffering generation may see the first signs upon the ­far-​­away horizon. I may have been mistaken, but I do not find in the substance of my teaching anything that I should now repudiate or retract. In this peaceful consciousness I face the oncoming mystery of death. All ­those—​ ­and they are ­legion—​­who have raised obstacles to the normal development of my public activities, even resorting to unnatural alliances, I humbly forgive. . . . ​In harmony with the spirit of my great brother, George Tyrrell, I wish that the symbol of the eternal Christian priesthood, the Chalice and the Host, be engraved on my funeral slab.36 Buonaiuti’s Modernism Buonaiuti combined the Modernists’ critique of religious authority and emphasis on religious experience as “inward” with advocacy of ­historical-​­critical methods of study. Like many Modernists, he sharply differentiated his views from those of Protestant Liberalism: Modernism, he wrote, was not impelled by the Reformation message, but rather “came to bar the road to the pharisaic and Jesuitical corruption of the Catholic Church in the Latin countries.”37 He, like other Modernists, charged that Scholasticism, with its medieval concepts and formulations, was inadequate to the religious needs of the twentieth

168

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

century;38 it “tie[d] down man’s spirit in a posture of humble submission in matters of reason and conduct.” The Middle Ages, in which Scholasticism was born, lacked “the least vestige of historic sense.”39 Buonaiuti’s understanding of Christianity was “churchly”: only through its mediation could the Gospel become an active agent in history.40 He characteristically combined his confession of the church as a mystical body with his promotion of social solidarity.41 Tradition was important, but it must be “living.”42 Buonaiuti’s goal, however, was no mere repetition of early Christianity, which in any case he believed impossible. He viewed the Eucharist as a chief act and sign of the “mystical efficacy” of the new creation that promotes brotherhood.43 Buonaiuti as Historian As a historian, Buonaiuti insisted that the church as a living institution is governed by the same laws as other social entities.44 Unlike traditional Catholic writers, he expanded the study of Christianity’s history far beyond that of popes and the institutional church. The historical method required separating out miraculous and supernatural elements,45 and acknowledging that early Christianity was indebted to the practices and institutions of the ­time—​­for example, for the names it gave to its offices and titles.46 Studying the rituals of ancient Mediterranean religions, he claimed, helped scholars to understand the development of early Christianity.47 Buonaiuti’s ­three-​­volume La Storia del Cristianesimo was strongly influenced by Rudolph Otto’s Das Heilige (The Idea of the Holy), which Buonaiuti translated into Italian as Il Sacro.48 While he embraced Otto’s view of the “Numinous” as the central category of religion, he, unlike Otto, strongly emphasized Christianity as an organization, an “associated life,” not only as an individual’s religion.49 Later commentators remark how fervently Buonaiuti would have rejoiced at Vatican II’s more inclusive definition of the church as “the people of God.”50 As a historian, Buonaiuti praised Harnack’s work on patristic Christianity and his labor in launching Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller and Texte und Untersuchungen. Yet he criticized Harnack’s Protestantizing approach that left Jesus discontinuous with Judaism and stressed (only) the “Fatherhood of God.”51 He noted that Loisy’s critique of Harnack’s Das Wesen des Christentum in L’Evangile et L’Eglise, with which he largely agreed, was now being adopted even by German Lutheran theologians.52 Loisy, he thought, had shown just



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

169

how unhistorical and arbitrary Harnack’s version of primitive Christianity was.53 Like Loisy, Buonaiuti emphasized that Jesus’ outlook had been bounded by the Parousia; the notion of a church lay beyond his horizon of expectation.54 In highlighting eschatology, Buonaiuti showed his familiarity with modern New Testament scholarship.55 Buonaiuti adopted a view of Christianity’s early development more like Newman’s, through evolution from earlier “germs,” not from later, external influences. He faulted Harnack for placing too late the development of church hierarchy, Eucharistic rites, and most books of the New Testament. Orthodoxy followed the trajectory of its expansion through its own autonomous energy, not just in reaction to forces such as Gnosticism.56 Later in life, Buonaiuti became more accepting of Harnack’s claims regarding the centrality of Gnosticism to the development of Catholic orthodoxy. Even his admirers, however, concede that as a historian, Buonaiuti cannot be considered “scientific.”57 Although he thought that the historical method of research could free the genuine religious experience of Christianity from the superfluous outgrowths of its history, it was in the end “the mystical community” that interested him.58 Buonaiuti on Gnosticism One topic on which Buonaiuti influenced LaPiana was in his sympathetic reading of Gnostic texts, such as they were then known. Lo Gnosticismo (1907) foreshadowed Buonaiuti’s interest in ancient Christianity, in mysticism, and in “spiritualizing” movements of a later era.59 Unlike some other scholars of his day, he considered Gnosticism to be an independent movement, not an aspect of ­Neo-​­Platonic speculation. Moreover, he argued that Marcion was not a Gnostic; church historians were wrong to consider him such.60 Buonaiuti conceded that while Gnostic texts might sound to moderns like “the ravings of a diseased imagination” (or, to the Church Fathers, a “nightmare”),61 he hoped to rescue Gnosticism from this ignominious assessment. One ­strategy—​­similar to principles of biblical ­criticism—​­was to distinguish between earlier and later strata in the texts. Although he deemed futile Gnostics’ attempt to reconcile “Christian revelation and pagan culture,” he stressed the similarities between Christianity and the ­second-​­century Gnostics, before “­far-​­fetched” doctrines and “tedious and elaborate” rituals won the day. Even by 170 or 180 C.E., corruptions had crept in, so that Irenaeus and Hippolytus knew only degenerate forms of Gnosticism. By the

170

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

time of Eusebius, ecclesiastical writers had greatly obscured its character and significance. Students should read the Gnostic fragments for themselves to see the original content of Gnostic teaching. In s­econd-​­century Gnosticism, “Gnosis is not so much a laborious system of cosmological principles as a form of mysticism which claims to point out the path of interior salvation.”62 Later in life, he argued that Gnosticism and Gnostic rituals had profoundly shaped the development of early Christianity, whether one considered Gnosticism the “Hellenization” of Christianity (with Harnack) or its “Orientalization” (with Wilhelm Bousset and Richard Reitzenstein). Heresies, he now boldly claimed, had saved the church: without the development of ritual and dogma, prompted by Gnosticism, the Christian community would not have survived.63 Buonaiuti on Patristic and Later Christianity For Buonaiuti, Christianity was the religion of a community, not of individuals. He called it “the sacredness of the life with others [vita associata].”64 (LaPiana, we shall see, adopted and emphasized Buonaiuti’s concept of the church as “the associated life.”) Like other Catholic Modernists, Buonaiuti looked “behind” Scholasticism to find inspiration in the New Testament and early patristic eras. Jesus’ vision was “corporate”; the Lord’s Prayer is structured around “us,” not around an “I.”65 He credited Paul with devising the concept of the church as the community in which God’s thought and work is represented.66 Yet he sharply distinguished between Jesus’ vision of a communal fellowship on earth and Paul’s message of a heavenly paradise, immortality of the individual spirit, and ascetic mortification.67 Christians had been called to ­self-​­denial in order to promote human ­solidarity—​­Buonaiuti cited Jesus’ words: we must lose our lives in order to save them (Luke 17:33)­68—​­but when the ­second-​­century Apologists and their successors tried to convince pagans that Christianity was a philosophy capable of demonstration, “the soul of Scholasticism was born.” When these scholastic concerns were deemed absolutes, Christianity lost contact with its earlier prophetic and mystical strains. While ancient Christians had understood that only grace, not reason, could bridge the gap between God and humanity, p ­ ost-​ ­scholastic Christianity filled in that abyss with human syllogisms and deductions.69 In the early Christian era, Alexandria and Rome had “reaffirmed the great mystical values of the divine multiplicity in unity,” but the theological and creedal formulas then introduced opened the way for rationalism. By the sixteenth century, Catholicism had become “impoverished” of mystical elements.



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

171

Today, the Church appeared to Buonaiuti as “a mastodonic and retarded organism.”70 Mystical values needed reviving. As a historian, Buonaiuti believed that human craving for the transcendent could be well documented from early Christian history.71 He characterized the history of Christianity as a movement whose essentially mystical and apocalyptic core was slowly transformed into a refined system of speculation that would come to discipline the thought and attitudes of future European society. ­Mystical-​­ethical aspects still predominated in the era of the Apostolic Fathers; practical life, not speculative issues, was key. Within this general framework however, ran two currents: a millenarian emphasis (in, for example, the book of Revelation; Papias); and a spiritualizing emphasis that reinterpreted the Kingdom of God (in, for example, Ignatius). This period, however, was relatively brief. Soon, theological conceptualization became dominant in Gnosticism and in Christian Apology, which provided both sharper definition and a rational justification of primitive Christianity’s simple message.72 (Montanism, by contrast, attempted to return to the social and ethical concerns central to primitive Christianity.) The great theologians of the late second and third centuries (Irenaeus, Clement of Alexandria, Origen) reclothed the bare New Testament message in an intellectual garment.73 Heresies, Buonaiuti stressed, played a positive role in Christianity’s development: “without heresies, Christianity would have had neither life nor success.”74 In this era, a corresponding movement promoted the development of ecclesiastical hierarchy, with the Roman church taking the lead. Buonaiuti emphasized that Rome’s leadership was not a mere power play, for Rome in the second century enjoyed intellectual hegemony as the home of Gnostics, Marcionites, and Apologists. Nevertheless, he warned that many narratives of the Roman primacy’s history should be considered “romance.”75 In the later fourth century, Pope Damasus, to be sure, boosted the power of the Roman bishop; and in Leo the Great’s time, a system of diocesan bishops was in place, headed by the bishop of Rome.76 The primacy of Rome, in other words, developed later than traditional Catholic historians were willing to countenance. In various works, Buonaiuti had ample occasion to praise, blame, or mock various churchmen of the patristic era. At points, the reader wonders whether Buonaiuti’s own struggle with Catholic authorities may have colored his assessments. For example, in his small book on Jerome (San Girolamo), he seemingly enjoyed detailing Jerome’s critiques of the Roman clergy. His description of Epiphanius (“fanatico,” “intransigenza”), and his mocking lament of him (“Povero vecchio!”) suggest that he may have thought him a prototype of Pius

172

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

X.77 Methodius of Olympus, on the other hand, is warmly praised for reviving the joyous eschatological expectation of earliest Christianity.78 Buonaiuti’s embrace of eschatology would be a prominent feature of his writings on Joachim of Fiore, on which more below. LaPiana considered Buonaiuti’s t­hree-​­volume history of Christianity (La Storia del Cristianesimo) “a masterpiece of spiritual history.”79 In its time, he noted, it was unusual in narrating a “history of Christian spiritual life.” The work was inspired by an Augustinian vision of a spiritual City of G ­ od—​­not, however, by the aspects of that work promoting “ecclesiasticism and institutionalism.” Augustine’s sense of mystery regrettably became almost lost in Scholasticism.80 Buonaiuti’s views on Augustine strongly influenced LaPiana. In his Storia del Cristianesimo, Buonaiuti treated in some detail Manicheanism and Augustine’s relation to it. Not only in Augustine’s “anthropology” do we see the transition from Augustine the a­ nti-​­Manichean to the “­neo-​­Manichean Augustine”: “What is the City of God,” Buonaiuti rhetorically asks, “if not the application of Manichean dualism to history?”81 He argues at length that Augustine borrowed from “Hilary” (that is, Ambrosiaster) the phrase “massa peccati,” as well as the link between the depiction of human sin in Romans 5, and Romans 9:21 (the potter makes whatever pots he wishes from a “massa luti”). This interpretation of Paul, rooted in Ambrosiaster, would be central to Augustine in the later Pelagian controversy:82 the “pessimistic background” he acquired in his Manichean days resurfaced in the fervor of that controversy.83 Buonaiuti preferred a “mystical” interpretation of the doctrine of original sin: “the ­historical-​­conceptual projection and transcription of the dark mystery which lies at the sources of the common life.”84 Buonaiuti on Joachim of Fiore Buonaiuti’s great monastic hero, on whom he wrote extensively, was Joachim of Fiore. He credits the medieval Joachim with reviving the spirit of early Christianity in his proclamation of the coming Kingdom. Joachim promised the coming of a third era, that of the Paraclete, in which a new spiritual and mystical order of contemplation and peace would reign.85 Since the church is the mystical body of Christ, there would then be no need for a bureaucratic organization to discipline its devotees. The Franciscans embraced some of these ideals, but soon were transformed into a religious order that stressed rules and hierarchy.86 Buonaiuti writes, “To the vision of a Joachimite palingenesis, the church preferred scholastic philosophy.”87



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

173

LaPiana, registering the significance of Buonaiuti’s work, wrote an essay on Joachim for Speculum (1932), based in great part on Buonaiuti’s writings. In it, he lauded his friend’s scholarship as the last and best word on Joachim.88 The article is structured to culminate in Buonaiuti’s critical scholarship and new interpretations of Joachim. LaPiana heartily praises Buonaiuti’s treatment of Joachim’s mysticism, which emphasized the “associated life,” the collective. A second emphasis that resonated with LaPiana was Buonaiuti’s claim that Joachim’s philosophy of history governed his theology, not vice versa: Buonaiuti took a strongly historical approach even to this mystical tradition.89 LaPiana lauds his friend’s stress on Joachim’s critique of dry Scholastic formulae and overly minute interpretations of the Trinity. He also endorses Buonaiuti’s interpretation of the Cistercian movement, which gave large recognition to agricultural and land ­reform—​­that is, to its social and economic activities.90 I suspect that the Joachimite vision of a new social and religious order that sloughed off heavy Vatican control was appealing to L ­ aPiana—​­even as (we shall see) he thought that in the first centuries of Christianity, a heavier authoritative hand was needed. Franciscan ideals, however, contrasted sharply with those of modern Jesuits, Buonaiuti’s personal nemesis. The Jesuits are the villains of his narrative of Christianity. He describes the Society of Jesus as “a ­far-​­flung corporation of producers and consumers functioning for the benefit of ecclesiastical hegemony and nourishing i­ll-​­concealed aims of world conquest.” Jesuits’ total lack of spirituality is signaled in their failure to engage in common prayer. Jesuit spiritual pedagogy crushes and stifles its disciples, bending them to “an external, sterile discipline”­91—​­a far cry from early Benedictine ceremonies that lifted the whole community to communion with the divine through the corporate life!92 LaPiana on Buonaiuti In September 1946, LaPiana delivered the ­opening-​­­of-​­­the-​­year address at Harvard Divinity School. He used the occasion to memorialize the recently deceased Buonaiuti. From his talk (“Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision of Life”),93 his class discussions, and other papers, we can glimpse LaPiana’s assessment of and regard for Buonaiuti. Buonaiuti’s Modernism, in contrast to LaPiana’s, was spiritual and mystical, more like George Tyrrell’s. He found the rationalist views of Alfred Loisy repugnant. LaPiana, who had met Buonaiuti in Rome around 1905, did not follow the “mystical” line of Modernism: trained

174

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

in philosophy, especially that of the ancient Greeks, he confessed that his own views were more “rationalistic.” This difference, however, did not spoil their friendship.94 They both endorsed a pragmatic philosophy “with emphasis on the evolutionistic principle of religious experience.” LaPiana, like Buonaiuti, recognized the practical value of Pragmatist philosophy, especially as represented by William James.95 Buonaiuti, LaPiana here claims, had been the founder of modern religious studies in Italian universities. Buonaiuti defined religion as “the divine action in man” and as “an a­ ll-​­embracing mystical vision of human and cosmic life.” “Faith” he considered not as intellectual assent, but as “consciousness of responsibility,” as the recognition that “moral values and spiritual experiences have a sacred character.” Faith did not need to seek for the divine in miracles or to prove God’s existence through Aristotelian syllogisms. Sacramentalism he linked to the “associated life.” As a devout Catholic, he believed that through the external signs of the sacraments, “the gifts of the spirit” might spur Christians’ communal life. He rued that the sacramental practices of Catholicism had degenerated into “­quasi-​­magical forms” that had no relation to community life.96 Buonaiuti’s approach, LaPiana tells his Harvard audience, accorded ill with what a Catholic professor of church history was expected to ­teach—​ ­namely, to identify Christianity with the definitions of Catholic Church councils, especially those of Trent and Vatican (I), and to claim that the Church’s dogmas, laws, and forms of discipline were present from Christianity’s inception, remaining unimpaired through the centuries. By contrast, Buonaiuti understood “dogma” to mean “the mystical union and solidarity of the faithful, in love and holiness, with Christ crucified.” Focusing on hope, justice, and love in Christ, he ceded to the theologians any concern for conciliar definitions. He understood the dogmas of the Church rather as “cultural transcriptions,” conditioned by time and place.97 Although the early church had been central to Buonaiuti’s religious outlook, LaPiana claims, he interpreted its texts in an independent spirit. Buonaiuti had encouraged students to look first at the historical evidence pertaining to early Christianity and then to seek a “mystical reinterpretation of early Christian experience” that would bring it to life for p ­ resent-​­day devotees. The ­Gospel—​­mystical and ­non-​­­intellectual—​­had sounded a moral revolution that rejected egotism and summoned believers to devote themselves to the good of others. Humans’ trust in divine providence, he thought, would transfigure them ethically and put them in communion with God the Father.98



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

175

LaPiana tells students that in addition to Buonaiuti’s work on Joachim and his ­three-​­volume History of Christianity, he also wrote a history of Christian agnosticism; a manual for students of New Testament passages; and volumes on the history of Christianity in Roman Africa, on Luther and the Reformation, and on love and death in the Greek tragedies, among other works.99 Most important for the Modernist cause, as noted above, he was the (anonymous) author of Il Programma dei Modernisti. In the end, Buonaiuti’s unhappy fate contributed to LaPiana’s pessimism about Italy’s future: the fact that his friend had suffered so much, that his situation never saw improvement, suggested to him that liberty and democracy in Italy might be a lost cause.100 LaPiana’s indebtedness to Buonaiuti will become even more evident in the next chapter.

Historiography and History of the Field LaPiana took a considerable interest in the historiography of Christianity and the development of church history as a field of study. These topics he elaborated in the classroom, in public lectures, and in published writings. Unlike the “Chicago School,” he was not enamored of historians of early Christianity who imagine they are finding “the people,” and discount the role of beliefs.101 He was, however, less interested in theology than was Arthur Cushman McGiffert, and more interested in the structural arrangements that had allowed the church to succeed. When LaPiana arrived at Harvard in 1915, Ephraim Emerton held the Winn Professor of Ecclesiastical History. Emerton, who retired in 1918, was an expert on medieval church institutions. LaPiana thought Emerton weak on the doctrine and history of early Christianity, entertaining “only general notions” and underplaying the importance of the field. LaPiana described Emerton’s successor, Kirsopp Lake, as “filled with s­elf-​­importance, an elegant writer,” who admired German and French scholars but remained ignorant of Italian religious studies’ scholarship.102 LaPiana’s predecessors at Harvard (he somewhat uncharitably claimed) had limited themselves to offering “pictures” of Christian life and thought, “but said nothing about the laws and internal organization” of the church; at best, they dealt with the conflict of church and empire.103 Offering “pictures” was not a scientifically acceptable method of teaching history. LaPiana aimed to do better.

176

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

The Development of the Study of Christian History At the beginning of his courses, LaPiana often sketched the development of the ­historical-​­critical approach to early Christianity. On this topic, he possessed more knowledge and a stronger critical eye than had his ­nineteenth-​ ­century American predecessors. The new approaches to ­history-​­­in-​­general, LaPiana tells students, first arose when classicists forged the “weapons” of text criticism to study newly recovered Greek and Latin works. Soon the method was transferred to ecclesiastical documents (the “Donation of Constantine,” the ­ Pseudo-​­ Isidorian Decretals) and to theological texts (the treatises of ­Pseudo-​­Dionysius the Areopagite). Although the ­sixteenth-​­century Protestant historians, the Centuriators of Magdeburg, posed many astute questions about early Christianity, their apologetic stance marred their work. That produced by their Catholic opponents, such as Caesare Baronius, was similarly flawed.104 Methods that had proved so helpful for study of “profane” historical texts seemed suitable for those of religious history as well. ­Text-​­critical methods were applied to the Old Testament and somewhat later to the New. The results, LaPiana tells students, radically revised scholars’ assessment of the literary character of the texts and of the history of the period under description. These studies also “forced upon theology more or less radical changes in the notions of inspiration and revelation.”105 Concurrently, from the end of the eighteenth century onward, a new branch of historical studies, the history of religions, commanded attention. This interest, LaPiana claims, was spurred by the spirit of Romanticism, advances in archeology and anthropology, and the study of primitive religions, as well as those of India, of Buddhism, “Islamism,” and the great religions of Hellenistic and Roman times. These ventures marked the birth and development of the comparative study of religions. Next, scholars aiming for a synthesis of religions spurred the rise of the psychology and philosophy of religion. These innovations influenced the study of Christian history in two ways. First, since the scholars who studied other religions generally brought no theological bias to their work, they could adopt truly historical, n ­ on-​­apologetic, approaches. Hence the question arose, why should an exception be made for Christianity?106 Second, the study of these religions revealed “surprising parallels” between their formation and development and Christianity’s, including similarities in doctrine and ritual. LaPiana ruled out some approaches as unhelpful. For example, ­nineteenth-​­century scholars’ attempt to trace features of European



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

177

religions back to “a supposed common Aryan myth,” when grafted onto political ideology, became a “tragic factor of contemporary European history.” Similarly, scholars’ inferences from texts by Clement of Alexandria and others that Brahmanism and Buddhism had influenced early Christianity met with little acceptance. Other comparative efforts, not based on “vague and sometimes fanciful hypotheses,” proved more fruitful, such as the study of Christianity in relation to Hellenistic religions and mystery cults. Many scholars came to support the view that Christianity, which started as a Jewish messianic sect, became a religion of salvation when transplanted into a Hellenistic environment. LaPiana’s conclusion: historians of Christianity can no longer isolate their subject, treating it as something unique and developing sui generis.107 Context and comparison become important concepts in the study of early Christianity. ­Nineteenth-​­century philosophical developments, LaPiana continued, also influenced the study of history, including that of Christianity. The foundation of “the whole intellectual structure” was dramatically changed by Kantian and Hegelian philosophy. Today, he tells his students, we recognize that every history is informed by some philosophy, whether or not the historian acknowledges it. Students should be aware that all modern ­philosophies—​­whether rationalism, idealism, positivism, or ­pragmatism—​­reconstruct history on a plan different from that assumed by traditional Christian theology.108 What were the results for Christian historiography? The Catholic Church at first refused to listen, condemning historians who tried to advance new approaches. The Roman Curia denounced biblical criticism and the comparative method as applied to Christianity. “Still more damnable” to the Vatican, in LaPiana’s view, were modern philosophical speculations. Pius IX’s famous Syllabus (of Errors) in 1864 proclaimed the impossibility of any reconciliation between the church, its theology, and modern thought.109 Subsequently, and perhaps unsurprisingly, Catholic intellectuals faced a crisis. To be sure, LaPiana conceded, Leo XIII let in some fresh air, but before he did so, he took the precaution of reinstalling Scholastic philosophy to provide the foundation for any proposed revisions in Christian scholarship. Leo urged scholars to trim obsolete features from Scholasticism and adopt critical methods in historical study. He opened the Secret Vatican Archives to qualified scholars, and “last but not least, made Newman a cardinal.” By this latter move, however, Newman’s theory of dogmatic development, formerly suspect, became popular with Catholic students. The results of this liberalization went far beyond what Leo expected or wished.110

178

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Young scholars, LaPiana continued, soon found that they could not reconcile the old with the new. They compromised, trying to keep both their beliefs and their scholarship. For example, they distinguished the Christ of history from the Christ of theology, the religions of authority from the religion of the spirit. Appropriating new ideas about historical development, they came to think Newman’s theory, so radical to the Vatican, was insufficient: for Newman, dogma had evolved simply by “unfolding,” not through real change. Scholasticism could not deal with these new currents. For progressives, an “immanentistic philosophy” seemed the only way to justify Catholicism’s history. Some excellent works of Catholic history and historical methodology were produced under this impetus, such as those by Duchesne, Batiffol, Loisy, Tyrrell, and Buonaiuti. The next pope, Pius X, however, crushed these Modernist efforts through excommunication and disciplinary measures: “the doors were tightly closed again.”111 To be sure, La Piana conceded, many Catholic historians at present successfully apply h ­ istorical-​­critical methods to their research on single, limited questions. Yet when they attack the problem of Christian origins or try to formulate a synthetic history of Christianity that implies an underlying philosophy and theology, they retreat to the old methodology. They forget everything about historical criticism and (LaPiana acidly added) “recite devotedly their credo.”112 Have Protestant scholars done any better? LaPiana acknowledged that Protestants, lacking a central authority such as the Vatican, more freely appropriated the results of scientific and philosophic thought. They welcomed critical methods, especially since those seemed at first to refute Catholic positions. Thus they were pleased to adopt Lipsius’ conclusion that Peter had never been in Rome. What better refutation could there be of papal claims? For much of the nineteenth century, critical history seemed to confirm the Protestant Reformers’ view that early Christianity was essentially spiritual, deteriorating when it became encased in institutional forms. Harnack, for example, reduced Christianity to a vague notion of the Fatherhood of God and brotherhood of man. LaPiana tartly observes: “Even for a Protestant that was too much thin air over which to build a church, no matter how spiritual its character might be.” The historical method proved fatal to definitions of early Christianity that emphasized pure inwardness and spirituality, showing that institutional structure was essential. Harnack himself, when writing in a less apologetic mode, emphasized the interweaving of doctrinal and institutional elements in Christianity’s evolution, even conceding such traditional points as Peter’s death in



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

179

Rome. Thus the claims of older orthodox Protestantism were “left high and dry, shorn of all historical basis.” As for p ­ resent-​­day theological currents, LaPiana faults Barthian theology for presupposing “a historical interpretation that is fundamentally that of the centuriators of Magdeburg.”113 In this scathing judgment, he aligns himself with Liberal Protestant historians. Liberal Protestantism, LaPiana charges, needing to find other props, grounded religious ideas and phenomena “in the domain of sentiment, in the obscure recesses of moral instincts and of will rather than in the rigid schematism of reason.” Kant’s “categorical imperative,” with its emphasis on will and morality, contributed to an ­anti-​­intellectualistic approach to ­religion—​­that is, to defining religion as outside the domain of reason. Today, such theologians (perhaps “Chicago School” scholars?) appeal to “religious ­experience”—​­in LaPiana’s view, “a pregnant phrase that often covers only a multitude of sins of omissions in learning.” Appealing to the “psychological element” of “experience” bypasses history. How, he asks, does one test “the solidity of experience”? What would constitute a successful appeal, for history shows that the most diverse experiences have succeeded and failed? LaPiana’s judgment: unless this approach “comes out of the fog and of the vagueness of an intangible theology it cannot be successfully used as a criterion of reconstruction of Christian history.” The appeal to experience dilutes “the characteristic features of historical Christianity.” On that approach, would Christianity’s “essence” r­ eally differ from that of other religions? This approach, he admits, may appeal to a mystic of the progressive ­type—​­but certainly not to a historian.114 “Theological Method” Versus “Historical Method” The “Theological Method”

In his lectures and writings, LaPiana pits the “historical method” against the “theological method.” The “theological method” as deployed by Catholics, he claims, starts from the premises of faith: it asserts that the dogma of Jesus’ divinity was present from the beginning; that hierarchical organization, with the Pope at the summit, is of divine institution, as are the sacraments; that the Catholic Church, assisted by the Spirit, is infallible. “Development” is not considered as an evolutionary process involving genuine change. Rather, the church is deemed complete in itself from the beginning, “possessing all the elements and the spiritual energies for its life and separated by a wide gulf from the world in which it lived but to which it did not belong.”115 This view highlights Christianity’s uniqueness and renders comparison impossible.

180

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Protestant scholars also endorsed a version of the “theological method,” albeit one reduced in scope. While accepting the doctrines of the first five church councils, Protestants reject the notion that the church (the “ecclesiastical organization”) reigns as the chief power. They posit an early development of doctrine, followed by degeneration, which in turn is succeeded by a restoration to (alleged) pure origins at the Reformation.116 LaPiana finds this view as historically unsatisfactory as the Catholics’. LaPiana lists the points (“myths”) attending a “theological approach” to history: that divine revelation, as an external fact, taught truths that humans could not have discovered by themselves; that from humanity’s Golden Age, there had been a “fall”; that political and religious authority had a divine origin; that there had been a “chosen people,” the object of special divine concern. The “myth of revelation,” for example, imagined dogma as given and immutable from the beginning; nothing essential could be subtracted or added. On this view, the church coped with change merely by interpreting texts so as to preserve an allegedly unchanging “essence.” La Piana comments, “The art of pouring new wine into old bottles has never reached such perfection as with the interpreters and the historians of divine revelation.”117 Interpreting history via the “theological method,” LaPiana notes, began early in Christianity, with Eusebius and, more completely, with Augustine’s City of God. Both authors assumed that God guides history, that divine revelation is a historical fact, demonstrable from historical evidence.118 For example, Eusebius, believing that orthodoxy had been present from Christianity’s beginnings, had no sense that “heresy was older than orthodoxy”­119—​­a comment suggesting that LaPiana had digested Walter Bauer’s Rechtgläubigkeit und Ketzerei im ältesten Christentum (1934). LaPiana caricatures the notion of heresy held by “orthodox conservative historians”: that the holy, pure virgin church was attacked as if by robbers and highwaymen, ready to assault and rape the holy virgin. In defense rushed popes, bishops, theologians, and believers from all walks of life, “brandishing their swords, routing and destroying the enemy, and carrying triumphantly on the point of their spears the heads of the vanquished and exterminated heretics.”120 In this scenario, the church’s virginity was left intact. Another example LaPiana offers of a ­theological—​­and ­unhistorical—​ ­approach is Baronius’ claims regarding apocryphal early Christian literature. Baronius argued, against the Magdeburg Centuriators, that traditions about (for example) the family of Mary and the Harrowing of Hell were found in earliest Christianity, then transmitted orally and taken into the apocryphal



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

181

books; thus these traditions possessed some historical value. Accepted as historical truth, they found their place in Catholicism. Baronius’ claim, LaPiana counters, was not based on historical evidence but on his a priori theological views. LaPiana wryly adds, “Theologians are very resourceful and never admit defeat.”121 This “unhappy” controversy between Catholics and Protestants, however, produced some “happy” results: the Bible was examined afresh, the ancient history of the church ­re-​­studied, and historical criticism was applied to biblical and ­church-​­historical texts. Scholars such as Constantin von Tischendorf began to make critical editions of the apocryphal literature. Catholic historians, LaPiana adds, have largely abandoned Baronius’ claim, which was “only a pious hypothesis suggested by apologetic purposes.”122 Until the early nineteenth century, LaPiana states, the history of Christianity was approached from this theological viewpoint. Churchmen had the monopoly on interpretation, which (unsurprisingly) was “strictly apologetic.” After some limited studies in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries on sources and documents, more critical work followed. Even today, when various battling Christian groups seek to ground their beliefs and practices in earliest Christianity, they subordinate history to the “theological method.” “We are not yet free from this evil,” LaPiana claims, despite “the great advance and the wonderful work of historical research and reconstruction which has taken place during the last century.”123 The “Historical Method”

LaPiana outlined for his students what the historical method means in practice. The historical method, he explains, operates a posteriori, analogous to the method of the sciences. Working from facts, the historian takes into account spiritual, intellectual, economic, and social environments, builds up a structure, and offers an interpretation.124 Both Catholic and Protestant traditionalists, he notes, at first were “highly displeased” with what they called “historicism.” Catholics attacked the new reconstruction as “rationalistic,” charging that “historicism” destroyed belief in the supernatural and miraculous origin of the ­church—​­even though the historical approach had affirmed the continuity of the church’s development from earlier to later times, a point they might have approved. Protestants, for their part, complained that “historicism” affirmed no “break” in the development of the church from ancient to medieval times (that is, that it accommodated no “decline” from Christianity’s golden origins). To

182

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

the contrary, LaPiana assures his students, the “historical” approach to Christianity implies no irreverence or blasphemy. Historians may be believers, church members, but when they act or write as historians, they must not mix up faith with historical method.125 Today, LaPiana claims, all scholars, excepting the most conservative Christians, adopt historical methodology. Early Christianity has been given a “consistent historical background,” its history revised to take greater account of its ancient Mediterranean context, philosophical, religious, social, and political. Contextualization is key: beliefs, moral principles, and ecclesiastical organization were produced in specific times and environments. LaPiana here implicitly rejects the notion that Christian teaching and practice simply unfolded “from within.” The new approach, he concedes, has given rise to its own problems, but it is through the route of the “historical method,” not by “simple a priori solutions,” that historians may arrive at a better understanding.126 Comparison is now possible: Christianity can and should be studied as are all other religions.127 Another point: The “historical method,” LaPiana asserts, does not resort to “miracle” when it uncovers aspects of human history that the historian cannot explain. The fact that many people believed in miraculous explanations does not render them true. Even today, he remarks, you can hear a pious Catholic or Orthodox preacher declaim, “What greater miracle can you find, or more convincing [evidence] of the divine origins of Christianity, than the history of its triumph over all other religions and over the Roman Empire, the history of its expansion and of its conquest of the world?” La Piana dryly comments, “The historian is not much impressed by such evidence.” He advises students to look rather to social, political, economic, and psychological factors for explanations.128 LaPiana urges historians simply to admit that history has nothing to say about whether the church has a divine origin, whether it is a divine institution, and whether Jesus himself is divine: that Jesus is God is not demonstrable by historical evidence. Nor can history affirm that Jesus founded a church; even if he did, what was his intent? These issues are matters of faith, LaPiana ­concludes—​­and slyly adds, “And if your faith is of the kind that moves mountains, you may be able to read in the gospel the theory of pontifical autocracy as well as the theory of free Congregationalism.”129 The “historical method” as applied to the study of Christianity affirms development through time. At its beginning, Christianity was not “complete and perfect” in its doctrine and moral teachings; rather, like all religions, it



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

183

gradually developed and grew. Today, LaPiana claims, historians discard the static idea of revealed truth. All is a continuous becoming: “nothing is, everything becomes.” The view that motion and change are “the essence of life,” he asserts, derives from “the happy combination of the philosophical speculation of idealism, on the one hand, and of the wonderful advance in the scientific knowledge of the physical world which has been realized in the last century.”130 “Development,” moreover, applies not only to recorded history: those who affirm that humans evolved over a long period from inferior animals and that the natural law of life is the survival of the fittest will hold very different views of social problems and their possible solutions than traditional Christians.131 Can a historian work without bias? LaPiana concedes that it is “unavoidable” that historians’ convictions color their work. Although there is no absolutely objective history, there remains an “honest history which may reach a certain degree of objectivity.” Scholars should shed, as much as possible, “all denominational prejudices and bias, all apologetical purposes and aspirations,” in order to study Christianity’s origins and development in “a truly historical spirit.”132 He illustrates one noted historian’s failure in this respect: Harnack’s search for an “essence” of Christianity. In a dynamic view of history, LaPiana counters, there is no room for an “essence.” Process is rather the constitutive element of organic life.133 Other Approaches to History In his course on “The Social History of the Church,” LaPiana applauds what he calls “the sociological approach,” but only if it attends to historical development as well as to social structure. The present course, he tells his students, will investigate how social institutions act and react in relation to conflicts with religious, social, and political values across the history of Christianity.134 Yet he does not wholeheartedly endorse contemporary sociologists’ procedures: they often seem to lack a sense of history, of historical context. For example, in years past, some (unnamed) sociologists studied what they imagined were primitive tribes. They claimed to ascertain the psychological motives that led to their subjects’ beliefs and magical practices regarding “superhuman entities,” and from these, to plot how morals and religion developed. Unfortunately, the tribes they studied were neither primitive nor unsophisticated; the sociologists were led into “altogether mistaken views and theories.” Still today, sociologists’ biggest mistake is to imagine that they can analyze human nature outside the historical setting in which it developed. They begin from abstract theories and

184

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

only afterwards try to adapt facts to those theories. Their “tricks,” in LaPiana’s view, resemble those of stage magicians with their rabbits and hats. Sociology, he concludes, “cannot be but historical, and history cannot be but sociological because there is no such thing as a social structure without historical development or evolution, and there is no such thing as an historical development without any social structure.” Rightly used, the sociological approach shows how social institutions act and react in relation to conflicts with religious, social, and political values across Christian history.135 An ahistorical approach falls short. Another modern approach to h ­ istory-​­writing that LaPiana faults: the “intuitive.” Lecturing on Augustine, he decries what he calls the “­ultra-​­modern ­so-​­called intuitive method of biography writing.”136 Presumably he signals historians’ conjecturing about a ­now-​­dead person’s psychological state, emotions, or intentions, despite lack of evidence. As noted above, LaPiana also disliked psychologizing approaches from “religious experience,” “a pregnant phrase that often covers only a multitude of sins of omissions in learning.”137 LaPiana similarly rejects Oswald Spengler’s attempt in The Decline of the West (English translation, 1926) to apply “strict mathematical law in history.” He adds that the posing of grand historical syntheses often follows times of war, revolution, and catastrophe. For example, Spengler’s book was published after World War I (1918, 1922); Hegel’s philosophy of history followed upon the changes wrought by the French Revolution and downfall of the Napoleonic Empire; Augustine’s City of God was written in “the last period of disintegration of the western Roman Empire.”138 “Grand scheme” speculations appear to be prompted by human disquietude after disasters. A characteristic feature of LaPiana’s approach to early Christianity was his interest in regions, in the geographical alignment of the areas in which early Christianity spread. This interest will especially emerge in his discussion of Rome’s regional diversity and its attractiveness to “foreign groups,” to be considered in the next chapter. He also highlights this topic in his discussion of Nicaea and aftermath: he is less interested in its theology than in regional differences, which played out to create antagonisms and splits. The later schism between East and West, he claims, was foreshadowed in the eastern opposition to Nicaea and eastern bishops’ alliance with the emperor to support that opposition, an alliance that survived the immediate conflict. The fact that Constantine moved to the East and Hosius returned to Spain accounts for some differences that soon distinguished eastern from western Christianity.139



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

185

Economic Analyses and Explanations LaPiana discussed economic approaches and issues more often than might be expected for a professor of early Christianity. In Christian texts of that era, LaPiana tells students, there is little teaching about economics, and for good reason: “The ideas of Jesus about economic matters were very simple: he had none.” He and his disciples lived on alms and contributions. LaPiana rehearses a few salient passages: Jesus’ comparison of the rich man with the camel attempting to pass through a needle’s eye; the lilies of the field who do not labor; the problems of the early Jerusalem church regarding wealth and charitable distribution; Paul’s collections on his missionary trips for the poor of Jerusalem.140 The church, in LaPiana’s view, has no remedy to suggest for poverty and the solution of the “­social-​­economic question.” Early Christians, expecting the Kingdom’s imminent arrival, gave no heed to such l­ong-​­term social issues. In fact, early Christian leaders counseled their flocks to abide quietly in the interim, respecting the present political and social order, which God would soon destroy. When the “end” did not come, the ethic of quiet acceptance was already in place: “the tradition to respect the constituted authorities and the existing social order remained an integral part of Christian teaching.” Church Fathers such as Augustine and Ambrose taught that although private property resulted from the first sin, it had become, and remained, necessary for the functioning of society. The expectation of the end, LaPiana suggests, also seems to account for early Christians’ relative indifference to slavery (the church owned slaves, although manumission was favored) and participation in the military. Early Christians, quite simply, had no “definite program of social reform.”141 The Christian movement, born in poverty in Palestine, within a few centuries acquired money and property. LaPiana cites the letter of the Roman bishop Cornelius, preserved by Eusebius (H.E. VI.43), which shows that by the ­mid-​­third century, the church at Rome had considerable funds at its disposal. Cornelius counts his sizable staff: ­forty-​­six presbyters, seven deacons, seven subdeacons, f­orty-​­two acolytes, fi ­ fty-​­three exorcists, readers, and doorkeepers. Moreover, the Roman church already had the resources to feed more than 1,500 widows, orphans, and needy people.142 A recurring theme in LaPiana’s lectures is that with the church’s growing wealth, rigorous standards declined. LaPiana emphasized that the developing church, faced with practical

186

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

“exigencies,” used the resources of its social and cultural environment to achieve its own ends. Thus, for example, Christian leaders adapted the Roman patronage system to their own purposes. Bishops took on the role of patronus, distributing funds at their disposal, just as clientalia had received financial relief from their “secular patronus.” This system, LaPiana claims, well served the church’s propaganda, for its poor relief and charitable ventures likely attracted followers from the lower classes. Christian leaders cited the church’s taking on the burden of assistance to the poor as a justification for its e­ ver-​­growing possessions. Secular legislators, for their part, left these matters to the church. Later, monasteries also assumed the duty of poor relief in addition to offering hospitality to pilgrims and travelers. As Christianity developed, LaPiana notes, its writers and clerics devoted considerable rhetoric to the topic of riches as a danger to the soul, but outside of ascetic circles, the abandonment of wealth was not considered an obligation.143 However praiseworthy such charitable efforts, LaPiana acknowledges that they did not solve economic problems: “The social problem of poverty with all the evils that it carries with it, cannot be solved by [a] few well intentioned clergymen and laymen who live up to the commands of the Church and give to the poor quod superset, what is left after caring for themselves.” The church too often resorted to a psychological t­ actic—​­preaching “resignation and p ­ atience”—​ ­to alleviate the desperation of the poor. It assured them that “poverty may be a blessing because it prevents temptation and sin, making easier the acquisition of the Kingdom of heaven and of perpetual happiness.” Churchmen told the unfortunate, “The injustices, inequalities and evils of this life shall disappear in the other life,” thus fostering “a psychology of resignation which stifled the instinct of rebellion.” The church’s teaching that poverty was blessed, however, was never very successful; it was insulting to preach resignation to starving or oppressed populations, when “popes, bishops, and abbots were among the oppressors.”144 Although LaPiana did not identify himself as a Socialist, his critique of the social order, and of Christianity’s role in pacifying the masses rather than spurring real social change, is sharp. The topic of the Western Empire’s disintegration in late antiquity offered LaPiana another opportunity to discuss economics. He stresses the social, economic, and political factors that contributed to its decline. While rejecting the view of the French Encyclopediasts and Voltaire that Christianity caused the downfall of the Roman Empire, he concedes that it may have contributed indirectly to the forces of disintegration.145 Here, he borrows much from Rostovtzeff’s Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire; in some courses, he



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

187

asked students to read the book’s last chapter.146 He repeats Rostovtzeff’s theme that urbanization plus the gradual decay of intensive agriculture, the backbone of the Roman economy, sapped the sources of Roman economic life. Now, the working classes were forced to belong to corporations that separated groups from one another in a way that drastically impeded workers’ economic and social mobility. The opportunity for mobility, LaPiana claims, is that which “secures to a nation fresh energies in its growth and further development.” When trades and work of all sorts became hereditary, no man could freely choose his occupation. In effect, he comments, the system became one of forced labor. Workers received compensation inadequate for subsistence, “while those who were at the controls got fat with the spoils and the graft of a corrupt administration.” Taxation “like an octopus absorbed everything, while a few senatorial families (a ‘wealthy lazy aristocracy’) enjoyed privileges.” The vitality of the society was sapped at the root.147 One wonders if LaPiana here also recalls the deep social stratification of the Italy in which he was raised. In the fifth century, LaPiana continues, the slowness of Christianization in central and northern Italy can be attributed in part to the dwindling of rural populations as land was left uncultivated or turned over to grazing. Economic stress led to a diminishing birth rate. Rural peoples left for the cities, and wealthy landowners lacked workers for the land.148 LaPiana accepted the t­ hen-​ ­common interpretation of the Empire’s “decline” in late antiquity, rather than stressing, more positively, that a civilization was being transformed. His discussion of economic issues suggests that he thought the church poorly equipped, from its origin to the present, to deal with larger economic problems and forces.

Approaches to the Study of Early Christianity Christianity Not Rational LaPiana’s decidedly ­anti-​­theological approach to the study of history colored his views on other topics. Christianity, he claims, is not “rational”: its theological elaboration quickly falls into “mystery.”149 Here, ­he—​­albeit less ­positively—​ ­echoes Buonaiuti’s emphasis on “mystery” as the hallmark of Christianity. From the beginning, he asserts, Christianity was not primarily a system of theology but “a practical religion offering salvation through sacraments and through faith.”150 “The success of a religion in its early stages,” he tells students,

188

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

“is not dependent upon its possession of a consistent philosophical or theological system of thought”; on the contrary, “such heavy doctrinal baggage would be a hindrance rather than a help to religious propaganda.” The Roman church achieved its distinction by means other than “theological speculation.”151 To be sure, with time, Christianity needed to develop a rational system, an intellectual structure for beliefs that “by their very nature were radically incapable of being forced without distortions and concessions into the framework of a rigidly intellectualistic system.” When Christianity, which originally despised or (at the least) was indifferent to philosophy, aimed to conquer the world and transform human society, it discovered the necessity of throwing “the cloak of philosophy and rational wisdom” over its “religious myths.”152 “Mystery” is here a byword, and not always meant positively. Regarding the formulation of Trinitarian doctrine in the 380s, LaPiana is blunt: the claim that Father, Son, and Spirit are the same in essence but three distinct persons, yet not three distinct Gods, nor with any subordination of one to the other, renders “our logical and metaphysical powers at a loss. It is a mystery beyond the reach of human mind.” Some believe, LaPiana adds, that “this is divine revelation; to those who do not share this faith, this doctrine is a sheer mythological tradition which by a series of circumstances well explained by the historical process became the cornerstone of Christian theology.” From LaPiana’s perspective, the “invincible tendency” of Christian theology was to pose “final solutions which defy logics and which are clouded in mystery,” plainly shown in the Christological controversies. Another “conspicuous example of this preference for the mystery to the disparagement of logics” can be seen in the Augustinian doctrine of original sin.153 Augustine’s theory of predestination, which God gives to some and withholds from others, offers still another example. It is, LaPiana concludes, “of the essence of spiritual life and of the process of salvation to be clouded in mystery. It is in this sense that Paul said that ‘faith saves the world.’ ”154 An implied conclusion is that if a person lacks this saving faith, what some call “mystery” would seem like ­irrationality—​­or worse. LaPiana the pragmatist and ­sometime-​­skeptic bluntly suggests why it was necessary for the church to preserve “the supernatural and mysterious element in its dogmatic and in its moral fundamental article; if Christian dogma were but the conclusion of a syllogism, there would be no need of a Church to teach it with infallible authority, a school would have been enough.” Similarly, if human will and choice were enough for moral and spiritual life, there would have been no need for church, priesthood, sacraments: “a whip and a jail would



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

189

be enough.”155 Since Christianity is not “the conclusion of a syllogism,” and since human will and choice usually prove insufficient for righteous living, most people need the spur of mystery, miracle, and the supernatural. This nontheological, pragmatic view informs LaPiana’s discussions of various personages and movements in early Christianity. For example, he praises Bishop Callistus of Rome, who avoided “endless theological quarrels” and rather attended to “the practical needs and aspirations of the great crowd of humble folks and slaves” in his church.156 (On Callistus, one of LaPiana’s heroes, we shall see more in Chapter 7.) Commenting on early North African Christianity, LaPiana adds that theologians have caused even more political trouble than heroic warriors, “but when a theologian is also a lawyer, and especially an ­African-​­­theologian-​­lawyer, it is impossible that there should be no trouble.”157 To be sure, LaPiana instructed students on theological issues such as Trinitarian and Christological theories, but he clearly believed that theology too often interfered with correct historical ­understanding—​­and had caused considerable trouble throughout Christian history. As we shall see, LaPiana concentrated his teaching and writing on two aspects of early Christianity: on ­inner-​­institutional factors that prompted new modes of operation, and on external factors (“context”) that influenced early Christian developments. He taught his students, as he put it, “how and when doctrinal motives and exigencies led the Church to establish certain institutions in a certain way, while on other occasions institutional motives and exigencies led the Church to state new doctrines or to choose one rather than another interpretation of traditional beliefs.”158 Contextualization: Christianity as Synthesis Scholars’ reconstruction of the history of the Hellenistic religious world, LaPiana claims, “provided for the first time the right historical background needed for the understanding of the historical process of Christian origins.”159 Indeed, “the whole history of early Christianity has been rewritten in the light of the philosophical and religious thought of the ­Greco-​­Roman times and of the social and political institutions of the period in which Christianity appeared and made its way among all other religions of the Roman Empire.” Despite controversies over the relative influence of this or that factor, historians can now study the history of early Christianity against a “definite and consistent historical background.”160

190

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

LaPiana viewed early Christianity as “the greatest and most complex synthesis” of the varied religious currents that had spread across the ancient Mediterranean area. By a “genetic process,” it assimilated elements from different sources and united them in a higher synthesis. Only this approach to early Christianity, he insists, makes history a science “distinct from and independent of theology.”161 The synthesis of Jewish and Hellenistic elements, however, resulted in a new creation, not just a remix of old elements. Christianity blended Judaism’s “rigid” monotheism (minus its “nationalistic limitations”) and its “lofty and appealing” moral code and community life, with sacramental and redemptive elements from both Judaism and various Hellenistic religions. The Jewish emphasis on community life, transposed to Christianity, prompted ecclesiastical development. The “mystery religions,” LaPiana emphasizes, lacked this communal emphasis: Christianity’s ­tight-​­knit, hierarchical organization contributed to its success, while the “mysteries” ultimately failed. Only Christianity became a “church.”162 To succeed, the cults would have needed disciplinary laws and a comprehensive organization, and this, the Roman government tried to prevent.163 Christianity’s idea of spiritual regeneration, however, resembled that of the “mystery religions” insofar as it, too, was a religion with saving rites. Roman state religion, by contrast, offered none of these desirable features.164 LaPiana was especially interested in similarities between Christianity and the “mystery religions.” Like them, Christianity was tinged with magic: ritual was deemed efficacious for salvation.165 The “mysteries” taught “the identification of the initiated with the God, through the magical virtue of the religious rites.” Both the “mysteries” and Christianity had a “universal character,” unlike Israelite religion. (While Judaism aimed “to Israelize [sic] the universe,” LaPiana comments, the “mystery cults were trying to universalize themselves.”) Never pretending to be logical belief systems, the “mysteries” presented themselves as “practical systems of salvation through magical rites and formulae bestowing immortality upon the initiate.” On such points, he claims, Christianity resembled the “mystery religions” more closely than it did Judaism.166 From time immemorial, humans have dreaded death and yearned for immortality; for this fear and yearning, the “mystery religions” promised blessedness. Christianity, too, emerged as a religion of salvation, but with this difference: “its Saviour god was a historical personality.”167 In ritual practices as well, Christians amply borrowed from pagan groups, appropriating their cemeteries and instituting banquets in honor of the Apostles that replicated pagan rites.168 Moreover, by the fourth century, some pagans had adopted a form of mono-



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

191

theism that would allow for rapprochement with Christianity.169 For example, the abstract term divinitas on Constantine’s Arch of Triumph in Rome could express a “monotheistic synthesis” agreeable to both pagan and Christian.170 Throughout, LaPiana emphasizes similarities between Christian and ­non-​ ­Christian practices, with Christianity as the borrower and adapter. He, unlike orthodox churchmen, finds little “uniqueness.” History of Religions Approaches LaPiana often discussed early Christianity with questions and issues raised by the t­hen-​­burgeoning field of history of religions. The study of comparative religions, he claims, showed that Christianity had been formed in ways similar to other religions, even in points of doctrine and ritual. In addition to comparing features of the salvation cults so popular in the early Empire with aspects of early Christianity, he also notes similarities to s­o-​­called primitive religions. For example, he tells students, even primitives yearned for an afterlife. Early peoples believed that the self had a double, which they experienced in dreams or hallucinations. This belief prompted the hope that a “self ” might live after death. Psychologizing this process, LaPiana compares it to psychoanalysis, wryly remarking that raising to consciousness what is in the subconscious gives “great mental relief to the patients and still a greater relief for the pocketbooks of the ­psycho-​­analysts themselves.”171 Another belief and practice that Christianity shared with primitive cultures: the need for purification from the defilement attending sex and childbirth. In most primitive religions, LaPiana tells students, the new mother is subjected to purification ceremonies before being admitted back into the social and religious life of the group. This requirement for purification also appears in Judaism and Mediterranean religions of antiquity, although neither is “primitive.” LaPiana suggests that popular traditions about defilement associated with reproduction spurred the rise of infant baptism within Christianity. He deems Christians’ introduction of child baptism “a regress” from New Testament representations of baptism, in which the ceremony’s efficacy is dependent upon the conscious faith of the recipient.172 About early Christianity’s teaching on sex, LaPiana has much to say; his views will be discussed in the next chapter. LaPiana’s lists comparing primitive and ancient cultures’ beliefs and practices with early Christianity’s underscores his notion that “comparison” is the correct approach to the study of early Christianity.

192

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Conclusion LaPiana’s Modernist assumptions, especially those forged in Italian Modernism, strongly colored his analysis of early Christianity. The study of Christian history was not to be approached through the tenets of Scholastic ­theology—​ ­or indeed, any stripe of theology. C ­ ritical-​­historical methods, the same as those used by scholars in other disciplines, demanded an entirely different approach. When examined through this lens, many biblical narratives and ecclesiastical claims must be given up as unhistorical. Faith could not supply “facts.” Although LaPiana did not so enthusiastically champion “mysticism” as did his friend and mentor Ernesto Buonaiuti, he nevertheless adopted many of his themes, as well as specific points about Gnosticism and Augustine. Most important, he borrowed the phrase “the associated life” to pinpoint the decisive aspect of Christianity. Seeing his friend’s ill treatment at the hands of both Vatican and Fascist officials deepened LaPiana’s enmity t­ oward the official operations of the former and the ideology of the latter. In most respects, LaPiana claimed, early Christianity, with its multiple borrowings from the assumptions and practices of other groups, was far from unique. Adopting strands from religions already flourishing in antiquity, Christian leaders shaped their new religion to meet ancient needs. With other progressive scholars of Christianity in his era, he put the ­Greco-​­Roman context in the forefront, and borrowed insights from the relatively new fields of anthropology and history of religions. Turning away from traditional theological approaches to the study of Christian history, LaPiana carved out some areas of that history that would become his special purview. To these we turn.

Chapter 7

LaPiana’s Teaching of Early Christianity

What and How LaPiana Taught George LaPiana’s teaching notes show that he often started the day’s lecture by reviewing what he had told students the day or days previous. He explained this practice: although he had “full confidence” in students’ intelligence, he had “little confidence in their n ­ ote-​­taking.”1 Although LaPiana claims that he wrote new class lectures every year,2 the archival evidence suggests that he (like many of us) was an ardent recycler. Shortly before he assumed a faculty position at Harvard, LaPiana in January 1918 gave five lectures at Union Theological Seminary (invited by Arthur Cushman McGiffert) on the history of Catholic moral theology. He admits that his inadequate English kept audiences small, although he was subsequently invited to lecture at Columbia on Byzantine theater.3 The first course LaPiana offered at Harvard centered on Catholic moral theology from Thomas Aquinas to the present.4 One of LaPiana’s staple course offerings at Harvard was “The Social History of the Church” (Church History 125), readings for which included selections from Mikhail Rostovtzeff’s Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire; Samuel Dill’s Roman Society from Nero to Marcus Aurelius and his Roman Society in the Last Century of the Western Empire; Ernst Troeltsch’s The Social History of the Christian Church; R. W. and A. J. Carlyle’s History of Medieval Political Theory in the West (title corrected); Hans Lietzmann’s The Beginnings of the Christian Church; Frederick Homes Dudden’s St. Ambrose; and (penciled in at the end) McGiffert’s ­two-​­volume History of Christian Thought (1932–1933). Among the ancient works discussed in the course were Eusebius’ Life of Constantine; Lactantius’ On the Death of Persecutors; Augustine’s City of

194

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

God; Jerome’s Letters; Salvian’s On the Government of God; and Ambrose’s On the Duties of the Clergy.5 LaPiana’s questions for a midyear “exam paper” for “The Social History of the Church” reveal his expectations of students. First he asks, “What does it mean: ‘Social history of the Church.’ State the point of view and the problems and the aspects of Christian life this social history deals with.” Other questions ask students to describe apocalyptic writers’ views of the Roman Empire; to assess how those apocalyptic hopes affected contemporary Christian views of social and economic problems, and the changes that occurred with “the vanishing of those hopes”; to outline Tertullian’s defense against the accusation that Christianity was subversive of the Roman political and social order; to describe Celsus’ view of Christianity; to review the church’s teachings on marriage and divorce, especially Callistus’ rulings; to discuss how ancient pagan elites, on the one hand, and Christian leaders, on the other, viewed manual labor, commerce, and industry; and to explain Constantine’s conversion in relation to the social conditions of the Roman Empire at the time. There is no indication that students might choose to answer just a few of these questions.6 LaPiana also taught a “Seminary in Monasticism” (Church History 20), centered largely on Western monasticism. A reading list from the version of the course he taught in 1931–1932 shows both his own reading and readings that he assigned to students: Dom Cuthbert Butler on the Historia Monachorum; Richard Reitzenstein’s Historia Lausiaca und Historia Monachorum; Dom J. M. Besse, Les moines de l’Ancien France, Le monachisme Africain, and Les Moines d’Orient anterieur à Chalcedoine; and Ferdinand Cavallera’s Saint Jérome. He lists relevant texts by Sulpicius Severus, Augustine, Ambrose, Jerome, Paulinus of Nola, Hilary of Arles, Sidonius Apollinaris, Rufinus, Cassian, Athanasius’ Life of Antony, the Apophthegmata Patrum, and Palladius’ Lausiac History.7 LaPiana also taught “Greek and Eastern Churches,”8 and courses on legends pertaining to saints and martyrs,9 on the Middle Ages, and on modern Catholicism.10 Like McGiffert, he ranged across Christian history, but focused on Catholicism. He also taught courses on Italian history for Harvard’s History Department. Among the particular interests that set LaPiana apart from McGiffert at Union and Case at Chicago are the institutional church as a prime manifestation of the “associated life” (Buonaiuti’s phrase); the development of Christianity in Rome, centering on the bishopric; the evil of compulsory celibacy for Roman Catholic priests; and problematic aspects of Augustine’s theology.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

195

Throughout, he emphasizes Christianity as an institution and as praxis, the relative inutility of theology, and the imperative for compromise in ecclesiastical matters. These points will be detailed below.

The Church: Organization and the “Associated Life” Organization, “Individualism,” “Disintegration,” Authority, and Compromise LaPiana strongly emphasized that early Christianity required organization: it was not a ­free-​­floating, “spiritual” movement, as n ­ ineteenth-​­century Protestant commentators often imagined. Reflecting on Auguste Sabatier’s book The Religions of Authority and the Religion of the Spirit (1904 [1903]), he notes that ­sixteenth-​­century Protestant Reformers were the architects of the view that primitive Christianity was a purely spiritual phenomenon. This claim underlay their rejection of external organization and ecclesiastical hierarchy, and their conviction that authority rested only in the Bible, which ­Spirit-​­inspired humans were competent to interpret.11 LaPiana rejects this view as contrary to the evidence from Christian o­ rigins—​­which, ironically, those very Protestants sought to emulate. At Christianity’s inception, LaPiana cautions, there was no distinction between “religion” and “church.”12 From the beginning, the church was an organization: “it was not merely a spiritual brotherhood, an invisible society of souls bound together by the same faith and the same charity, but it was a visible society of men whose hopes were dependent upon the observance of the same rules of conduct and upon their active membership in the same organization.”13 He frequently used the term “associated ­life”—​­Buonaiuti’s favored ­phrase—​­to depict the church as a social institution. “Associated life,” he tells students, embraces “all kinds of relations and institutions among men, not only those of a political character but also moral, spiritual and intellectual, even sciences and arts.” Society more broadly is “the s­um-​­total of the associated life,” but as a professor of church history, he will focus on the institutional church.14 Protestant historians, past and present, in LaPiana’s view, minimize if not obliterate the notion of the ancient church as an organization. Such historians (Harnack?) analyze the history of dogma as if it were mere philosophical speculation. They forget that Christianity “did not claim to be a philosophy or a school but a practical way of salvation.”15 Christianity, LaPiana emphasizes, is

196

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

a social enterprise with universalizing aims. The individualistic elements in the teachings of Jesus and Paul were only “the instrument for reaching a higher and broader aim, universal in scope and design: the salvation of mankind.” The real spirit of early Christianity was not individualistic, but aimed “to permeate . . . ​ the whole associated life, and not merely the individual life.”16 While Protestant historians belittle the institutional factor, traditional Catholic theologians imagine Christianity as having emerged with a complete, perfect, and divinely inspired organization. LaPiana rejects both extremes as grounded in an “unhistorical method.” In the formative period of Christianity, he tells students, doctrinal and institutional elements were closely connected. They will rather examine “how and when doctrinal motives and exigencies led the Church to establish certain institutions in a certain way, while on other occasions institutional motives and exigencies led the Church to state new doctrines or to choose one rather than another interpretation of traditional beliefs.”17 If institutions are crucial to Christianity, they nevertheless are in constant danger of “disintegration” (one of LaPiana’s favorite words). Of course, to Roman pagans, Christianity itself seemed like “an element of disintegration.” Early Christian efforts to forestall disintegration, LaPiana claims, were tightly connected with the development of authority structures in the church. Early in its history, the church needed to free itself from “the anarchy of the Spirit.”18 Montanism, for example, “tried to disintegrate the growing organization and to stop the process of gradual adaptation of the Church to the practical exigencies of the contemporary world.” Thus church authorities rightly blocked its influence. Somewhat later, within orthodox Catholicism itself, the disorder attending the election of bishops also needed to be curtailed.19 Facing the threat of “internal disintegration,” the institutional church and Christianity itself were saved by the development of the bishopric. Law, discipline, and organization, not theology or philosophy, provided the saving element. Theology, in LaPiana’s view, often only served (and still serves) to promote internal division,20 its modern manifestations illustrated by quarrels between Modernists and Vatican officials over the centrality of Thomism to Catholic theology. As an ancient example of theology’s failure to promote cohesion, LaPiana cites the period of the Trinitarian and Christological controversies. Then, he argues, institutions, not doctrines, strengthened Christianity. The Alexandrian church illustrates the point. All ecclesiastical power in Egypt was concentrated in the hands of the patriarch of Alexandria, who created hundreds of bishop-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

197

rics, even in tiny hamlets. These bishops, beholden to the patriarch, could be counted on for ­votes—​­to an even greater extent, LaPiana adds, than “the delegates of Tammany at a democratic convention for the nomination of the President of the U.S.” In these conflicts, church government assumed definite form, creating traditions and legislation that enabled the rise of a central power.21 Indeed, Christianity’s success hinged on its possession of a tightly knit, hierarchically governed organization.22 Attending to how power operates in such cases is for LaPiana more instructive than emphasizing doctrinal differences. To be sure, this success entailed compromise with worldly customs and mores. Often, the new religion simply adapted to, rather than challenging, the present social and political order. Christianity, “a leaven to create a new order,” was changed as it adapted to “the world as it was.”23 Unlike some Protestant interpreters of early Christianity, LaPiana does not berate compromise: it is inherent to institutional survival. Flexibility is necessary, a willingness to consider present and future needs. Sounding a Modernist note, LaPiana argues that the church should not be tied to the ­backward-​­looking notion of tradition, which in his view is “the great illusion of Christianity.”24 The western church, unlike the eastern, deemed tradition something living and flexible.25 He praises bishops such as Victor of Rome, who refused to allow tradition to “be a millstone around the neck of a living institution”; new circumstances demanded modifications.26 With Constantine’s conversion, the church again compromised to adjust itself to the framework of Roman institutions, culture, and thought, despite the ensuing loss of spiritual and moral ideals.27 Among the various compromises Christianity made, economics plays a telling role in his discussion of the “associated life.” All Christian history, LaPiana tells his students, has been “a long endless and in part fruitless attempt to reach a satisfactory compromise” between the Christian ideal of life and “the facts that bind Christianity as an institution to the economic factor as a primary exigency for its existence and its progress.” At its origin, Christianity preached detachment from earthly interests, but over time, the church became “a great, and at times the greatest economic power in the world.”28 His message: institutional success requires compromise. Systems of Ecclesiastical Authority LaPiana’s claim that authority structures were necessary to prevent ecclesiastical “disintegration” focuses on the rise of the monarchical episcopate, especially

198

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

on the Roman bishopric. As detailed below, he offers a stylized version of how authority passed from one system of church government to another, culminating in the “­one-​­man” rule of the Roman papacy. His emphasis on organization was decidedly not motivated by esteem for the ­Vatican-​­centered Catholicism of his day, but rather reveals his understanding of the sociology of institutions: strong organization and rigorous internal discipline are necessary to their successful functioning. It is noteworthy that LaPiana pressed the need for one strong man at the head of the Catholic Church when he so despised the manifestations of that strong man’s power in his own ­time—​­not to speak of his contempt for the “strong man” Mussolini. Earliest Christianity, LaPiana flatly asserts, was no democracy. Rather, an “aristocracy of the Spirit” constituted its first form of governance: not “Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,” but “Pneumatocracy,” rule by the Holy Spirit.29 Moreover, the Spirit was free to choose which individuals would be its instruments. This arrangement, however, easily fostered anarchy. To forestall it, alongside the (allegedly) divinely selected apostles, prophets, and teachers, the church appointed regular offices in each community. Even the prophetic and individualistic Montanists, LaPiana claims, saw the need for a hierarchy of bishops and presbyters. On the other hand, some aspects of Christian teaching had “real democratic value,” for example, that humans were spiritually equal and should have religious liberty (a popular appeal during the persecutions), and that all baptized Christians were brothers. Even these ideals, however, in no way signaled democracy as moderns know it. Privilege and hierarchy still reigned. When the church became powerful, it was happy to coerce others’ religious beliefs and practices.30 LaPiana adds that neither ancient Greece nor Rome was a democracy, if democracy means that “the people” is “the only legitimate source of power.” In those ancient communities, “the people” meant only a few individuals; the majority by far, even apart from slaves, was excluded from participation in political life. LaPiana proudly notes that the United ­States—​­his adoptive ­homeland—​­was the first political entity to endorse the modern concept of democracy.31 From the dawn of humanity, LaPiana reflects, there have been struggles over authority. He traced the steps by which ecclesiastical authority developed in the first Christian centuries, scholarship on which took a particular form during the period of LaPiana’s intellectual formation. With other scholars of his day, he debated the arguments of Auguste Sabatier’s The Religions of Authority and the Religion of the Spirit (1904): which was Christianity?32 LaPiana posits that the authority of ­Spirit-​­filled leaders was succeeded by authority



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

199

invested in church offices, then in the monarchical episcopate, next in councils of bishops, still later in a system of patriarchates, and finally in the supreme authority of one bishop, that of Rome. LaPiana illustrates how each arrangement broke down until the final form, the Roman papacy, was se­ fth-​­century patriarchal systems cured.33 The f­ ourth-​­century conciliar and the fi failed to achieve the unity won by the pontifical system, although the latter was forced to compromise with councils and patriarchs.34 Again, success entailed compromise. Charisma and Office Two factors, LaPiana argues, prompted the switch from the “hierarchy of the Spirit” to “hierarchy of office”: the dangers of pneumatocracy, which tended to “religious anarchy”; and the n ­ on-​­arrival of the parousia. Since the Christian community needed a more stable form of government if the end of the world was not in sight, the spiritual powers of the Apostles and prophets were reassigned to elected officers.35 Both forms of authority, however, were “hierarchies.” ­Free-​­floating individualism, for LaPiana, was the fantasy of some Protestant scholars. LaPiana agreed with scholars who claimed that the terms “bishop” and “presbyter” originally carried no difference in rank: the bishop was simply one of the presbyters. Perhaps, he suggests, the oldest man in the college of presbyters was considered a “chairman,” but his rank was only primus inter pares. This arrangement proved problematic: seniority in age as the criterion for selection meant that the man might be too old to carry out his duties energetically. Hence, a new plan was devised, in which not the most senior, but the “most able,” would be chosen as head. This arrangement of presbyters with a chair (“bishop”) of their same status, however, led to competition and disagreements, upsetting the Christian community.36 Selecting a bishop from the body of presbyters, LaPiana cautions, did not signal democracy. For example, once the bishop was ordained and consecrated, the community could not dismiss him.37 More generally, churchmen did not dream of social or political equality. In fact, the new class, the clerical hierarchy, claimed the social and political privileges of the prevailing aristocratic society. The modern democratic system of majority rule, LaPiana insists, was “fundamentally incompatible” with the concept that Christianity and church are of a “revealed divine character.”38

200

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

The Monarchical Episcopate When the apocalyptic expectation faded and the church “started its career as an institution with a lasting social character aiming at the conquest of the world such as it was and not such as it was thought it would become through a catastrophic palingenesis, then the Church found it necessary to concentrate more and more the authority in the hands of one person, the monarchical bishop.”39 The monarchical episcopate, LaPiana contends, arose as a unifying measure to prevent “internal dissentions and disintegration.”40 Its establishment “was the first great step ­towards the hierarchical organization of the whole church.” ­Yet—​­to look ­ahead—​­the monarchical episcopate failed to produce the desired unity, as bishops could not agree.41 Some stronger arrangement was needed: power over the whole church needed to be in the hands of one man. LaPiana strikingly concludes, “The doctrine of monarchical episcopacy contained implicitly the doctrine of the papacy.”42 Changing arrangements of church authority, LaPiana claims, arose in the midst of conflict and dissension. In the second century, the development and consolidation of the monarchical episcopate took place concurrently with the church’s struggle against Montanism’s emphasis on prophetic authority. Bishops needed to muster a united front against the “menace” of prophets. Episcopal opposition to the prophets’ authority was justified: “What would have happened if the prophets had triumphed? Anarchy, divisions, disintegration.” Montanism, in LaPiana’s view, “spurred the church to give a more regular form to its hierarchical organization, to strengthen its system of government by making more definite the authority and power of the bishops.”43 The monarchical episcopate, however, faced both internal and external opposition. Presbyters strongly resisted the institution. The struggle, as LaPiana sees it, was between a clerical oligarchy and a clerical monarchy, not between a Christian democracy and episcopal autocracy. Meetings of (mere) presbyters, however, proved unequal to handling strong differences of opinion within their ranks. One person in authority, the monarchical bishop, was needed.44 The monarchical episcopate, in LaPiana’s scheme, faced another challenge in the second century, Gnosticism; its final triumph was achieved in challenging “the attempt to treat Christianity in gnostic terms.” Here, it was not Montanist “anarchy of the Spirit” that threatened hierarchy, but rather the attempt to recast Christianity as an intellectual movement, a recasting foreign to its original orientation.45 LaPiana agreed with Buonaiuti: both Gnosticism and



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

201

­ roto-​­orthodox Apology attempted to translate the message of salvation into p “metaphysical terms,” into a “rational system.”46 How were churchmen to respond to the Gnostic threat? Bishops, LaPiana argues, resisted the challenge of “the new ­high-​­brow w ­ ould-​­be Christian who claimed for the possessors of Gnosis practically the same privilege of leadership that had been formerly advanced by those who claimed the possession of the charismata.” Lacking a developed theology to meet the Gnostics, Catholic officials could only have recited, ineffectually, the baptismal symbol of faith. (Note again LaPiana’s view that theology is a weak ally in such combats.) Hence they devised a different approach, tracing their authority back through a succession of bishops, “the divinely appointed agents for the transmission of tradition.” LaPiana cites Irenaeus’ discussion of episcopal succession, adding that the accuracy or inaccuracy of the episcopal lists he and others present is unimportant. Rather, the sheer fact that they identify true tradition with episcopal succession is the important point: bishops, aided by the Spirit, are the only authoritative teachers. LaPiana faults historians for underestimating the importance of this identification of tradition with episcopal office and its “personification in the bishop.” Although Catholic historians stress it, they envision it “as something inherent to the office by divine institution and not as an historical development.” Protestant historians, for their part, “mostly ignore it, attributing the rise in power of the episcopate to other circumstances.”47 Bishops thus became the “authorized interpreters of tradition.” The line of succession connected the local church back to the Apostles: “true Christianity was only where the bishop was.” Further, bishops, by isolating the ­so-​­called heretics and schismatics, condemned them to “sterility and death.”48 Yet LaPiana, perhaps inspired by Buonaiuti’s sympathetic treatment of Gnosticism, tells students that Gnostic theologians appear to be the first writers of Alexandrian Christianity.49 He stresses the benefits that Gnosticism brought: “The Church is indebted to Gnosticism for having initiated the Christian mind to theological speculation; it made the Church realize the need of a theology if Christianity was ever to conquer the world of culture and philosophy; and furthermore, it provided the starting point for such a speculation, it formulated the problems to be solved, the philosophical principles that had to be taken into consideration, and last but not least the philosophical terminology, the language that had to be used to cloak the Christian faith with the mantle of a theology.”50 Those less gifted bishops, who had no elaborated theology to offer and could only stumble through lines from the baptismal formula, were now pressed to develop a more intellectually robust statement of Christianity.

202

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

The Conciliar System Out of the failure of the monarchical episcopate, LaPiana continues, developed a new arrangement: authority would reside collectively with groups of bishops in deliberative councils. ­Fourth-​­century churchmen held that episcopal councils were divinely inspired, guided by the Holy ­Spirit—​­even while massive disagreement among bishops reigned. LaPiana comments wryly that in practice, the dissenting bishops “evidently did not have much faith in the assistance of the Holy Ghost to the benefit of their opponents.” The m ­ ajority—​­not necessarily the Holy S­ pirit—​­reigned, and this only with the assistance of political power. Even at the first ­so-​­called ecumenical council, Nicaea, the mechanisms of political power were evident: “The steam roller was applied and so successfully that all opposition was quashed,” LaPiana tells students.51 The Arianizing synods pitted bishops, including those of the most prominent sees, against each other, synod against synod.52 Dissenting bishops not only did not enforce conciliar rulings, they blatantly opposed them. Nicaea stands as c­ ase-​­­in-​­point of institutional failure.53 This arrangement, like that of the monarchical episcopate, needed to be replaced. Moreover, eastern and western bishops disagreed on how councils were to operate. While eastern bishops assumed that councils provided the occasion for lengthy theological debates, similar to philosophical discussions (advantageous for those trained in “dialectical skirmishes,” LaPiana adds), in the West, councils were imagined as “legislative and deliberative assemblies,” following a pattern set by the Roman Senate.54 No wonder bishops could not agree, given their different expectations. The Patriarchal System The conciliar system proving unsuccessful in achieving unity, LaPiana tells students, a new scheme, the patriarchal system, was devised: the church would be controlled by the bishops of the major patriarchal sees. To be sure, he adds, the seeds of a patriarchal system were sown early, although not at Christianity’s very beginning. Bishops of larger or more powerful churches soon thought that they had the right and indeed the obligation to proffer advice to other churches.55 In the second and third centuries, three great patriarchates (Rome, Alexandria, and Antioch) were recognized; in the fourth century, Constantinople and Jerusalem were added. Differences in language, however, began to divide, not unite, these sees. In the fifth century, the patriarchal “oligarchy” broke down, as Nestorians



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

203

and Monophysites siphoned off large numbers from allegiance to the patriarchates of Antioch and Alexandria, which now dropped to “­second-​­tier” status, leaving Rome and Constantinople as the major rivals.56 In LaPiana’s view, the Christological controversies brought down the patriarchal system, just as the Trinitarian controversies had brought down the conciliar system. Once again, his bias is clear: theology makes for trouble. The Papal System The disruptive role of ­mid-​­­fourth-​­century councils, LaPiana tells students, prompted the quest for a centralized authority to decide on doctrine, discipline, and organization: this desideratum would be filled by the Roman papacy. The ­post-​­Nicaea councils, erupting in massive disputes among Arians, ­Semi-​­Arians, and p ­ ro-​­Nicenes, showed the need for such. That these theological disputes took place mainly in the East contributed to Rome’s prominence as a court of appeal.57 The investment of power in one supreme bishopric, that of Rome, LaPiana claims, finally triumphed over both conciliar and patriarchal models. An important tool that the bishops of Rome freely (and early) adopted was claiming the right to judge various dissidents who challenged their authority. By eliminating the autonomy of these groups, Roman bishops “gradually destroyed the last survivals of the originally collegiate form of government” and affirmed their own supreme authority.58 As the Empire weakened in late antiquity, LaPiana tells students, East and West followed different paths. By the turn to the fifth century, the Eastern Empire “adapted the church to itself and there Christianity became the ­State-​ ­Church.” In the West, by contrast, the church took up and adapted the surviving remnants of a weakened Empire; “Christianity became the ­Church-​­State.”59 At the helm of this “­Church-​­State” would sit the bishop of Rome. I suspect that LaPiana was torn between his views of institutional necessity and the claims of the “associated life,” his vision of the true church.

The Development of the Roman Church LaPiana’s scholarship during his early years at Harvard centered on the development of the Roman church and its episcopate. As the above discussion suggests, he believed that all roads led to Rome and ultimately to the development of the

204

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Roman papacy. In 1922, he published in Italian two “books,” as he called them, on the topic.60 This work he presented to the American public in the Lowell Lectures of the same year. LaPiana titled these lectures “The Beginnings of the Latin Church in Rome.” The flyer advertising the series announces six lectures, covering topics from the beginnings of Roman Christianity to the struggle between the bishops of Rome and Carthage in the m ­ id-​­third century. All six, geared to a general audience, were delivered within three weeks of November 1922. His approach, he announces, will be historical, whose work of “demolition and reconstruction” brings both gains and losses to the Christian religion.61 A few years later, in two long articles in English (“The Roman Church at the End of the Second Century” and “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire”), LaPiana detailed the Roman Christian community and the development of its episcopate. “The Roman Church at the End of the Second Century” was published in the Harvard Theological Review in 1925; LaPiana had published in Italian the scholarship constituting the background of this essay in his two monographs of 1922 and an essay of 1925.62 In 1926, he was granted a leave to do research in Rome on the ancient Roman church.63 While in Italy he spent considerable time with Buonaiuti. The research he there undertook issued in “Foreign Groups,” published in the Harvard Theological Review in 1927.64 “Foreign Groups” and “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” which LaPiana sometimes refers to as “monographs,” established his position as America’s major scholar of early Christianity in its Roman context. He subsequently published little on early Christianity. Hundreds of pages on topics pertaining to early Christianity remain in his papers, including drafts of many lectures, but were never published. Given the jumbled mass of his papers, these two early essays, “Foreign Groups” and “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” constitute some of his few extant published works on early Christianity. Very soon, he turned his attention to problems of contemporary Italy, Mussolini’s relation to the Vatican, the history of Vatican concordats (probably spurred by the latter), and issues of education and ­church-​­state relations. Since LaPiana repeats much the same material in published articles, class lectures, and unidentified drafts of writings, I here combine these sources to present a comprehensive picture of his claims regarding the origins and development of the Roman church.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

205

The Beginnings of the Roman Church: Peter, Paul, and Bishops’ Lists In courses, public lectures, and research, LaPiana tracked the beginnings of Christianity in Rome. Paul’s letter to the Romans, he tells students, reveals that several Christian groups were already present in that city by 57 or 58 C.E.65 Who founded Rome’s Christian community remained a question: Christians from Jerusalem, or those from Antioch?66 Although Christians in Rome were first identified with the city’s prominent Jewish community, Gentile Christians are much in evidence by the time Paul wrote his letter to the Roman church.67 LaPiana debated the relative claims of Peter and of Paul to be founders of the Roman church. The tradition naming them as joint founders, he argues, was grafted onto an original narrative early in the second century. Uncontested were the beliefs that Peter died a martyr in Rome and that his remains were buried at the Vatican, as were those of Paul in the Via Ostiensis.68 Analyzing recent archeological and epigraphical evidence regarding their burial places, LaPiana argues against the tradition that their bodies were removed from their first burial places and reburied at a site “ad Catacumbas” on the Appian Way: their bodies, he concludes, were never moved from their original tombs.69 I Clement and Ignatius’ letter to the Romans link Peter and Paul, and Dionysius of Corinth, writing to Soter of Rome circa 170, credits them jointly as “planting the Church in Rome.” Connecting Peter and Paul, LaPiana tells students, echoes the pagan Roman tradition that joined Castor and Pollux as protectors of the city. Finally, Acts’ claim that Roman Jews were in Jerusalem at Pentecost (and who might have carried news regarding the Jesus movement back to Rome), plus the traditions linking Peter and Paul, were joined by a third claim, that Peter was the founder and first bishop of Rome.70 But was he? Yet again, LaPiana abandons Vatican orthodoxy. Modern scholars, he tells students, generally reject this Catholic tradition, which was hotly discussed after the Vatican Council’s declaration on papal infallibility in 1870. In a brief note published in 1921, LaPiana lists arguments pro and con for identifying Peter with the “Cephas” mentioned in Galatians; after 1870, he reports, most Catholic scholars accepted their identity, but conceded that the Galatians story showed that Peter enjoyed supreme authority among the earliest Christians.71 LaPiana doubts the evidence adduced to support the traditional claim of Peter as Rome’s first bishop, namely, Irenaeus’ list of Roman bishops (Peter, Linus, Clement, and onward), and his claim that Peter and Paul together founded the Roman church; plus Eusebius’ citation (H.E. IV.22.3) of

206

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Hegesippus’ (now lost) account of his trip to Rome, in which he listed Rome’s bishops.72 Standing against the traditional theory is the fact that I Clement, dating from the last years of the first century, does not mention a bishop of Rome; the letter is from the Christian community at Rome to that at Corinth. Throughout, the terms “bishop” and “presbyter” are used interchangeably. At the time of I Clement, LaPiana believes, the Roman church was ruled by a college of presbyters, one of whom was designated “chairman,” considered only primus inter pares. Neither Rome nor Corinth then appears to have had a monarchical bishopric. Similarly, Ignatius’ letter to Rome, dating around 110, is sent to the whole Roman community, not to a bishop. If there was a bishop, Ignatius has “ignored him completely.”73 LaPiana adduces a third piece of evidence: the Shepherd of Hermas, dating to the ­mid-​­second century. Hermas, too, is silent regarding any Roman “bishop”; he uses the plural when writing of the rulers of the Roman church, whom he styles “presbyters.” Thus LaPiana concludes that only a “collegiate episcopate” ruled the Roman church in the ­mid-​­second ­century—​­that is, a governing body of presbyters, with one of them standing as chairman. To be sure, LaPiana admits, this is an argument from silence and historians deem such arguments weak; in this case, however, the evidence from other sources supports the view that there was no early “papacy.” While the bishopric of Victor in the late second century marks an important stage in the development of the monarchical episcopate, only in the early third century, during the reign of Callistus, was that institution decisively established.74 Modern apologists for traditional Catholic claims about the beginning of the papacy seized upon references in early Christian texts praising the Roman church, and from these, argued for the glory and power of its bishopric from Christianity’s earliest days in that city. I Clement, for example, was mined to claim Rome’s superiority even by the end of the first century. This claim, LaPiana notes, had been proposed by two theology students at Fulda in 1780, who argued that Corinthian Christians’ appeal to Rome in this case rather than to the apostle John in Asia Minor (who would have been a closer and more authoritative adviser) signaled Rome’s superiority. Their argument was taken up for apologetic purposes only after the 1870 declaration on papal infallibility. Against this view, he cites Catholic and Protestant scholars (Duchesne, Harnack) and an (unidentified) essay in the Revue d’histoire ecclésiastique. Arguments against the assumption of Rome’s early primacy include the communal origins of I Clement; the language of that letter (one of “exhortation and fraternal admonition,” not of authority); and the probably wrong identifica-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

207

tion of the “John” in Asia Minor (not likely the Evangelist, who in any case, according to Eusebius, was exiled on Patmos). Moreover, there is no evidence that the Corinthians obeyed the recommendations of the Roman l­etter-​ ­writers.75 No monarchical episcopate, LaPiana concludes, existed at the time of I Clement. The larger conclusion: Peter was not the first bishop of Rome. When, then, did the monarchical episcopate arrive in Rome? Working backwards from the Muratorian Canon and from Hermas’ ignorance of a monarchical episcopate, LaPiana on one occasion hypothesizes that the first such bishop may have been Anicetus, about 160; his prominence can be inferred from his initiative regarding the dating of Easter and his meeting with Polycarp.76 Until that time, LaPiana argues, the bishop of Rome was merely a presiding presbyter who had no special authority above that of Rome’s other presbyters. On other occasions, however, LaPiana concluded that only with Callistus in the early third century was that institution decisively established in Rome.77 The controversy over the dating of Easter provided a decisive moment in the institution’s emergence.78 On this point, LaPiana will have much to say. Should we consider the bishops’ lists in these various ­documents—​ ­especially Hegesippus’—​­forgeries? Hegesippus, LaPiana proposes, in assuming that Rome had a monarchical episcopate, was perhaps influenced by the latter’s establishment in the eastern church. He and others may have (mistakenly) believed that the practice was the same in the West. How then to account for the names that Hegesippus cites? Perhaps Hegesippus wished to honor the memory of the several presbyters who, acting jointly, had been important leaders in decades past. This solution is also suggested by the dates Hegesippus assigns, which, LaPiana notes, are “all artificially arranged and have no historical basis.” Yet we need not charge Hegesippus with forgery: his list was “misleading only so far as it implied that the s­ o-​­called predecessors of Anicetus had possessed and exercised the power of a monarchical bishop.” The mistaken assumption of this easterner regarding a monarchical episcopate in Rome does not constitute actual “forgery.”79 LaPiana’s claims about the Roman bishopric show how far he had strayed from traditional Catholic teaching and how willingly he adopted arguments, even those made by Protestant scholars, if the evidence convinced him.

208

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

An Immigrant Church in Cosmopolitan Rome First Investigations of the Roman Church

In his Lowell Lectures of 1922, LaPiana presents in popular style points he would soon develop in his essays “The Roman Church at the End of the Second Century” and “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire.”80 Foreigners in Rome, Christians included, brought their distinctive practices with them, organizing in collegia to promote their particular forms of worship as well as to provide protective services and burial assistance.81 (Immigrants to Rome, LaPiana later reflected, found their counterpart in immigrants to America, who “have preserved their religious institutions and imported their priests.”)82 Both Paul’s letters and texts pertaining to Justin Martyr bear witness to the diverse composition of Rome’s Christian community, whose varying practices were clearly revealed in the controversy over the dating of Easter. Diverging doctrines and practices that originated in Antioch, Alexandria, and elsewhere all met in Rome, a city that offered a “unique opportunity” for propagating one’s cause. The Roman bishop usually won these struggles, LaPiana adds, advancing the notion that his decisions had “universal value.”83 LaPiana details how Rome’s bishops adjusted Christianity’s demands to fit the situation of the church in the “­post-​­heroic” age. If the church aimed to be a universal organization, it needed to relax its rigid (“Puritan”) moral standards: “The church,” he ventures, “suffered much more from overzealous moralists than from heretics or from the persecutions of the Roman government.” To fashion that universal organization, bishops of Rome rightly opposed “the claims of some Christian idealists and dreamers, entirely absorbed in their vision of a church of angels in human flesh.” If the program favored by ­Tertullian—​­one such “Christian ­idealist”—​­had been adopted, LaPiana posits, the church would have shrunk to “a small association of ascetic men living in complete aloofness from the surrounding world, not affected by it, but at the same time incapable of exercising any influence upon it. It would have been the death sentence for the church and the end of her conquering mission.”84 LaPiana does not dispute evidence that the Roman church held a special position, but only the reason for its preeminence. He explicitly rejects the religious reasons (such as divine ordination) that some Catholic scholars allege and opts rather for Rome’s cosmopolitan character as the imperial center.85 LaPiana, in using the word “cosmopolitan,” points explicitly to the gathering of peoples from diverse corners of the known world in that city. “Cosmopolitan,” applied to early Roman Christianity, carries the association of “immigrant.”



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

209

“Foreign Groups in Rome”

LaPiana’s ­220-​­page essay “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire” was published in the Harvard Theological Review of 1927. It is tempting to link the inspiration for this essay with LaPiana’s work in Milwaukee when he first arrived in America: the city government commissioned him to survey Milwaukee’s Italian community, many of them immigrants.86 In “Foreign Groups,” LaPiana cites parallels between newcomers to Rome with immigrants (especially Italian) to America in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.87 He stresses that in America, the “foreign element” is never or completely absorbed by the “native stock,” but, through its contributions, changes the “native” environment. Something analogous occurred in ancient ­Rome—​­although LaPiana admits the difficulty of studying such problems in antiquity, for which only scanty evidence exists and in which commercial and industrial conditions differed dramatically from those of modernity. Still, parallels can be drawn. For example, in both cases, groups settle in their own sections of a large city, where at first they keep to their distinctive language and customs, but eventually become more assimilated.88 “Foreign Groups in Rome,” coming from a professor of Christian history, surprises in several ways. For one, only the last few pages of the essay treat early ­Christianity—​­yet the first sections of the essay are presented so that, by its end, Christianity emerges “naturally” as one of those “foreign groups.” LaPiana aims to provide the historical background for understanding “the true character of the Roman Christian community of the first centuries, as a community formed by immigrant groups and representing all races and traditions.”89 He treats Christian groups no differently than he does the collegia and religious cults with which he extensively deals in the opening sections of the essay. Thus, Christianity’s arrival in Rome and its early development is placed squarely in the ­Greco-​­Roman context that he elsewhere insists is the proper way to study the subject. LaPiana’s deep reading in the ­French-​­, ­German-​­, ­Italian-​­, and ­English-​­language scholarship of the day informs his discussion of such topics as the geography of the city of Rome and the settling of various groups in different quarters; the Roman emperors’ differing religious policies; the archeology of Rome and its surroundings; Rome’s food supply, funerary practices, slavery, economics (Rostovtzeff’s Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire receives frequent mention); and the multitude of cultic, professional, and funerary associations that flourished in imperial times.90 Literary, archeological, and epigraphic sources are handled with an ease that sets LaPiana’s

210

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

work apart from that of other professors of early Christianity in America of his era. He shows his own “cosmopolitanism” as a scholar. A second notable feature of “Foreign Groups in Rome” lies in LaPiana’s attention to group organization and cohesion. While he explicitly mentions the phrase “associated life” only once, he argues that various cults and the mystery religions ultimately failed and Christianity succeeded because Christianity in Rome, unlike these other groups, possessed a tightly knit, hierarchically governed organization.91 As much as it resembled the mystery religions in its quest for salvation, only Christianity became a church. If it had focused simply on “individual salvation,” as those religions did, it would, like them, have died out.92 Roman Christianity, with its universalistic message and doctrinal and moral systems, was favored by its strong internal organization and hierarchy that enabled it “to face conflicts and overcome ­obstacles”—​­indeed, obstacles it soon would face in the form of persecution by Roman authorities.93 Moreover, Rome’s strong ecclesiastical organization enabled the merging of two disparate strands of Christianity: a practical religion of salvation that could appeal to the lower classes, and a “religion of thinkers” that might win the more educated.94 Although LaPiana usually claims theology as a divisive factor in ancient Christianity, he recognizes that if it was to appeal to the educated classes, it needed some intellectual coherence. In “Foreign Groups,” LaPiana emphasizes the necessity of ­give-​­­and-​­take, of mutual interaction, between the city with its governing authorities and the practitioners of various religious groups in residence. He proposes further reasons why the cults did not ultimately succeed, while Christianity flourished. These cults, he argues first, became only partially “Romanized”;95 they largely failed to identify with the cause of the Empire, necessary for any religion to be considered “Roman.” Moreover, in the mix of urban syncretism, such cults lost one of their important original functions, namely, guarding the national political organization of their regions of origin. In Rome, all that was left for them to do was (merely) to safeguard a liturgical tradition.96 Christianity alone, in the fourth century, became a truly Roman religion, identifying with the Empire’s cause. To its advantage, it also conveyed a universal, not a limiting national or ethnic, message, along with doctrine, a moral system, and strong internal organization.97 Among religious groups in Rome, Judaism presents a special case. Here, LaPiana acknowledges his debt to his Harvard colleague George Foot Moore’s ­two-​­volume Judaism in the First Centuries of the Christian Era: The Age of the Tannaim (1927). Jews possessed in a high degree the three characteristics that



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

211

LaPiana singles out as distinguishing foreign groups in Rome: “their concentration in special districts, their religious associations, and their relations with the land of origin.” Judaism, however, so strongly tied to a national politics, could not be absorbed by Rome. Christianity, on the other hand, taking some spiritual elements from Judaism (albeit ones also in harmony with “the religions of salvation and immortality”) compromised with “the spirit of H ­ ellenistic-​­Roman religious and political thought.” Thus, unlike Judaism, “Christianity found in Roman institutions the fit instruments for its new task as a church universal.”98 Christianity’s willingness to compromise, its development of a “Roman system,” enabled it to triumph and to assume its strategic importance for Christianity’s westward advance. LaPiana concludes his essay with the claim “Christian Rome inherited her cosmopolitanism as a precious legacy from the Roman empire.”99 Once again, compromise was key. Roman Bishops of the Second and Third Centuries Bishop Victor

Of immigrant groups in Rome, LaPiana singles out North Africans, focusing especially on Victor, bishop in the last decade of the second century. In his Lowell Lectures of 1922 and in his article “The Roman Church at the End of the Second Century” of 1925, LaPiana praises Victor as a practical leader who aimed to unify the Roman church.100 Victor, he argues, was decisive in setting the church in R ­ ome—​­“the great laboratory of Christian and ecclesiastical p­ olicy”—​ ­on the road to “Latinizing” itself and “Romanizing” the West. Under Victor’s rule, Latin came into use as the language of the Roman church, replacing Greek. Moreover, Victor established a hierarchy capable of disciplining dissidents and made it the prime center for Latin Christianity. Out of ­second-​­century Rome’s confusing welter of competing Christian groups, some “heretical” or schismatic, Victor forged a catholic church that possessed “unity of essential belief and even a certain degree of uniformity in its organization and practice.”101 LaPiana emphasizes the measures Victor took that won him popular ­support—​­for example, his acquisition of land on the Appian Way for use as a Christian cemetery (later known as the Callistus catacombs). A common concern of ­non-​­elites, whether Christian or devotees of other groups, centered on funeral expenses and burial places for themselves and their loved ones. Victor’s acquisition of land for a Christian cemetery that could ensure a final resting place was an act bound to win the hearts of many. Victor was the first bishop of Rome to develop a cemetery system for Christians.102

212

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

In the first two centuries of Christianity, LaPiana explains, easterners, mostly ­Greek-​­speaking, had formed the core of the Roman church. From their churches in Syria, Asia Minor, and Egypt, they brought their practices and traditions to Rome. The question: was Roman Christianity to remain a sprawling conglomerate of these diverse sects, teachings, and liturgical practices, or become “a compact body of believers governed by the strict law of doctrinal unity and of practical uniformity”?103 By the turn to the third century, an impressive unity was in e­ vidence—​­a unity won not through theological speculation but by disciplinary measures that increased the hierarchy’s power. Again LaPiana claims that theology fails to produce unity. He notes features of this surge in the Roman see’s importance: the monarchical episcopate was firmly established; the church had assumed its right to impose its views and practices on other churches; it possessed its own cemeteries and meeting places; it had become a L ­ atin-​­(not G ­ reek-​­) 104 speaking church. It was Bishop Victor who set the Roman church on this course.105 “It is thus no exaggeration,” LaPiana writes, “to say that the episcopate of Victor marks a ­turning-​­point in the history of the Church of Rome.” Against traditional Catholic belief, LaPiana emphasizes that the authority of the Roman church and its bishop developed gradually over time: it was not “given” at Christianity’s beginning. (LaPiana faults Catholic scholars, who despite their learning, eagerly read back into the third century views on the Roman primacy that in fact were quite recent in Catholic history.)106 In developing this organization, “unity and uniformity,” not theology, was key. The “­well-​­balanced” spirit of the Roman Christian community, LaPiana argues, “checked the disintegrating individualism and the unbridled intellectualism of hellenistic ­Christianity”—​­but also checked “the spiritual provincialism of the Africans.”107 LaPiana credits Victor with tamping down the divisive intellectualizing tendencies of emergent Christian theology.108 A famous disciplinary case in which the Roman bishop accrued more power concerned the dispute over the dating of Easter. LaPiana cites a report preserved in Eusebius’ Church History: Bishop Anicetus of Rome (154–166/167) tried to curb the divergent practices regarding Easter celebration of the city’s Asiatic ­group—​­a group living in Rome, not constituted by mere ­visitors109—​ ­but abandoned the attempt when Polycarp of Smyrna intervened: neither Polycarp nor Anicetus could convince the other of the rightness of his group’s practice.110 ­Thirty-​­some years later, Bishop Victor refused to acquiesce in this ­live-​­­and-​ ­­let-​­live arrangement. When he refused to accommodate the Asiatics’ Quarto­



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

213

deciman position (that Easter should be celebrated on the fourteenth of Nissan), they broke away, appointing their own bishop.111 The monarchical episcopate, LaPiana claims, could not be established in Rome while groups like this flourished.112 Victor acted in a decisive and novel way: he dismissed Christians of that persuasion from his communion.113 For Victor, unification entailed “eliminating” the authority of the dissident “Asiatics” who opposed him in the Easter Controversy. Victor also, somewhat belatedly, moved against Montanists: although he was initially receptive to Montanism’s emphasis on spiritual gifts, Praxeas alerted him to its dangers.114 Dissidents of several kinds were Victor’s targets. Here, unity would be achieved by exclusion, if necessary. LaPiana draws out the larger implications of Victor’s action in the Easter Controversy: “tradition was not to be a millstone around the neck of a living institution.” Tradition carried only “relative validity,” to be modified and reinterpreted by the “controlling power” as new circumstances demanded. In these years, he claims, were laid out not only an orderly internal organization for the Roman Christian community, but also “the foundations for a new system of hierarchical government for the whole church.” He concludes: “It was through organization that Christianity saved the doctrinal tradition by creating in time a definite system of relations among churches, which made it possible to achieve and to maintain for a long time a striking fundamental unity.”115 Callistus and Hippolytus

In his Lowell Lectures on the early Latin church, LaPiana makes much of the controversies over moral and theological issues that raged among and between Callistus (a former slave), Hippolytus, and other Roman churchmen in the early third century. While Hippolytus, according to LaPiana, manifested “the rigid traditionalism which has always been the characteristic of eastern Christianity,” Callistus exhibited “the flexibility of the Latin genius.”116 It is not hard to guess which man LaPiana would back. This era, LaPiana explains, was plagued by theological conflicts over the relation between God the Father and Christ, the Son of God: different t­ heories—​ ­modalism, adoptionism, Logos ­Christology—​­found their respective advocates among Roman Christians. LaPiana infers that Hippolytus represented the ­Greek-​­speaking Christian groups in Rome (along with “heretics”), who had a higher standard of culture than obtained among the simple. In his Philosophumena, a text discovered only in the ­mid-​­nineteenth century, Hippolytus attempted to vindicate his claim to the Roman bishopric, while denigrating and

214

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

anathematizing Callistus. More evidence of Hippolytus’ intellectual pursuits is found on a statue of him, seated on a chair on which is engraved a list of his writings. Hippolytus’ theological output, in LaPiana’s view, suggests the “scholarly and aristocratic tendencies” of his circle. Hippolytus, however, “forgot that Christianity was not after all only a system of theology but was primarily, for the common mind, a practical religion offering salvation through sacraments and through faith, which was the more active and unshaken the more it was founded not on reason but on sentiment and love.”117 Consigned to oblivion soon after his death, Hippolytus, in LaPiana’s view, was “the last representative of Hellenistic Christianity in Rome.”118 It was this element that ­Latin-​­speaking bishops from Victor onward had sought to contain. By contrast, Callistus, the former slave, was exactly the man the popular party of the Roman Christian community needed. He excommunicated Sabellian modalists as well as Hippolytus, whose Logos theory (in LaPiana’s view) led “straight to subordinationism.” Relaxing the penitential discipline that had excluded former murderers, adulterers, and heretics from the church, Callistus welcomed them back if they were repentant and submitted to discipline. Moreover, Callistus won the favor of aristocratic women by decreeing that their marriages to plebeians (legally forbidden) and even to slaves would be recognized by the church.119 “Puritans” within the church were offended by these measures, as well as by Callistus’ decree that sinful bishops should not be deposed. Callistus acted on a principle that LaPiana approves: “the Church is for men and not men for the Church.”120 LaPiana claims that Callistus assessed the times correctly: the era of the “heroic moral standard” was over; Christianity could not conquer the world with a stern program of compulsory asceticism. The church, after all, was composed of more than “the saints.” LaPiana praises Callistus, “a bishop who instead of giving his time and his strength to endless theological quarrels, was the interpreter of the practical needs and aspirations of the great crowd of humble folks and slaves that composed the church of Rome.” The new elements in the Roman church, at first North Africans and then Romanized outsiders, had triumphed. The latter, keeping but Latinizing eastern belief and practice, “created that great organization destined to survive all political and social revolutions of so many centuries: the Latin Church of Rome.”121



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

215

Rome and Carthage: Debates over Rigor and Laxity

LaPiana frequently emphasized the early, and strong, link between the North African church, centered in Carthage, and Rome. In the third century, however, fissures developed in that bond, as the homogeneity and “provincialism” of the African church confronted the “cosmopolitanism” of Rome’s. The ­mid-​­­third-​­century persecutions and their aftermath occasioned more fissures. Signs of disagreement became evident when Bishop Cyprian of Carthage abandoned his episcopal see during the Decian persecution. His retreat shocked the Roman clergy, among whom were many Africans by birth: was Cyprian simply a coward?122 Episcopal behavior was once more under scrutiny. LaPiana acknowledges the many questions that arose regarding Christians’ varied responses to the persecutions. How should the church treat the “lapsed,” who, ­post-​­persecution, wished to be welcomed back into the fold? Did “confessors” who had suffered (but were not technically “martyrs”) have the power to absolve the “lapsed”? Cyprian, away from his episcopal see, denied that they did: he counseled the Carthage congregation to wait for his return at persecution’s end for a decision. Informing the Roman presbyters of his plan, Cyprian took the occasion to elaborate his views of episcopal authority: the church is founded (collectively) on its bishops. Jesus’ words to Peter, “Thou art Peter and on this rock I found my Church” (Matt. 16:18), applied to all bishops. Later, Cyprian argued that Christ gave equal powers to forgive sins to all his Apostles when he sent them on their mission.123 Struggles over laxity and rigor also played out in m ­ id-​­century Rome: some clergy, refusing to accept Cornelius as duly elected bishop, proposed the rigorist presbyter Novatian instead. Novatian’s followers believed that Cornelius (and Cyprian in Carthage) had been too lax in welcoming the “lapsed” back into fellowship.124 Another debate between Carthage and Rome arose over Cyprian’s view that clergy must exhibit absolute purity of life and doctrine for the sacraments they administer to be effective: since heretics and schismatics do not possess grace or the Spirit, they cannot give it to others. Baptism by a heretical clergyman is thus “no baptism.” The Roman church, by contrast, led by Bishop Stephen, distinguished the clergy’s personal worthiness from the validity of the sacraments: if baptism had been administered in the right manner, even by a heretic, it was valid and should not be repeated. Cyprian and the African bishops urged Stephen of Rome (to no avail) to adopt the African practice.125 LaPiana interjects his n ­ ow-​­familiar view: the lofty conception of the pure, ­spirit-​­filled ministry was “impracticable since the Church was no longer the

216

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

exclusive society of the saints. . . . ​If the validity of the sacraments was dependent on the personal character of the minister, no one could ever be sure of having truly received a sacrament.” For the church to be conceived as “a real external association of men with a social character,” the validity of the sacraments must depend upon “liturgical values . . . ​with no consideration of the personal worthiness or unworthiness of the minister.” Thus, Rome would not ­re-​­baptize those who were baptized in heresy. The church, like Noah’s ark, allowed both the clean and the unclean to enter.126 Although Cyprian had argued that the unity of the church lay with its bishops collectively, this debate, LaPiana notes, showed that even bishops meeting collectively could not agree on such vital points as the validity of baptism. Given this impasse, Rome might well counter that unity could be guaranteed only through the supreme power of the bishop of Rome. LaPiana concludes, “The doctrine of monarchical episcopacy contained implicitly the doctrine of the papacy.” From the time of Victor onward, the Roman view had been developing: “The Church is the hierarchy and the hierarchy is Peter.” How valuable was that text, “Thou art Peter,” LaPiana exclaims!127 The Roman Church in the Fourth Century and Beyond When Christianity entered a new relation with the Roman government in the fourth century and beyond, LaPiana claims, differences between East and West were exacerbated. The East was split, Alexandria, Antioch, and Constantinople representing what he calls three different “racial backgrounds.” The greater unity of the western church was “an important factor in saving its autonomy against the encroachments of political power.” As imperial leadership weakened in the fifth century, the church became stronger. Even Easterners recognized the See of Peter as dominant among western powers. The faltering of the western Empire was in some ways advantageous for the church: if it had lasted, emperors would have imposed the same control on the popes and the entire church as obtained in the East. The breakdown “secured to the western church and especially to the Papacy an escape from Caesaropapism and all its consequences.”128 By the end of the fifth century, the western church was strong enough to deny any authority to the civil power in matters of faith and ecclesiastical ­discipline—​­yet it expected the state to support its requests. Pope Gelasius’ elaboration of the doctrine of the two powers, that of kings and that of popes, reinforced this view. The church sought freedom from state interference, but wished the imperial government to be “ready at its beck and call,” lending its



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

217

political, judicial, and military assistance. LaPiana warns that the principle of religious intolerance was implicit in the church’s claim.129 Theological disputes also played a role in fostering a strong Roman bishopric in the fourth century and beyond. Canons of early church councils stating that cases between bishops should be decided in episcopal synods of the same province clearly could not hold ­post-​­Nicaea, LaPiana claims, since both disputes and synods were interprovincial.130 When councils of an Arianizing nature pit bishops against bishops, the need for a centralized authority seemed clear. The fact that the major theological disputes of this era took place mainly in the East was a factor that contributed to Rome’s prominence as a court of appeal. The bishop of Rome, with the solid support of the West, was the only bishop whose authority was sufficiently high to assume an independent stance ­toward eastern emperors.131 Thus, somewhat ironically, the disputes that so exercised the East contributed in LaPiana’s rendition to the rise of a stronger western ecclesiastical power.

Christianity and the Roman Government LaPiana’s discussion of Christianity and the Roman government in the first four centuries C.E. appears colored by his own, and his fellow Modernists’, experience of suppression and persecution. Similarly, his experience of the rise of Mussolini’s regime, with its damage to Italians’ religious, educational, and cultural freedom, marked his discussion of the “persecuting emperors.” Christians in Disfavor Discussing the early persecutions, LaPiana traces familiar ground. He sees, as do recent scholars, the period of peace in the late third century as decisive for Christianity’s spread. He summarizes various reasons scholars have alleged for Christianity’s disfavor and debates about its legal status.132 Yet, LaPiana objects, merely listing the procedures available to Roman magistrates for action against Christians does not explain the fundamental reason why Christianity was considered unlawful: namely, that Christians refused to accept the official Roman cults, and this as a matter of “universal principle.” This refusal differed from that of Jews, whose refusal (and exemption) stemmed from their “national religious tradition.” The cult of the emperors, in LaPiana’s view, “provoked the storm.”133

218

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Among other, less central, reasons for the persecutions, LaPiana cites Roman pagans’ low estimate of Christianity as a new, fanatical superstition. Class distinctions were a factor: to ­upper-​­class pagans, Christianity seemed “an element of disintegration,” spurred by the religious fanaticism of the lower classes. Tacitus and Suetonius, for example, both considered Christianity a superstition attracting society’s dregs. The Gospels, Paul’s letters, the Shepherd of Hermas, even Justin’s Apologies, LaPiana admits, “made very poor reading” for men accustomed to the literary treasures of Greece and Rome. He compares uneducated early Christians with American Protestant fundamentalists of his day. The cultured Roman, he tells students, felt the same revulsion for Christianity as the man of science today feels ­toward “the preachers of Zion city who still insist that the earth is flat” and that the sun revolves around a motionless earth. Only with time did Christianity develop a rational system and intellectual structure that could ward off such allegations.134 In addition, LaPiana continues, given Christians’ aloofness from society, public office, and entertainments, it is not surprising that they were viewed with an antipathy similar to that with which the old European monarchies looked upon Socialists, Communists, and Bolsheviks. Christianity, he tells students, appeared to Roman society as Communism does today to capitalists. To Roman emperors, Christianity seemed (“and in reality it was”) “a disintegrating element of the existing political and social order of the Roman Empire.” From this point of view, “the persecution against the Christians was no less justified than the persecution against communists and anarchists by which capitalist society and even democratic state[s] try to protect themselves against the disintegrating forces of these movements.”135 The Great Persecution Notably, LaPiana compares the ­fourth-​­century emperors who promoted the Great Persecution, Galerius and Diocletian, to t­wentieth-​­century totalitarian leaders Benito Mussolini and Adolf Hitler. These Roman emperors believed that Christianity’s “disintegrating” force was “undermining the whole political organism, poisoning the social life, wrecking the economic order.” Here, as elsewhere, LaPiana shows his knack for imagining the situation from the opponents’ point of view. Just at the moment, he claims, when “unity, order, discipline, sacrifices were necessary to resist the input of n ­ on-​­civilized peoples at the frontier, Christianity caused divisions, quarrels, challenged the constituted authority, refused the homage which was the symbol of political loyalty



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

219

and claimed the right to form so to speak a state within a state with its own code of ethics and its own cult.”136 Diocletian, who had left Christians in peace for the first twenty years of his reign, was less the culprit than Galerius. In other respects, Diocletian was among the ablest of Roman emperors, as shown in his reorganization of the Empire. With his reforms, however, the “last traces of the old republican institutions disappear,” replaced by the trappings of an oriental monarchy. Local autonomies were abolished and the administration was centralized with a huge bureaucracy.137 Diocletian’s reforms gave LaPiana an opportunity to declaim on late ancient economics. (He assigned students readings in Rostovtzeff’s Social and Economic History of the Roman Empire.) New laws tied workers to their professions and trades. Diocletian’s price edict fixed prices and wages. Trying to submit the whole economy of a country to government control, LaPiana comments, is not “a novelty of our times.” Small landowners gradually saw their property swallowed up by the immense latifundia of a few senatorial families. Slave labor, on which this new mode of agriculture was dependent, however, became more scarce. “The result was stagnation, pauperization of the rural districts, the emigration of large masses of rural people into the great urban centres and hence the disintegration of their economic life and unbalancing of the various factors that regulate production and consumption. Add to this, the unbearable burden of excessive and confiscating taxation for the support of the huge bureaucracy, of the great armies and of four imperial courts; add also the barbaric incursions and ravages along the boundary provinces.” Thus, LaPiana concludes, we can foresee the crisis that will shortly menace the very existence of the Roman Empire.138 LaPiana assigns primary blame for the Great Persecution to Galerius, who apparently imagined this measure would save the Empire. Students should take lightly explanations found in Christian sources that picture Galerius as a bloodthirsty tyrant who abandoned the persecutions and appealed to the Christian God for help only when “his body was being eaten alive by vermin.” “History is not so simple,” LaPiana remarks. The main reason for Galerius’ edict was political expediency. LaPiana describes him as “a man of energy and of undeniable ability” who felt called to halt “disintegration.” Likewise today, totalitarian governments institute purges to stop what they consider disintegrating forces.139 “History repeats itself.” When government authorities view minority groups as constituting “a menace of the existing political and social order,” they react sharply. Examples include the Supreme Court’s ruling against

220

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Jehovah’s Witnesses who refused to salute the American flag, and purges of Jews by totalitarian governments.140 In ancient times, as today, LaPiana avers, history shows that while violence can produce martyrs and impose suffering, “it cannot stop the course of those great waves of ideas and hopes which from time to time emerge out of the obscurity of human consciousness and human experience and compel to action and bring about for better or for worse radical changes in our political, social, and economic institutions.” Persecution of Christians as a tactic by Roman rulers ultimately proved futile. “Since violence had failed to eliminate this dangerous competitor of the state,” LaPiana writes, “there was nothing left for the state but to seek its friendship and alliance. To turn the enemy into an ally was the obvious device of political wisdom.”141 By the time the persecutions spent their force, there were many more Christians among whom Roman emperors might find such “friends” and “allies.” Inclusion rather than exclusion might now be a better policy. LaPiana details changes in imperial policy, from Galerius’ grudging recognition of Christianity in 311 to Theodosius’ pronouncement, around 380, that made Christianity the state religion of the Roman Empire and proscribed other religions. After Galerius took the first step, LaPiana asserts, the momentum could not be stopped: a logical process obtains in history, just as it does ­ ow-​­familiar theme: the comin nature.142 Throughout, LaPiana appeals to a n promises that attend success. Benefits Stemming from the Persecutions From the evils of the persecutions, LaPiana tells students, some beneficial results emerged. Earlier, when Christianity stood outside and against Roman law, it had enjoyed a “de facto autonomy.” Then, it was obliged “to build up its own organism so as to be ­self-​­sufficient, complete in itself, ­self-​­supporting.” Doing without state protection, even challenging state power, it survived the “repeated bloody attacks” and finally forced the state to change its policy. Resisting absorption into “the Roman p ­ olitical-​­religious syncretism,” Christianity held its own and eventually “triumphed over all the competitor religions and forced the state to grant recognition.”143 Early accustomed to fending for itself, the church developed practices that later served it well. A second benefit: the persecutions “kept alive the enthusiasm of the true believers, revived the Christian ideals in opposition to those of the world, made proselytes among those who were inspired by the courage and heroism



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

221

of the martyrs.”144 Christians extracted some strong apologetic t­ alking-​­points from the horrors of persecution. Ardor kept the movement going in times that seemed destined to crush it. Moreover, Christians’ response to the persecutions struck a blow for what later would be called “minority rights.” The consequence of the persecutions, LaPiana claimed, cautioned rulers not to interfere with individuals’ beliefs, and strengthened the conviction that the force of law has its limits. Creating this new psychology gave considerable force to the propaganda of the forbidden religion.145 The End of the Persecutions: Constantine and Beyond Throughout LaPiana’s narration of Constantine’s rise to power and his somewhat ambivalent embrace of Christianity, he stresses (again!) the theme of necessary compromise. He traces what he calls the “logic” unfolding in the successive edicts and decrees: a juggernaut effect. Practical considerations, LaPiana claims, spurred the proclamations of toleration. Although Eusebius’ Life of Constantine stresses miracle, LaPiana assures his students that political, social, and economic explanations are more satisfactory.146 Galerius’ edict of 311 (with “much ill grace”) stemmed from his conclusion that Christianity had “gained too much ground and was too solidly rooted to be eradicated.” Granting recognition seemed the politically preferable option. That first step ­toward toleration taken, it was impossible to stop.147 The s­ o-​­called Edict of Milan, issued by Constantine and Licinius in 313, differing in content and spirit from Galerius’, placed Christianity among the protected religions, but gave no extra privileges. Soon, however, Christianity was granted special protection, and by the late fourth century, laws were enacted that aimed to “destroy” other religions. “The Imperial Christian Church,” LaPiana tells students, was born.148 LaPiana sees Constantine’s conversion and sponsorship of Christianity as manifestations of Realpolitik and thus unsurprising. Constantine, he claims, had “good political reasons” to favor Christianity. Even opponents of Christianity deemed Diocletian’s persecution a “wholesale butchery.” Moreover, the persecution had failed to achieve its goal; in fact, Christianity had grown steadily.149 Unlike early Roman bishops who sought to achieve unity by policies of exclusion, Constantine based his policy on inclusion. Unity, however, did not necessarily imply uniformity, but “amalgams of diversity.”150 His “tolerant monotheism” accepted cults such as solar monotheism. The inscription on his

222

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Arch of Triumph in Rome (that Constantine was led “instinctu divinitatis mentis”)151 could accommodate a “monotheistic synthesis.” Indeed, to Constantine, divinitas earlier had signaled Apollo (the sun god), whose image he kept on his coinage well into his reign. Not a profession of Christianity, the phrase represents Constantine’s eclectic monotheism and “conviction that he was himself the beloved instrument of the heavenly power that ruled the world.” The same themes appear in the s­ o-​­called Edict of Milan. By the time Constantine built his new capital, Constantinople, however, he ascribed to stronger Christian b­ eliefs—​­despite being baptized only on his deathbed.152 Still, Constantine remained the Pontifex Maximus of the official cult.153 In LaPiana’s view, Constantine was interested in religious controversies only from a political p ­ erspective—​­namely, that they disturbed the peace. From his time onward, emperors treated the church as subordinate to the interest of the state.154 Thus began the process of the “imperialization of the church and the christianization of the empire,” reaching its ­fourth-​­century apex under Theodosius I.155 LaPiana adds a caution. While minority groups often appeal to the principle of tolerance (albeit only for themselves), when they become the majority, they forget about universal tolerance and claim that they, uniquely, embody truth: “Christianity was no exception.”156 From the reign of Theodosius onward, he claims, the fruit of c­ hurch-​­state alliance was s­ tate-​­supported religious intolerance, early manifested in the execution of ­Priscillianists—​­and intolerance became “a dominant principle in the Church policy.”157 A second caution: religion, LaPiana advises, should be wary of appealing to secular governments for special favors. (He likely has in mind the havoc ensuing from the Vatican’s alliance with Mussolini.) Reflecting on f­ourth-​ ­century Christians’ appeals to the state, he comments: “A political protection has always elements of danger for an institution of a religious character. There is no unselfishness in politics. Politics have always been realistic: by necessity must be so, in spite of all the dreams of pacifists and idealists. Political protection is not given for nothing; ‘give and take’ is its law. It is a bargain: who receives is expected to give.” Once Christianity accepted political protection, it was forced to tread lightly not to contravene the interests of the state, even bestowing on it a religious sanction. The church, LaPiana tells students, now found it harder to resist “the friendly solicitude of the protective political authority than it had been to resist its persecution.” There followed a long history of compromise, “so wide and deep as to alter the original nature and character of the institution itself.” Christianity abandoned its role “as a leaven to create



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

223

a new order,” modifying its teaching and practices to fit the framework of Roman institutions, traditions, and culture. Despite regret at the loss of spiritual and moral ideals, LaPiana claims that this loss was necessary if Christianity was to appeal to more than a few ardent devotees. Adaptation, LaPiana reminds students, always means compromise with a religion’s ideals.158 LaPiana’s protest at Vatican complicity in European politics, I suggest, colors his view on what the church gives up when it accepts protection from the state. Again, Realpolitik wins.

Asceticism Asceticism in Early Christianity Compromise, we have seen, is a recurring theme in LaPiana’s discussion of early Christianity: necessary for any organization, including the church, but carrying with it the loss of high ideals and rigorous standards. Another area in which LaPiana sided with the more accommodating rather than with “Puritans” concerned ascetic renunciation and clerical celibacy. This topic touched close to home. Having taken priestly vows in his youth, he later had no good words for mandatory clerical celibacy. In his “Memoirs,” he noted that during the year he spent in Geneva he went “incognito,” not acknowledging his priestly status, and that he had broken his priestly vows. He also confessed that he deeply regretted some of the decisions he had made.159 Committing himself to clerical celibacy seems to have been one of them. Unlike some ­nineteenth-​­century Protestant professors, LaPiana did not try to minimize or “explain away” injunctions to ascetic renunciation in early Christianity. The sharp distinction between material and immaterial realms in Christianity, he tells students, contributed to strong ascetic currents, which reached “the absurd.”160 When the Kingdom’s arrival was “postponed” (as he puts it) and the needs of practical life weighed in, Christianity lowered its standards to appeal to the common man. On the side of rigor, by contrast, ascetic and monastic currents stood as a protest against relaxed standards.161 This “individualistic ­solution”—​­ascetic ­renunciation—​­was in LaPiana’s view “not strictly consistent with the real spirit of early Christianity which intended to permeate . . . ​the whole associated life, and not merely the individual life.” The original ideals of pistis, metanoia, and chara were replaced by gnosis, askesis, and enkrateia. The exhortation to all Christians to seek holy perfection

224

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

faltered when Christianity became the favored religion of the Empire. Hence the “counsels of perfection”: one form of Christianity suited to the rank and file, the other, reserved for the select few. This compromise, LaPiana claims, grounds “the whole system of Christian ethics affecting the individual and the associated life.”162 LaPiana rejected the notion that Christian asceticism was the result of “foreign” influences, such as Buddhism or N ­ eo-​­Pythagorean philosophy: the development of ascetic currents in early Christianity can be explained from within. Asceticism within philosophical movements was understood as “a rational effort, an aristocratic psychical refinement,” for the few alone.163 To be sure, the ascetic impulse was found in several ancient Mediterranean religious groups, such as the “Essenians,” whose regulations seem similar to those of Christian monasticism.164 Teaching before the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, LaPiana anticipates later interest in comparing practices and beliefs of the Dead Sea community with Christianity’s. Reviewing biblical evidence for the esteem accorded sexual renunciation,165 LaPiana notes that the drive for renunciation was linked with the expectation of the imminent Parousia that begot “mystic fervor.”166 Given this expectation, LaPiana muses, why did not all followers abstain completely from sexual relations?167 Jesus’ counsels of detachment had “a social content and purpose” and did not command withdrawal from the world. While awaiting God’s instantiation of a new social order, his followers should practice the virtues he had taught and strive t­ oward the perfection that would be universal in the Kingdom: in this sense the Kingdom was here, among, and in them. But when the Kingdom was “postponed” and the needs of practical life loomed large, Christian leaders sought to accommodate “the weakness of human nature and the exigencies of associated life.”168 Again, compromise. Paul’s Asceticism In his various classes, LaPiana lectured on Paul’s views on asceticism and marriage. Paul’s recommendation of virginity in I Corinthians 7, he tells students, became “the cornerstone of Christian asceticism.”169 Passages from Paul’s epistles form “the Christian gospel concerning sex.” LaPiana faults Paul’s theory as “pessimistic”: human sexual life becomes a necessary evil that some few, assisted by grace, might avoid. Did Paul believe that “perfection is attainable only in acting against the laws of nature?” Paul’s “puritanical” views, however, were not motivated by the supposed “rampant sexual immorality of contem-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

225

porary society”: Augustus’ laws encouraging marriage and others aimed to repress the “licentiousness which menaced the disintegration of the Roman family” do not explain Paul’s disparagement of married life. Neither did Paul take his ideas from mainstream Judaism, for Jews believed that celibacy signaled “a corrupt and godless life.” LaPiana rather looks to Paul’s anthropology: human nature became “organically corrupt” with the first sin; humans no longer followed the laws of nature, but indulged their animal instincts. Paul’s radical dualism, a conflict between flesh and spirit, colored nascent Christianity. Why, LaPiana asks, were early Christians so “radically hostile to the natural sexual instinct as to exclude its presence in the life to come? What is there in the sexual act [that] makes it undesirable, inconsistent with the ideal of moral and spiritual perfection?” Paul’s view, LaPiana notes, starkly contrasts with the theory of humans’ evolution from inferior animals and the natural law of survival of the ­fittest—​­contrasting views that offer different interpretations of social problems and their solutions.170 He cites an example of how modern social views, inspired by science, differ from those of early Christianity: ancient Christians’ ­often-​­unsympathetic treatment of illegitimate children.171 Anthropologists and historians of religion, LaPiana tells students, have studied the long history of the tabus, superstitions, social traditions, and institutions surrounding the sexual instinct. Perhaps Paul shared the belief of primitive societies that defilement surrounds the sexual act and childbirth. LaPiana cites ancient writers who claim that depression follows the sex act and that a man should keep himself fit to meet the struggles of life by limiting sexual activity. (LaPiana’s reading notes include Havelock Ellis, Psychology of Sex, and the article on “Chastity” in Hastings’s Encyclopedia of Religious Ethics.) Yet no other ancient religion esteemed total abstinence and virginity as did Paul and the early Christians. To account for these views, LaPiana resorts to the ancient “dualistic conception” that also informs Zoroastrianism and Manicheanism.172 Given ancient Christian regard for asceticism, LaPiana finds it unsurprising that many Church Fathers either suspected or condemned second marriage, and that medieval theologians debated marriage’s sacramental status. Nevertheless, Christianity stopped short of the Gnostic and ­Neo-​­Platonic view “that the body was radically incapable of being included in the work of salvation.” Belief in the resurrection of the body stood against any radical rejection of sex within marriage.173

226

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

Patristic Evidence and Clerical Celibacy Paul’s views on virginity, LaPiana continues, were adopted by ancient Christians, who attest to groups of virgins present in their communities. Moreover, Christians’ celibacy and virginity provided good talking points for Apologists, who appeal to Christian virgins “as a living evidence of the divine character of Christianity, and as a reproach to the corruption of the heathen.”174 Although priestly celibacy was not required in the first three centuries, the fact that virgins had achieved it “could not fail to affect a priestly institution.” By committing to abstinence, church leaders set themselves above the rest of the community.175 LaPiana suspects that lay Christians’ ability to practice celibacy must have made married clergy uneasy.176 The topics of virginity and celibacy, LaPiana tells students, are complex and “most instructive”: “Human fragility is great, and the primitive ideal of Christian perfection which was suggested or at least strengthened by the belief in the imminent Parousia, became in the practice a great burden. Much more so when celibacy was imposed to the whole clergy as a necessary condition. A great part of the history of the Church and of its institution, all through the centuries, is but the history of a perpetual struggle between the ideal of perfection and the imperfect practice, between the Spirit and the flesh, between the Law and its insufficient enforcement.”177 Monasticism LaPiana acknowledged that most Protestant s­ tudents—​­such as his at Harvard Divinity ­School—​­entertain rather hazy ideas of monasticism, its aims and accomplishments.178 He aimed to fill in some blanks. Predictably, LaPiana favored those types of monasticism that fostered the “associated life” rather than those that promoted solitary renunciation: “individualistic solutions” stood in opposition to the original collective spirit of Christianity.179 Eremitic ascetics either criticized or regarded as nonessential the church’s institutional and sacramental life, and deemed the clergy and hierarchy as less spiritual than solitary ­wonder-​­workers. Fortunately, in LaPiana’s view, cenobitism soon displaced eremiticism.180 He praises Benedictine monks’ engagement in economically productive and culturally beneficial activities, and gives a bow to (eastern) Pachomian ­monks—​­“well organized, ­self-​­supporting, and practicing agricultural and industrial b­ usiness”—​­who shared this “western” trait.181 He contrasts what he considers the eastern monastic focus on vices to avoid rather than on



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

227

virtues to be cultivated with Francis de Sales’ vision of the ascetic life: do everything by love and nothing by violence.182 The church’s lowering of moral standards to accommodate the common man (who entertained “no pretense of heroism”) impelled s­ pirit-​­filled devotees to create a smaller fellowship that would enable “a pure life.”183 Once apocalyptic hopes faded and the church began “to compromise with the world,” monasteries became the institutional refuge for those imbued with “the ascetic spirit of renunciation and the mystical ideals.” The earlier “heroic standard” of holiness for all Christians was in the new class structure redesigned as “the special possession of the few who embraced monastic life.” Most important, monasticism allowed those “superior” Christians to remain within the institutional framework of the church: “Monasticism was a kind of safety valve in which the undying spirit of asceticism could find a realization without giving rise to revolutionary movements against the hierarchical organization of the Church and its discipline, adapted to the needs and capacities of the average man.”184 Being a mere “safety valve,” however, does not rank high on the scale of spiritual values. The church hierarchy found ways gradually to bring “antagonistic” ascetics into line. The effort to corral renunciants into acceptable ecclesiastical boundaries (by the Basilian Rule in the East and the Benedictine in the West) illustrates the church’s attempt to achieve and maintain the unity of the koinonia at all costs.185 Monks in Gaul, who were often appointed to the bishopric, exemplify the cooperation between ecclesiastical hierarchy and monks in that geographical region.186 LaPiana judges monastic orders by the degree to which they embody “the associated life.”

Augustine Approaches to Augustine To commemorate the 1,500th anniversary of Augustine’s death, LaPiana was invited to give a series of six lectures (“Christianity at the Beginning of the Fifth Century, and St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo”) for the Lowell Institute in January 1930. In his “Memoirs,” LaPiana recalls that he had proposed his Italian friend and mentor Ernesto Buonaiuti, “a first rate scholar,” as the lecturer. Buonaiuti’s poor spoken English, however, precluded the realization of this plan, and LaPiana stepped in. He claims that he intended to focus on how Augustine’s mentality was formed by his training in classical rhetoric.187 The

228

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

actual lectures go far beyond this topic, as typewritten copies in the Harvard Archives show. LaPiana, although well read in scholarship on Augustine, thought that he had little to add to it and hence did not publish these lectures. Yet he considered Augustine the best representative of the transition from an old pagan to a new Christian world. If Augustine lived in our day, LaPiana concedes, he would have “very little opportunity to make original contributions to theology and . . . ​because of the disorders of his youth, he would not have been entrusted with even a small bishopric.”188 The proliferation of theological writing since the fifth century would leave him little new to propose. Always ready to critique “theology,” LaPiana implies that modern theologians, of far lesser stature than Augustine, might have an even harder time making an original mark. As for the “disorders of his youth,” enough said. LaPiana’s first lecture sets the stage. He tells his audience that he will not indulge in the “­ultra-​­modern ­so-​­called intuitive method of biography writing,” for which he has no sympathy. Augustine’s works, he insists, should be studied in the order of their composition, since he changed his views as he confronted new circumstances and delved deeper into old problems; hence, contradictions abound. LaPiana reminds his audience that for Augustine’s last forty years, he lived not as a philosopher or a professor of theology, but as a churchman, a bishop. Only in his earlier years did he deal with philosophical problems, and even then he never put forward a philosophical system.189 Although LaPiana generally avoided psychological explanations, he occasionally resorts to them, as, for example, in claiming that the New Academy’s emphasis on “doubt and skepticism” harmonized well with Augustine’s psychological state at the age at which “youth begins to fade” and disillusionments set in.190 Again, one wonders if LaPiana here recalls his own faded hopes and dreams. Even in his own time, LaPiana reports, Augustine was variously assessed. While his biographer Possidius glowingly depicts him, his opponents saw him as “lost in a labyrinth of sophisms, metaphysics, and allegories”: “to the Manicheans he was a traitor; to the Donatists a thorn in the flesh; to the Pelagians a heretic who distorted revelation and disparaged human nature.” Both medieval Catholics and early Protestants appealed to his authority. Moderns, on the other hand, like to analyze Augustine from the viewpoint of religious psychology. On whether Augustine’s ­self-​­description in the Confessions is reliable, scholars disagree.191 As always, LaPiana is interested in “racial” characteristics, especially “Africanness.” Thus he describes Augustine as of “mixed race,” a blend of old Afri-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

229

can and newer Roman stock. LaPiana stereotypically characterizes the Latin Africans as impulsive, fickle, ambitious, aggressive, insincere, and of vivid imagination. Great talkers, they were bent t­oward sensual pleasures. North Africans of a more intellectual stripe, devoted to “the aesthetic forms of classical paganism,” despised Christianity as crude.192 Within the church of Augustine’s time, dissension was rife. LaPiana pokes fun at “pious preachers” who extoll the good old days when the church allegedly enjoyed peace and unity: there never was such a time. To the contrary, the history of Christianity is replete with endless controversy, schisms, and intolerance. Given the chaos of opinions, Christians of Augustine’s day might well ask ­where—​­if ­anywhere—​­was the one true church? Augustine’s ecclesiology, LaPiana will show, made an original contribution to Catholicism. The doctrines and practices established in the fourth and fifth centuries render that era unparalleled in the history of theology or religious institutions. Although Augustine himself lived in ascetic style after his conversion, he formulated the principle on which the church should act: not from renunciation but from the law of love. LaPiana approves A ­ ugustine-​­­the-​­bishop’s realization that Christianity should focus on the practical.193 Augustine’s Conversions LaPiana notes the differences between the Cassiciacum dialogues and the Confessions’ account of Augustine’s conversion to Christianity. Augustine had imagined that Plotinus and Christianity largely taught the same truth. The “philosophical calm” marking the dialogues can be explained psychologically: they represent “the closing of the accounts of his past life, a survey of what remained alive and of what was dead in his stock of ideas and convictions; a balancing of his intellectual and spiritual assets and liabilities.” LaPiana read the Confessions in part as Augustine’s attempt to preempt and outdo his opponents’ possible accusations: he denounced his own past sins (which he exaggerated) with “burning words.” The book thus had apologetic and propagandistic aims. In addition, it served as “a practical illustration of this new mystical and theological vision of spiritual life.”194 Here, Augustine’s “practical” guide leads to mysticism. LaPiana describes Augustine’s learning from Ambrose the “spiritual” way of reading the Old Testament. He compares educated Romans’ scorn for the Old Testament in the t­ hen-​­available translation to what “literary” men at Harvard must have felt when encountering Mary Baker Eddy’s Science and Health.

230

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

LaPiana finds Augustine’s belated discovery of N ­ eo-​­ Platonic philosophy (through the Latin translation of Plotinus’ Enneads by Marius Victorinus) surprising and attributes it to his ignorance of Greek.195 At this stage, Augustine, conscious of his own limitations, was primed “to accept external authority as evidence of truth.” Yet, LaPiana claims, Augustine’s commitments appear to have been mixed: while claiming that he had lost faith in reason and philosophy, as a theologian he nevertheless strove “to justify the rational value of authority and thus to rationalize his own faith.” But he also kept his mystical vision: “faith alone provides wings for the mystical flight of the soul ­towards the mysterious infinite light.” Augustine’s Confessions, LaPiana concludes, might be called “the bible of Christian mysticism.”196 Augustine on Religious Authority and the “Associated Life” Augustine, in LaPiana’s assessment, proposed the view of authority that Catholicism adopted: believe first, as the church requires, and afterwards, confirm belief by reason. Later, claiming that God’s grace alone gives faith, Augustine minimized the role of reason. LaPiana argues that Augustine’s “emotional and mystical experience led him straight to the religion of authority.” Authority, Augustine claimed in De utilitate credendi, was fundamental for Christians’ “psychological, social, political and religious life.” LaPiana stresses his (and Buonaiuti’s) favorite theme: the importance of the “associated life.” Augustine thought the evidence from “the experience of the associated life”—​­in this case, the c­ hurch—​­had a higher value than that of any individual. His views on religious authority, in LaPiana’s view, constitute “the most remarkable synthesis of the evidence in favour of an external authority in religion.” This emphasis stems both from Augustine’s “psychological analysis” of reason’s awareness of “its own inability to climb very high into the religious atmosphere,” and from his recognition that the affective element, emotion, gets drawn down t­oward the earthly: hence, an outside authority is needed for “the realization of a true religiosity in the life of the spirit.”197 Authority provides the means to overcome the weaknesses of reason and the affections. From this analysis, LaPiana formulates a general principle: the more the emotional (rather than the intellectual) element dominates religious life, “the more one is thrown back upon an external authority.” Even religions that begin by championing freedom of the spirit and emotion (read: early Christianity) end up with an external authority, whether in Scripture, the church, or national civil law. The real antithesis, he concludes, is not between the “religion



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

231

of spirit” and “religions of authority” (as in Auguste Sabatier’s scheme), but “rather between intellectualism and authority in religion.” On this point, Augustine’s experience is instructive: “He overcame his intellectualism by bowing before authority, but when he turned to justify his acceptance of authority from a rational point of view, he found no other evidence than the pragmatic theory of miracles and prophecies and the psychological necessity of faith.” When these sources of evidence proved less convincing than Augustine likely had hoped, he retreated to the notion of the divine illumination of the soul. This ­anti-​­intellectualistic philosophy, however, “could not satisfy the logical exigencies of a rational theology”: no wonder that Thomas Aquinas posed an “intellectualistic Aristotelian systematization” to overcome the opposition between reason and authority. It was against “any strictly intellectualistic process in religion that Augustine not only found authority necessary, but found it embodied in the Church.” Catholicism even today, LaPiana adds, stands upon Augustine’s ecclesiology “as upon a rock.”198 Augustine on the Problem of Evil, and the Manicheans In his fourth Lowell Lecture on Augustine, “Manicheism and Christianity,” LaPiana addresses Augustine’s varying attempts to treat the problem of evil. His lecture makes full use of two articles by Buonaiuti that LaPiana had translated for the Harvard Theological Review.199 Augustine’s contribution to the history of this problem, LaPiana boldly posits, “is perhaps the largest of his contributions to Christian theology.” This striking claim relegates to less importance other aspects of Augustine’s theology, such as Trinitarian doctrine. Whereas earlier Christian thinkers treated the question of evil as (only) a moral problem, LaPiana asserts, Augustine was the first to treat it philosophically and theologically.200 LaPiana claims that there is “no rational solution for the problem of evil in a monotheistic religion in which God is conceived, not as the absolute and transcendent cause, separated from the universe, but as the permanent cause and supreme ruler by his will and his knowledge.” God’s two essential ­characteristics—​­“goodness itself ” and “omnipotence ­itself ”—​­fit together uneasily in a theistic scheme. He cites the problem of Job: if God is good, whence evil? Other religions and philosophy may solve the problem by denying either that God is good or that he is omnipotent; the ancient Stoics (LaPiana quotes Marcus Aurelius and Seneca), for their part, claimed that apparent evil is not truly so when put into a larger framework. In recent times, those who opt for

232

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

the ­non-​­omnipotence of the divine include William James. These options, however, do not suit Christian theism.201 The Lowell Lectures of 1930, to be sure, were delivered before some major discoveries of Manichean texts. LaPiana’s interest in Manicheism (as he calls it) centers almost entirely on the problem of evil. Scholars, he reports, know that Manicheism arose in Babylonia about the middle of the third century, but of its founder and the original teaching, we know ­little—​­and even much of this is derived from opponents, of whom Augustine is the most significant. Augustine, however, was never initiated into the higher order of the sect and hence knew nothing of its “secret doctrines.” As taught in the West, Manicheism posited an “essential and eternal contrast between good and evil,” between spirit and matter. LaPiana traces Augustine’s first detachment from the Manichean notion of an original evil via the N ­ eo-​­Platonic theory of evil as the lack of good. But, LaPiana counters, this answer is unsatisfactory: evil is no mere negation but a positive force that destroys what is good.202 Next, Augustine associated the origin of evil with the claim that God created all things out of “nothing”; as mutable, they tend to return to the “nothing” from which they came. Here, evil is a “falling away” from an original state of goodness appropriate to the individual. LaPiana objects to this thesis as well: how “deficiency” can be understood as the cause of something positive remains obscure.203 The problem is much exacerbated, LaPiana continues, when we turn from natural evils to morals and religion, for it cannot be denied that moral evil exists. Whereas in primitive societies, sin could be imagined as something material and contagious, to be expelled by “magic ritual,” in Christianity, it could be “cancelled only by the forgiveness of God whose law was violated, and by the repentance of the sinner who voluntarily committed the sin.” Are we to believe that God created humans with a “congenital defect” that rendered them prone to sin? If so, God would be responsible for humans’ sins. Even if we hold that God made humans so that they corrupted themselves and were handed over to corruption as a penalty, the teaching remains “rather repulsive”: God seemingly makes humans capable of sinning in order that they might reap the fruits of their sins.204 These questions, stemming in LaPiana’s view from Augustine’s continuing struggle with Manichean positions, would resurface in the Pelagian controversy. There, Manichean teaching resonated with discussions of original sin and its transfer through the generations.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

233

Augustine and Donatists The Donatist controversy provided the occasion for Augustine to develop his ecclesiology and theory of the sacraments. The Donatists (labeled “Puritans” by LaPiana) “held that the rest of the Church had fallen prey to corruption and therefore had lost the possession of the Spirit, of divine grace, and had ceased to be a vehicle of sanctification and salvation.” Only a small number of the pure, namely themselves, remained “in” the church. Against this narrow view, and against the theory that the personal holiness of priests was necessary for the efficacy of the sacraments, Augustine (and LaPiana) took his stand. Here, LaPiana championed Augustine’s view that the church was a body composed of ­flesh-​­­and-​­blood ­humans205—​­not merely (in LaPiana’s words) a few “Christian idealists and dreamers, entirely absorbed in their vision of a church of angels in human flesh.”206 LaPiana concedes that Augustine’s view of the sacraments, which went against African Christian tradition, “makes room for what we should call a magical element in religious ­ritual”—​­yet the recipient’s expression of faith, repentance, and love counterbalanced the remnants of “a stain of magic in the performance.” LaPiana reminds his audience that this debate had an earlier incarnation in the dispute among Catholics in Rome, Novatianists, and Cy­ ome—​­taking the “laxer” s­ ide—​­had the prian.207 Then, LaPiana thought that R better claim. In the case of Augustine, it appears that “Rome” had moved to Hippo. The Donatist controversy became associated with Catholics’ sanction of the use of force by the imperial government. For this, LaPiana has sharp words. He ascribes to Augustine’s friend Optatus the “questionable honor of being the first Christian writer who justified the use of violence in religious dissension and who recognized the right of the civil power to enforce religious unity with the sword.” Augustine earlier (circa 399) had deplored the use of violence, arguing that it served only to produce hypocrites. Even then, however, he had challenged the Donatists’ claim that they had a “right” to tolerance by civil authorities. LaPiana traces the stages from 405 onward in which Augustine and North African bishops supported the use of imperial force against the Donatists as murderers, rapists, and ­heretics—​­and heresy was now a crime. With Augustine’s sanction of coercion, he became “the great theoretician of intolerance.” For this, he assumed “a terrible responsibility before history.” Although LaPiana finds it hard to imagine Augustine “in the garb of an Inquisitor,” he nevertheless acknowledges that Augustine was “the man who wrote the Magna Charta of religious

234

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

intolerance.”208 From the Reformation onward, contending parties appealed to Augustine to support their own versions of intolerance and religious wars, quoting his approval of “compel them to come in” (Luke 14:23).209 LaPiana’s critique of Augustine resonated with views he expressed elsewhere on religious intolerance. LaPiana had hotly disputed both the Vatican’s alliance with Mussolini that resulted in repression of dissidents and Vatican attempts to stifle new ways of theologizing that marked the Modernist controversy. As a professor of church history, he searched Christianity’s past to uncover instances of religious intolerance. Had not Tertullian believed that Christianity, the only true religion, should exclude and “destroy” all others? Had not the (Christian) imperial government in the 380s begun to abandon its policy of legal tolerance of paganism?210 Had not Christian leaders sought state support to execute Priscillianists, fellow Christians? And now Augustine could be added to the list. LaPiana adds: “Christian intolerance then became a dominant principle in the Church policy.”211 Today, he tells students, not only does intolerance persist within Christianity, it is perpetrated chiefly by the clergy: “All bigotry, all phanaticism [sic], all kind of evils have their source in the n ­ arrow-​­mindedness of [a] great number of Christian ministers and priests who are supposed to teach what they don’t know and to love what they don’t appreciate.”212 Augustine’s final approach to the Donatists, in LaPiana’s view, was part of a long trajectory of the church’s sanctioning of violence against dissenters. Augustine and Pelagians Again, LaPiana resorts to “racial temperament” to explain differences between Augustine and Pelagius. “The African temperament [Augustine’s] was impulsive, sensuous, imaginative, and romantic, ready to go to extremes of good or evil and, if necessary, to find paradoxical justifications for so doing, a temperament that made room for the supernatural and miraculous in life.” Pelagius, by contrast, was of the “Nordic” cold temperament, “lacking vivid imagination, a temperament bent ­towards strictly rational mental processes, a characteristic ­self-​­confidence and grim determination to overcome difficulties and obstacles.” “Accustomed to control his passions and to triumph over temptation by strength of will,” Pelagius had early devoted himself to virtuous living. Given these “racial” differences, the ground was paved for disagreements.213 On LaPiana’s reading, Pelagius serves as an exemplar of “rationalism” in religion, a view often held by scholars of his era.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

235

LaPiana highlights the attempts of North African bishops to win Rome’s approval for their condemnation of Pelagius and Celestius. He depicts Augustine as a manipulative, politically astute player who influenced Emperor Honorius to condemn Pelagianism and its leaders in 4­ 18—​­despite Pope Zosimus’ approval of Pelagius and his teaching. The East, which largely supported Pelagius, rejected Augustine’s “innovations” regarding these doctrines; even westerners protested some of them.214 Surveying this controversy, LaPiana is most interested in the development of Augustine’s theories pertaining to human nature, sin, and grace. Prior to Augustine, he claims, theologians associated some vaguely defined human woe with Adam’s sin, but Augustine proposed “something more radical and more ­far-​­reaching than the simple inheritance of sorrow and misery.” Even in the Confessions, Augustine had ascribed much to God’s grace and little to humans’ ability to obey God’s commands; on this point, Pelagius challenged him. Pelagius’ ­belief—​­human nature as strong and sin’s effects as less d ­ evastating—​ ­appealed to eastern theologians.215 LaPiana details Augustine’s changing views on human sinfulness, after listing arguments derived from Scriptural passages (for example, Rom. 5:13; Deut. 5:9), earlier theological traditions, the liturgy, and experience (“children suffer”: how would a just God allow this unless they were guilty?). Earlier, he remarks, the tradition had been “satisfied” to affirm humans’ propensity to sin, but held that “sin was the work of each individual man.” Against the Manicheans, Augustine had staunchly championed human freedom, and in De Genesi contra Manicheos, he claimed that Adam’s Fall should be read as an allegory. In De libero arbitrio, some years later, while still upholding free will, he took the Genesis description of the first sin as “historical” and noted its effects on Adam’s descendants. Yet Augustine remained greatly perplexed as to which aspect of human nature should be most blamed for s­ in—​­a topic that led him to ponder the origin of the soul and the ­body-​­soul relation. Is it not by contact with the body, he wondered, that the soul is subject to ignorance and concupiscence?216 LaPiana (rhetorically) asks, “How do we explain the fact that Augustine could go as far as he did in his anthropological pessimism and its theological implications?” He offers two answers: first, that Manichean ideas survived “in his mind and conscience”; and second, that his personal religious experience convinced him that his corrupted will had impeded his conversion to Christianity. Only a miraculous intervention of grace had overcome his resistance. “Hence his conviction that human will is organically corrupt and incapable of doing good without the help of divine grace.”217

236

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

The Manichean connection had been especially pressed by Buonaiuti in his article of 1927, “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea of ‘Massa Perditionis,’ ” probably translated for the Harvard Theological Review by LaPiana himself. Here, Buonaiuti, on the basis of newly published Manichean sources and inspired by Albert Bruckner’s book on Julian of Eclanum, traced the ways in which Augustine’s anthropology owed much to the Manichean system. Buonaiuti argued that both Augustine’s developed a­ nti-​­Pelagian anthropology and his interpretation of history in the City of God are based on dualistic notions that ultimately trace back to Manichean conceptions.218 LaPiana explained Augustine’s theory of how Adam lost his initial capacities and was unable on his own to regain them. Augustine adopted the Latin Vulgate misreading of Romans 5:12 (all men sin in Adam, rather than “death passed upon all men because all of them have sinned”): it bolstered his theory.219 Not merely individuals’ own misdeeds condemned them to death; they were in Adam when he disobeyed God’s command. In this discussion, LaPiana frequently resorts to theories derived from comparative religion and anthropology. For example, he argues that Augustine’s theory resembles the understanding of sin in primitive r­eligions—​ ­namely, as “a material substance as contagious and hereditary as a bodily disease.” The woes of human life led people to imagine that once, long ago, life had been better: hence arose “the myth of the Golden Age.” To explain how these woes came about, the ancients devised stories such as “Pandora’s box.”220 “The myth of Adam and Eve,” LaPiana claims, parallels those of the Golden Age and Pandora’s box.221 Moreover, from time immemorial, humans, dreading death, have yearned for immortality. To assuage this yearning, the “mystery religions” of antiquity promised a blessed immortality. Christianity too offered salvation: Jesus would save humans from slavery to the devil, to whom they had sold themselves. Early Christian writers, LaPiana notes, dramatically depicted humans’ capture by, and then release from, Satan.222 On Augustine’s developed theory, the “sin of Adam was like a pestiferous germ which brought corruption to the whole human kind,” a miasma that affected all parts of human nature: the physical body, the mind, the will. “Deprived of all the divine gifts and left to his ignorance and his evil will, man became a creature of perdition, destined to hell and with no hope of salvation.” Every child, according to Augustine, is born with this “stain in his soul,” and (LaPiana adds) as such is “an object of hatred and of horror in the eyes of God.” Born into the massa perditionis, unbaptized children will be eternally



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

237

damned. The function of baptism is to “immunize” against the “deadly effect” of concupiscence, the state of sin within us from which other sins originate. Yet concupiscentia remains: “even after baptism man is sinful.”223 Augustine rejected Pelagius’ view that the unbaptized might have “eternal life,” though not the “kingdom of heaven.”224 The theory of original sin, LaPiana continues, was closely linked with debates over the origin of the soul. He notes that Augustine wavered between traducianist and creationist views. Traducianism, to be sure, offered “fewer difficulties.” Augustine, he posits, must have believed that the body had contaminated the innocent soul.225 In 395, in On 83 Diverse Questions to Simplicianus, Augustine writes that original sin is impressed upon the human body “through the persistent stimulus of an unreasonable sensuality,” and is likewise “impressed upon the soul because the soul is transmitted through the material act of generation.” LaPiana does not emphasize Augustine’s study of Paul’s letter to the Romans as prompting his evolving views on sin; he rather enlists Augustine’s reading of Ambrosiaster.226 (LaPiana garnered the role of Ambrosiaster from Buonaiuti’s essay of 1917, “The Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea of Original Sin,” which LaPiana had translated for the Harvard Theological Review.) Augustine’s Pelagian opponent, Julian of Eclanum, countered that to posit sin as inherent in the material body was a Manichean doctrine. LaPiana comments, “Perhaps he was not far from the truth, at least in the external form of the doctrine.”227 This view LaPiana certainly adopted from Buonaiuti’s essay, “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea of ‘Massa Perditionis,’ ” in which Buonaiuti had linked the Manichean notion of bolus, “a lump,” with Augustine’s massa.228 How, then, to reconcile the theory of original sin with the Christian message of grace?229 How to reconcile divine grace and human freedom of the will? Augustine offers a new definition of the latter: “Freedom to do good and not to do evil.” LaPiana wonders why Augustine did not register that this view destroyed human responsibility. Finding Augustine’s position perplexing, he concedes that it is “of the essence of spiritual life and of the process of salvation to be clouded in mystery.” Did not Paul claim that “faith saves the world”?230 Augustine on Baptism Linking baptism with original ­sin—​­Augustine’s ­contribution—​­marks a third stage in this sacrament’s development: first came the Gospel teaching of repentance and initiation into a new life; second came Paul’s “mystical” view of dying and rising with Christ.231 Baptismal practice, especially the baptism of small

238

Ge o r ge L a Pi a n a

children, LaPiana claims, spurred the theory of original sin. Child baptism was not introduced as a consequence of that theory: praxis stimulates theory. Jesus, for his part, said nothing about original sin; in fact, he blessed ­children—​­“little Jewish unbaptized children,” at that! The practice of infant baptism, when coupled with Paul’s view of sin, fostered the theory of original sin.232 The church rejected Augustine’s extreme theory that unbaptized children would be damned. LaPiana tells his students: “Through a series of subtle distinctions and subdistinctions finally a compromise was found in the theory that unbaptized children are not punished in hell with the reprobates, but [neither] saved in the sense that they enjoy the vision of God. They are confined in the Limbo, a neutral place where there is neither rue, joy, nor true sorrow, a condition which is difficult to visualize. It was a wise case of ‘logics be damned,’ but man cannot live on logics alone no more than he can live on bread alone.”233 Limbo, it appears, stands as yet another theological innovation in which compromise wins out. Infant baptism, LaPiana claims, made necessary the appeal to “the system of vicarious faith,” in which sponsors assume the burden of instructing and training the baptized child in the Christian faith. Theologians proposed that for adults, faith precedes baptism, but for infants, it follows baptism: the inverted order does not “affect the essence of the sacrament.” LaPiana exclaims: “There are no people so able to reconcile the irreconcilable as the theologians!”234 As for that other doctrine that became prominent in the Pelagian controversy, predestination, Augustine taught that God gives it to some and withholds it from others. LaPiana wryly comments, “It is a mystery. Ask no further.”235

Conclusion LaPiana’s understanding of Christianity as embodying “the associated life” colored his assessment of early Christian ecclesiastical development and practice: unity and discipline must prevail, “individualism” be suppressed. Given his own disenchantment with Vatican politics, it is noteworthy that he stresses the need, at least in the early centuries, for one strong leader at the church’s helm. (Perhaps he believed, with Joachim of Fiore and with Modernists of his own era, that the church had reached “maturity” and no longer required such a strict guiding hand.) As a historian, he expressed impatience with theological disputes of the past that had fractured the church’s unity. In his scholarship, he borrowed



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

239

much from his Modernist historian (and persecuted) friend Ernesto Buonaiuti, while expressing less enthusiasm for “mystical” currents in Christianity. Throughout, LaPiana emerges as a pragmatic rationalist who endorsed Realpolitik against “dreamy” idealists and overzealous moralists. To meet the needs of Christians and to engage the larger society, the church must always remain flexible and be willing to ­compromise—​­just as Roman emperors eventually understood that compromise must replace persecution. On topic after ­topic—​­forgiveness of sins, clerical purity, asceticism, ­baptism—​­LaPiana highlights how compromise favored the church’s development and enabled it to surpass contemporary rivals. The church, he never tires of saying, was meant to serve human needs. By allowing for the weakness of ordinary mortals, by acknowledging (even if with regret) that the “heroic age” of Christianity had long past, churchmen insured that their ­ever-​­developing creation, the ecclesia, the “associated life,” would last into the future.

This page intentionally left blank

Chapter 8

Case’s Life and Writings

The Founding of the University of Chicago and Its Divinity School The dramatic story of the founding of the University of Chicago and its first president, William Rainey Harper, although told many times, deserves a brief recounting here. Precocious and dynamic, Harper received his Ph.D. from Yale at the age of eighteen (with a thesis on Latin, Greek, Sanskrit, and Gothic prepositions).1 For seven years, he taught Hebrew and related subjects at the Baptist Union Theological Seminary at Morgan Park, a suburb of Chicago. There, Harper founded a summer school; a comparable establishment would later become a signature feature of the University of Chicago.2 In 1886, Harper returned to Yale to teach.3 A noted workaholic, this “steam engine in pants”4 often labored in his study at Yale until n ­ ear-​­dawn, summoned students for conferences at midnight, and at Chicago, gave dictation to his secretary at five in the morning.5 At Yale, Harper taught eighteen hours a week: Hebrew, Assyrian (Akkadian), Arabic, Aramaic, and Syriac.6 He firmly believed that religion and higher education mutually reinforced each other in the quest for “the higher life.”7 Harper’s famous association with John D. Rockefeller in the creation of the new ­university—​­in Chicago, not in New York, as Augustus H. Strong, President of Rochester Seminary, had h ­ oped8—​­provides enough drama for a lively academic movie: Harper’s hesitation, Yale’s attempt to keep him, Rockefeller’s funds, disagreements about the plan.9 As Conrad Cherry notes, Harper relinquished the three professorships he held simultaneously at Yale “to do something different: to preside over a fully democratic university destined to lead in the westward march of history.”10 Once Harper was assured that he would be free to teach and write without interference from religious denominations

244

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

(here, the Baptists), he accepted.11 Harper told Rockefeller that his plan, focused on graduate education and featuring a university press from the start, would revolutionize the concept of university study in America.12 Scholars note Harper’s “messianic vision,” his rush to create “an American Zion, an exemplary city formed of the materials of religion and education.”13 Historian George Marsden describes the University of Chicago as “a quintessential Protestant ­institution”—​­and a ­low-​­church one, at that.14 Harper and other Chicago faculty were closely associated with the Hyde Park Baptist Church, which for nearly thirty years served in effect as the university church.15 Harper superintended the Sunday school at this church for over three decades.16 Harper’s fundraising skills were extraordinary; he claimed that nothing like the fundraising effort for the new university had ever been mounted in the history of education.17 Thomas Wakefield Goodspeed (previously financial and recording secretary of the Board of the Baptist Seminary at Morgan Park) and Frederick T. Gates (corresponding secretary of the American Baptist Education Society) undertook the fundraising work.18 Rockefeller first committed nearly $2 million, then added $2 million more. He later stated that his donations to the University were the best investment he had ever made.19 By 1910, Rockefeller had reportedly contributed $35 million (over $872 million in 2017 currency).20 The funds secured, Harper authorized the immediate construction of eight buildings, in addition to the Divinity and Graduate dormitories, already in process.21 The area chosen for the new university was, in the words of a first observer, “a wide sweep of almost vacant land, with few roads or houses.”22 Chicago businessman Marshall Field gave ten acres, later supplemented by land along the Midway Plaisance, courtesy of (once again) John D. Rockefeller.23 How to staff the new university swiftly? Harper engaged in an exciting raid of professors from the University of Wisconsin, the University of Minnesota, Cornell, and Clark, among other institutions, as well as women professors from Wellesley College. All were wooed both by the new opportunity and by salaries considerably higher than average: reputedly $7,000. In the first year, Harper scrambled to hire about 120 faculty members.24 The new university opened its doors to approximately seven hundred students on October 1, 1892.25 One of Harper’s coups was to lure Albion W. Small in 1892 from the presidency of Colby College to found the first department of sociology in America.26 In the same year, Harper hired Charles R. Henderson as professor of “Ecclesiastical Sociology” at the Divinity School, while the nearby Chicago



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

245

Theological Seminary also made an appointment in “Christian Sociology.” In this subdiscipline, Chicago was to lead other institutions.27 By January 1893, nearly six hundred students were enrolled at the University, of whom 166 were pursuing graduate degrees of various kinds.28 Developing the Graduate ­School—​­not a ­“college”—​­was Harper’s real aim. Scoffers joked that putting a graduate school in Chicago was tantamount to establishing one in the Fiji Islands.29 Conservatives argued that Chicago was a bad choice from the moral perspective. One protester wrote, “College students ought not to be where they can take a ­street-​­car and for a nickel ride to hell any hour of the day.”30 How much more might such conservatives fear for the morals of seminary students! The Graduate School was an immediate success. Within a few years, East Coasters turned to mocking the multitude of Ph.D.s Chicago was granting: the number, they claimed, would soon rival that of pigs in the city’s stockyards.31 Harper insisted that each “Department” of the University sponsor a journal, to be published by the University Press: hence (for example) the Journal of Political Economy, the Journal of Geology, the Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures, Biblical ­World—​­and in 1897, the American Journal of Theology.32 Harper was a strong advocate of outreach to the general public. Chicago, with a population that had multiplied tenfold between 1870 and 1890, was ripe for his experiments in education.33 Earlier, at the Baptist Seminary at Morgan Park, Harper had established a large summer program to teach Hebrew at various centers around the country; with the University’s founding, the program became the American Institute of Sacred Literature, catering to a wide audience.34 Lay outreach became a central goal for Divinity School faculty, whose writings reached a large nonspecialized public.35 “Outreach,” however, was not to take too radical a direction. At the Divinity School, the “Social Gospel” was interpreted in ways that Leonard Sweet described as “sentimental”: service to the community was to entail cooperation, not strikes or enforced arbitration. In this, the faculty may have been following the lead of John D. Rockefeller, who thought that the answer to labor unrest was “brotherhood.”36 Harper also worked extensively with the Chautauqua Society, published materials on religion for laypeople, and (a first at an American university) organized a Summer Quarter that drew many students.37 Although the Summer Quarter was instituted to enable students to finish their undergraduate education in three years, more graduate and professional students, as well as teachers who desired more training, took advantage of the arrangement than did undergraduates.38

246

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Another outreach venture was the institution of correspondence courses, in which (as we shall see) Shirley Jackson Case participated. In 1914 or 1915, Shailer Mathews reported that over 3,500 students were enrolled in the “correspondence study department,” which he thought might be the largest or second largest (after the University of Wisconsin’s) in America. “Regular university credit” was given for the courses, which were claimed to have comparable requirements to those taught on campus.39 To the end, Harper considered his activities as fundamentally “missionary work.”40 Interest in these popularizing activities subsided in subsequent years; by the ­mid-​­1920s, the missionizing spirit had largely dissipated.41 In the fifteenth year of his presidency, on January 10, 1906, fi ­ fty-​­­year-​­old 42 Harper died of cancer. Although admired by many, he was not universally loved. In the novel Chimes, Harper is portrayed (under the pseudonym “Dr. Alonzo Harris”) as plump, disheveled, and ambitious, running a “Barnum” outfit at “Eureka University.” The hero of the book is an English teacher from Harvard who disdains earning a doctorate.43 Again, Easterners mocked the Midwest. Other critics of Harper’s vision of education included Upton Sinclair in The Goose Step, Nicholas Murray Butler of Columbia in “Tammany Hall of Education,” and Thorstein Veblen in The Higher Learning in America.44 William James likewise attacked the “Ph.D. octopus” and the “doctor monopoly.”45 Despite its detractors, the University thrived. By 1905, it had already conferred over 3,000 degrees; by 1920, the number was closer to 11,000.46

The University of Chicago Divinity School Of greatest interest for this book, however, is the establishment of the Divinity School. Harper was adamant that a divinity school functioned best when associated with a university, which offered wider opportunity for the pursuit of individual interests.47 Rockefeller insisted that the former Baptist Union Theological Seminary at Morgan Park become the Divinity School of the new university, which was its first professional school.48 Besides Harper and Ernest Dewitt Burton, at least three professors from Morgan Park were absorbed into the new Divinity School. A professor of ecclesiastical history at the Baptist Seminary, Eri Baker Hulbert, was appointed its first Dean.49 The library from Morgan Park, grounded by the collection of Ernst Wilhelm Hengstenberg of the University of Berlin, formed the basis for the School’s library, which grew rapidly in the years ahead.50 Although the Divinity School was designed for



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

247

college graduates, the only degree awarded at first was a Bachelor of Divinity degree. Within ten years, however, the school had awarded 138 Bachelor of Divinity degrees, 11 Master’s degrees, and 24 Ph.D.s.51 By 1907–1908, the Divinity School’s enrollment (170) was nearly that of Union Seminary (182).52 The work of the Divinity School continued to expand as it affiliated with the Disciples’ Divinity House (1894), the Ryder Universalist House (1911), and the Chicago Theological Seminary (Congregational, 1914 or 1915).53 In another democratizing move, Harper called for a new department: English Bible. He reasoned that those not pursuing advanced biblical study could at least learn something of biblical scholarship in their own language;54 the requirement of compulsory Hebrew for all students, he came to think, was misguided.55 (Even in the B.D. program, courses on the Old Testament and the history of the Hebrew people could be substituted for the requirement in Hebrew language.)56 Students in the English Bible Department were to attend the Summer Quarter for four years, and take correspondence courses the other three quarters.57 Students so trained were hired at universities and colleges to establish courses on English Bible. Harper, however, kept Old Testament and Semitics as divisions within the University, not the Divinity School.58 For serious students of the Bible, Harper established a seminar room, supplied with books and journals, to which each student was given a key. Students learned to work from primary sources, using textbooks and lectures only as “helps.” One of their cohort reported that students in this field needed to know Hebrew, Greek, Latin, French, and G ­ erman—​­also useful was “a little Assyrian [Akkadian], Syriac, Arabic, Ethiopic and Dutch.”59 In addition, Harper established a Department of Comparative Religion in the University, not the Divinity School, and appointed George S. Goodspeed as its head; this Department has been called the first nonsectarian graduate research program in religious studies in America.60 Over time, Harper advocated a broader approach to the theological curriculum for the nonspecialized ministerial student. The present structure of ministerial training, he complained in 1899, satisfies neither the lower nor the upper classes.61 He insisted that students have science training, often lacking in the backgrounds of those who came from small liberal arts colleges.62 Harper proposed a set of courses that would be taken by all fi ­ rst-​­year students, but urged them to develop their own interests from the second year on; to that end, the Divinity School developed an elective system.63 Revising theological curricula in America occupied the minds of the University of Chicago faculty in its early days. In a 1916 commencement speech,

248

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Ernest Burton told his audience that the curriculum for the new age would have more history and less dogma; Hebrew could be left to the specialists, and “perhaps even Greek.” This revision allowed more time for “discovering the great vital principles of our religion and the application of them to the great vital problems of the hour.” Most ministers, he claimed, find it more important to know about modern concerns than “to be able to read Genesis in Hebrew or the Apocalypse in Greek.”64 Theological Trends at the Divinity School Scholars often refer to the “Chicago School” of theology, a term, however, that signaled different specializations at various times in the Divinity School’s history. Jerome Stone characterizes some of the common emphases: a creative appropriation and critical examination of the Christian tradition; an emphasis on the value or function of religion, “often conceived in psychological or social terms”; a focus on religion’s ethical and social imperatives; and a church affiliation, more noticeable among the earlier members of the faculty.65 From around 1914 to the 1930s, the “­socio-​­historical method” reigned. William Hynes argues that Shirley Jackson Case, not Shailer Mathews, was the chief theoretician of this method.66 Historian Wilhelm Pauck, who joined the Chicago faculty somewhat later, claimed that Case was the one member of the faculty who tried to use the method, not simply “talk about it” (although, I add, he also did a great deal of the latter).67 How Case interpreted the “­socio-​ ­historical method” will be explored in detail in the chapters that follow. A second o­ ften-​­cited turning point for the “Chicago School” was Henry Nelson Wieman’s introduction of Whitehead’s philosophy in the late 1920s. Bernard Meland describes how annoyed and perplexed Mathews and Case were by Whitehead’s Religion in the Making. Wieman, however, so skillfully interpreted Whitehead in terms understandable to the Divinity School audience that shortly thereafter, the faculty hired him.68 In the following decades, “Process Theology” became a hallmark of the “Chicago School.”69 Wieman’s teaching of Whitehead’s metaphysics and theology at Chicago, William Dean claims, attracted many liberal students who otherwise might have devoted themselves to historical studies.70 By the ­mid-​­1940s, theology and philosophy had decidedly replaced history as the glory of the Divinity School.71 Another characteristic of the “Chicago School” was its early resistance to ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy. (Case’s critiques of what he considered European theologies of despair will be explored below.) As late as 1946, a former student reported



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

249

to Edgar Goodspeed, by then retired and living in Los Angeles, “Chicago is still fairly immune from ‘­neo-​­orthodoxy,’ but the movement is deeply entrenched at the Presbyterian seminary [that is, McCormick] and has more than a foothold at Garrett.”72 Not all, to be sure, admired the critical stance of the Divinity School scholarship. The conservative Augustus H. Strong, for example, wrote in 1915 of the Chicago faculty: “It is said that the recent appointments to professorships are all of men who are unwilling to say that they believe in the preexistence, deity, virgin birth, miracles, physical resurrection, objective atonement, omnipresence of Jesus Christ. The Chicago men, it is said, are practical Unitarians, and that the Seminary has already gone over to the unevangelical wing of Christendom.”73 Although Strong carefully attributed these views to some anonymous “others” (“it is said . . .”), probably many of his stripe thought the Chicago Divinity School had gone over to the Dark Side. Whether Strong was still stung by Rockefeller’s failure to back his own plan for locating the new graduate university in New York City, with himself at the helm, remains here unstated. Teaching Early Christianity at the University of Chicago Divinity School Before Shirley Jackson Case joined the faculty of the University of Chicago Divinity School in 1908, several courses on ­patristic-​­era Christianity were offered, some in the Graduate School’s Department of Biblical and Patristic Greek and some in the Divinity School’s Departments of Church History and of Theology.74 As was common in Protestant divinity schools of that era in America, the period up to Constantine and the Council of Nicaea received far more attention than the later fourth century and beyond (with the exception of offerings on Augustine, claimed for Protestantism). At Chicago, “New Testament” was not always siphoned off from “post–New Testament Christianity” of the first three centuries. In an undated report on “The Field and Work of the New Testament Department,” for example, the author (perhaps Edgar Goodspeed) stated that this department covered to the time of Eusebius, and in less detail, “Greek Christian literature, down to John of Damascus and Photius of Constantinople, in the ninth century.”75 As my Founding the Fathers revealed, many Protestant professors of church history deemed the later patristic period less worthy of their time and attention: by then, they alleged, the church had decidedly gone downhill, mired in pointless controversies. By far the greater number of courses in the Department of Biblical and

250

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Patristic Greek, however, were in New Testament. For example, in 1902, that department listed seventy courses, s­ ixty-​­six of which were in New Testament. The other four, taught by Edgar Goodspeed, were “Apostolic Fathers,” “Readings and Studies in the Early Apologists,” “Christian Literature to Eusebius,” and “Formation of the New Testament Canon.”76 Which courses on early Christianity were assigned to “Church History” and which to “Theology” seems somewhat arbitrary by today’s standards. Divinity School courses on “The Theology of the Greek Church,” and seminars on Augustine and on Clement of Alexandria and Origen were taught in 1905 in the Systematic Theology Department by Gerald Birney Smith. Among courses taught in the Church History division for the same year by Eri Hulbert, the first Dean, and other faculty were “Outlines of Church History,” “The Ancient Church,” “Church History Prior to Constantine,” “­Second-​­Century Problems in Church Polity,” “The Alexandrian School,” “The Greek and Latin Apologists,” “From Primitive to Catholic Christianity,” “From Constantine to Theodosius,” and “Ecumenical Creeds and Councils.”77 Some courses in ancient Christianity were taught by Shailer Mathews in 1905 and later. Mathews had left his post at Colby College to join the Divinity School faculty in 1894 as an Assistant Professor of New Testament Interpretation;78 he rose to Professor in that field in 1897, a title he held until 1905. In that year, Mathews switched to the Theology wing, apparently at Harper’s request, allegedly to counter the radicalism of theologian George Burman Foster, who had come under fire from conservatives.79 Course listings for the Divinity School show Mathews’s courses on ­patristic-​­era topics in the Systematic Theology wing: “Christian Origins I and II,” “Formative Concepts of Christian Theology,” “History of Dogma: The Patristic Period,” plus a seminar on Augustine.80 In another (unspecified) year, Mathews taught “The Theology of the Latin Church,” from Tertullian to the Council of Trent, with emphasis (for the early period) on Tertullian, Cyprian, Augustine, and Vincent of Lerins.81 The Mathews Papers also contain 205 pages of notes (­toward a book?) on “The Theology of the Greek Church,” which covered from Philo, Jesus, and Paul through John of Damascus; that he also taught this topic as a course is suggested by further notes and examination questions.82 Mathews held the Deanship from 1908 to 1933, when Case assumed it.83 Mathews’s publications, however, show that he was both more theologically oriented and more theologically conservative than Case.84 Together, they championed modernist approaches to early ­Christianity—​­on which more in the next chapters. Thus, from unusual beginnings, the Divinity School at the University of



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

251

Chicago developed as a center for scholarship on early Christianity that would conform to the expectations of modern America. Into it stepped Shirley Jackson Case.

Shirley Jackson Case: Life and Writings Shirley Jackson Case’s brand of liberal Protestantism differed from that of Union’s Arthur Cushman McGiffert. In fact, Case generally rejected the term “liberal” to designate his own theological viewpoint, as he thought it signaled Ritschlianism. With both Mathews and Case on its faculty, the University of Chicago Divinity School was soon known for its emphasis on social approaches to Christian history. At the Divinity School in this era, some claimed that Case “was the ‘Chicago School.’ ”85 As I argue in subsequent chapters, Case was more in his element in describing historical methods and approaches to early Christianity than he was in contributing detailed scholarship on the subject. Thus, upon McGiffert’s death, Shailer Mathews could mourn that now it would be left to those (like Chicago faculty) who did not have McGiffert’s “encyclopedic ­knowledge”—​­although presumably more appropriate ­“theory”—​ ­to “carry on the work of writing a history of Christianity as a religious movement which was a phase of a social process.”86 As Union’s early church historian who succeeded McGiffert (Cyril Richardson) once uncharitably proclaimed, “the less one knows about history, the easier it is to have a philosophy about it.”87 The Young Case Case was born to a farm family of Free Baptists in New Brunswick, Canada, on September 28, 1872.88 ­Self-​­described as “the boy with the hoe,” he struggled to wrest fertility from the unyielding soil while battling potato beetles. He later confessed that a central point of his theology derived from those early farming moments: when a minister explicated God’s charge to Adam in the Garden of Eden (“to dress it and keep it”), young Case suddenly understood that not even Eden had been free of weeds, that humans had been given the “inescapable responsibility for the care and keeping of all the good things of life.” Their task was “to cooperate with God in making the earth a more congenial habitation for the human spirit.”89 Even in Eden, human effort had been required. This point stayed with him long after he ceased to believe in “Adam.”90

252

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

From College to a Professorship Case attended Acadia College in Nova Scotia, receiving an A.B. in 1893 and an M.A. in 1896. In those years and for several beyond, he taught mathematics and Greek at various schools. During a stint teaching in New Hampshire, Case met and married, in 1899, Evelyn Hill, a music teacher.91 Case was a relative latecomer to divinity education, despite his strong preparation in Greek. He matriculated at Yale Divinity School, specializing in Bible, and received his B.D. summa cum laude in 1904. He then pursued the Ph.D. at Yale, while serving as instructor in Greek. Today’s graduate students will gasp to learn that Case received his Ph.D. in 1906, just two years after completing his B.D. He briefly taught “History and Philosophy of Religion” at Cobb Divinity School in Maine, a Free Will Baptist seminary, shortly to become the Religion Department of Bates College.92 Case and the President of Bates College debated his salary; the final settlement was for $1,400 with a $100 increase the next year. Also at issue was whether the Cobb Divinity School, under the auspices of the Free Will Baptists, would long survive as an independent entity. (It did not.)93 Case and the University of Chicago Soon after he started teaching at Cobb Divinity School/Bates College, Case was invited to join the faculty of the University of Chicago Divinity School; articles he had published in the American Journal of Theology and Biblical World had caught the attention of the Chicago biblical faculty, still in the process of construction.94 Ernest DeWitt Burton, head of the New Testament Department, had lent a strong philological emphasis to the biblical program. That emphasis would decline, and historical approaches advance, as Case gained in reputation and academic power.95 Students gossiped that in his first years at Chicago, Case had read “all the pertinent literary documents of the period.”96 One wonders. Case later reflected on how his theology had changed from his student days at Yale. Ritschlian presuppositions (so he reported) had there dominated the teaching of ­theology—​­on which more below. Soon, however, he began to doubt the Ritschlian assumption that Jesus and Paul had taught “moral and spiritual ideas” that fit comfortably with his own contemporaries’ religious presuppositions. Rather, he came to see that the eschatology of the Synoptics and some Pauline epistles strongly affirmed the expectation that the resur-



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

253

rected Jesus would return from heaven to establish the Kingdom of God. How were Christians of his own day to trust the New Testament documents if Jesus and Paul had been mistaken in their expectation? Were not those texts fallible in other matters, too? “The nerve of Biblical authoritarianism,” Case reflected, “seemed to be seriously lacerated, if not indeed completely severed. . . . ​Higher criticism seemed to be taking away our Lord and we were at a loss to know where to find him.” Moreover, at this time, he recalled, he had “insisted that Adam disinherit me, for I had disowned ­him”—​­and then had learned from anthropologists just how morally and intellectually worse Neanderthal man had been than his imagined Adam!97 Case would look for other ways to interpret biblical documents. Unlike McGiffert, Case enjoyed no European education as part of his graduate studies. Apparently his mentors in biblical studies at Yale (Frank Chamberlin Porter and Benjamin Wisner Bacon) did not encourage him to travel abroad, as Philip Schaff at ­Union—​­surely the ultimate mentor of the late ­nineteenth-​­century American theological ­world—​­had advanced McGiffert’s European education. Now, a few years into teaching at Chicago, in 1910 or 1911, Case took the opportunity of a leave from the Divinity School to study for six months at Marburg. Unfortunately, there is no record of his time there or of what lectures he attended. William Hynes, Case’s biographer, suggests he may have studied with Harnack, as Case’s name appears in a list in a 1921 Festschrift for him; Wilhelm Pauck, on the other hand, told Hynes that Case studied with Gustav Krüger, a historian of early Christianity.98 He may well have studied with both. Of one point we are certain: a controversy over the historicity of Jesus was then raging in Germany, fueled by the work of Arthur Drews. Case entered the fray, publishing his first book on that topic: The Historicity of Jesus (1912).99 Ernest Burton, impressed by his junior colleague’s confidence in engaging and critiquing European scholarship, argued for Case’s immediate promotion from Assistant to Associate Professor. Apparently this promotion did not transpire as rapidly as Burton desired; a letter from Burton to the University President asks “why not?”100 Upon Case’s return to Chicago after his German sojourn, he assumed the ­co-​­editorship of the American Journal of Theology; by the end of 1913, he had published eight articles in it.101 Unlike Biblical World, edited by Mathews, the American Journal of Theology highlighted contemporary social interests and promoted activism.102 In 1921, these two journals were replaced by the Journal of Religion, of which Case became editor in 1927. He is credited with shifting

254

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

the journal away from “purely doctrinal discussions” and ­toward “the historical and practical interpretation of religion.”103 Case’s rise from 1913 onward was rapid. In 1914 he published The Evolution of Early Christianity: A Genetic Study of F ­ irst-​­Century Christianity in Religion to Its Religious Environment, often considered his most significant work.104 A year later, he received the desired promotion to Full Professor of New Testament. The excitement occasioned by World War ­I—​­was the world about to end?—​ ­prompted two more books in 1918: The Book of Revelation and The Millennial Hope.105 Case’s rousing essay “The Premillennial Menace” of 1918 signaled his abhorrence of fundamentalist positions that he deemed unpatriotic and detri­ eo-​ mental to America’s war effort.106 On this, and his later objection to N ­Orthodoxy, which he considered pessimistic and a­ nti-​­historical, we shall see more below.107 The year 1917 saw a move that signaled Case’s changing interests: he was appointed Professor of Early Church History, a position he held in addition to his appointment in New Testament.108 Church history, and the interpretation of Christian history more generally, would now take its place among the topics of his publications as frequently as did New Testament. His most important work of the next years was The Social Origins of Christianity (1923).109 The year 1923 brought another important development in Case’s career, one with significant consequences for directions in the Divinity School: he was appointed Chairman of the Church History Department. He immediately began to build what would soon be the largest and most important program in church history among the nation’s divinity schools. Starting with a faculty of just three, he added, among others, John T. McNeill in medieval Christianity, Matthew Spinka in the history of Eastern Orthodoxy, and William Warren Sweet in the history of American Christianity.110 Wilhelm Pauck, in Reformation studies, also came to the Divinity School, but a year after Case’s retirement. Church History now eclipsed New Testament as the School’s most distinguished Department. (By 1931, Case could proudly boast to University officials that a historian from New York had claimed, at a meeting of the American Society of Church History, “Once Union Seminary led America in the study of Church History but now the leadership has passed to the University of Chicago.”)111 Throughout this period, Case taught the history of early Christianity up to the year 800. In 1925, Case was given the title “Professor of the History of Early Christianity”: the title suggests that “New Testament” had either been dropped or had been subsumed in “Early Christianity.”112 Why Case might have preferred that title rather than “Professor of New Testament”



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

255

shall become clear in what follows. Upon assuming the headship of the Church History Department, he informed Chicago’s t­hen-​­President that the postwar situation in Germany meant that Germany was not at present a leader in the discipline, and that at Yale and Harvard, church historians had been replaced with New Testament scholars. Now was the moment when the University of Chicago’s prominence in the field of church history could become ­distinctive—​ ­if only they might add someone to cover medieval and Catholic Europe.113 Among Case’s other notable activities from this period was his service in 1925 as President of the American Society of Church History (ASCH), an organization that by all accounts had become moribund a­ nd—​­a sore point with midwestern ­historians—​­was controlled by “Easterners.” Minutes of the Society reveal that in these years, the winter meeting of the Society was always held in New York at Union Theological Seminary; a spring session, called a “Special Literary Meeting,” was now authorized and was held in the Midwest, several times in Chicago.114 Membership grew, and within a few years, the Society inaugurated its journal, Church History.115 In 1926 or 1927, Case was elected President of the Society of Biblical Literature and Exegesis, and also began his stint editing the Journal of Religion.116 To the Orient In 1931, Case and his colleagues published a comprehensive Bibliographical Guide to the History of Christianity. The Guide was the Church History Department’s preparation for an ­on-​­site evaluation, in 1931–1932, of the teaching of that subject in Asia.117 The Deputation to the Orient was made on behalf of the American Society of Church History. ASCH, reviving as an organization, had been urged at its annual December meeting in 1930 by John R. Mott to study “the curricula of theological seminaries and other institutions in North America and Europe, where Christian workers are in training for service among the younger churches of the ­Orient—​­Japan, Korea, China, the Philippine Islands and India.” He also encouraged members of the Society to foster interest in the study of church history among those preparing for “a native ministry for the indigenous churches of the Orient.”118 John D. Rockefeller contributed financial support for the visitation project.119 The Bibliographical Guide listed publications important for the study of Christianity’s history. Case wrote the Introduction to the book, as well as chapters on “History of Christianity in General,” “Christianity in the Roman Empire,” and “Christianity in Newer Fields.” The lists are studded with works in

256

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

German, French, Italian, and Dutch, as well as English. Case’s lists show his predilection for History of Religions scholarship, with works by Richard Reitzenstein, Wilhelm Bousset, Franz Cumont, and others, as well as other works on Mandeans, Manichees, and Gnostics.120 Books listed in the chapter on “newer fields” also reflect the influence of anthropology on the study of religion.121 All in all, the Bibliographical Guide was a formidable compilation. If the Deputation imagined that the institutions they would visit in Asia would own these works, they were to be sadly disappointed. Case, along with W. D. Schermerhorn of Garrett Biblical Institute, and Edmund Robert Morgan, Warden of the College of the Ascension in Birmingham (United Kingdom), constituted the t­ hree-​­person deputation. Case, as head of the delegation, edited the Report of the site team in a short volume published in 1932. On September 11, 1931, Case and Schemerhorn sailed from San Francisco, arriving in Japan on September 28, where they joined the British delegate. What followed was a ­five-​­­and-​­­half-​­month trip through all the ­above-​­named countries, meeting with professors, ministers, and other officials.122 The Deputation’s conclusions were, in hindsight, fairly predictable: theological schools and training institutes lacked books (some almost completely), staff, and resources. If church history was in the curriculum at all, it seemed to be placed there “mainly because it was found among the subjects taught in seminaries in the West,” and largely served “apologetic or dogmatic interests.” Rarely did Case find that professors and students he interviewed understood church history to be (as Chicago professors preferred) “a spiritual movement always in process and demanding the active participation of every member. . . . ​ The study of Church History has not given [them] any vital sense of continuity with what has gone before.” Also unsurprising, throughout their trip, the Deputation often found that Catholic institutions had amassed more books and reference works on church history than had Protestant ones. Although Case proclaimed the Deputation hesitant to suggest how these numerous difficulties could be overcome, ­he—​­ever ­efficient—​­advised the pooling of resources and gathering of source materials so that an “indigenous history in the Orient” could begin to be written.123 Case as Dean and Spokesman for Theological Education Soon after he returned to Chicago from this doubtless exhausting expedition, Case in 1933 was appointed Dean of the University of Chicago Divinity School, a position he held until his retirement in 1938.124 As Dean, Case strove to align



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

257

the Divinity School with trends elsewhere in the University. He merged the Old Testament and New Testament Departments into one “Biblical Field,” promoted archaeological study, revised the School’s curriculum, established a merit system for awarding scholarships and fellowships, and organized an “orientation to religion” course to provide students with a broader background. ­Also—​­a welcome but often absent characteristic in a­dministrators—​­he allegedly “abhorred academic red tape and got rid of much of it.”125 Upon his retirement, Northern Baptists protested that the recent emphasis on training scholars rather than ministers resulted in ministerial positions being given to graduates of “the Moody School and other institutions of a fundamentalist character.”126 As a last contribution while at Chicago, Case edited a “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum” (of divinity schools) for the American Association of Theological Schools.127 In this Report, Case and colleagues, while strongly urging curricular revision, counseled seminaries to steer a mean between “­information-​­centered” and “­job-​­centered” curricula, to aim for “functional efficiency.” Many seminaries, the Report charged, placed excessive emphasis on biblical study, with too many student hours devoted to Hebrew and Greek. Previously unknown or understudied academic fields now demanded that courses be established in social ethics, history of American Christianity, philosophy of religion, and pastoral counseling.128 “Older subjects that no longer minister effectively to the student’s preparation for his actual task,” the Report claimed, “cannot retain vested rights.”129 How to decide which courses to keep and which to discard? At the University of Chicago Divinity School, the Report revealed, the faculty left it up to the students to decide “on the principle of the survival of the fittest”: an unusual application of Darwinian theory, championed by Chicago Divinity School faculty, to their curriculum. By the required course on “orientation” to the theological field, Chicago had encouraged breadth. Thus students became f­ellow-​­participants in shaping the educational program in general as well as their own programs. The most difficult problem, from Case’s point of v­ iew—​­one probably reflecting his experience managing the faculty at C ­ hicago—​­was to induce professors to relinquish their “vested interests,” yet keep up faculty morale amid dramatic curricular changes.130 During these years at Chicago, Case published extensively: Jesus: A New Biography (1927), Experience with the Supernatural in Early Christian Times (1929), Jesus Through the Centuries (1932), The Social Triumph of the Ancient Church (1933), Makers of Christianity: From Jesus to Charlemagne (1934), and Highways of Christian Doctrine (1936). Most (but not all) of these works are

258

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

very general, aimed at nonspecialists, as evidenced by the paucity (or even total lack) of footnotes. Case in “Retirement” Stepping down at the University of Chicago, however, Case did not “retire”: he took up new teaching posts. After one year at Bexley Hall (an Episcopal seminary in Gambier, Ohio), he became Professor of Religion at Florida Southern College, Lakeland, Florida, and Dean of the Florida School of Religion attached to it. The School served laypeople who previously had not had the opportunity to study religion, as well as students aiming for professional ministry. So many inquiries were made about the School that in 1941–1942, Case published an announcement concerning it. From it we learn that in 1940, the School had been granted a charter from the State of Florida and was authorized to award a Master of Arts degree. (Two of its four faculty members taught “Linguistic and Educational Studies” and “Music.”) Although some courses were offered o­ n-​ ­site, a large number were designed as independent reading courses (“informal courses,” in Case’s designation) and could be taken o­ ff-​­site, on a correspondence course model. Since the program’s inception in 1940, Case reports, 80 students had taken 130 of these “informal courses.” These courses, unsurprisingly, were geared heavily ­toward Christian history and the Bible (the second professor, Charles T. Thrift, Jr., also taught historical subjects). Tuition was twelve dollars per course; fifteen courses plus a final examination and a thesis were required for graduation. Case’s zeal for sharing his vision of early C ­ hristianity—​­and his own ­books—​­with a wider audience is here on display.131 During these years in Florida, Case published Christianity in a Changing World (1941), The Christian Philosophy of History (1943),132 and The Origins of Christian Supernaturalism (1946). He also started a new journal, Religion in the Making, which had a short life (1940–1943) due to the exigencies of World War II. Case was teaching the very day he died (or as a eulogist put it, “stepped into the future”),133 December 5, 1947, when he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage.134 His career to the very day of death offers an unusual picture of dying with one’s academic boots on. Neither McGiffert nor LaPiana was so fortunate. ­Seventy-​­five boxes of Case’s archival material remain at Florida Southern College.135 Case apparently destroyed many files when he left the University of Chicago, but numerous materials pertaining to his courses at Chicago (although, alas, not his classroom lectures) remain in the archives at Florida Southern College.136



L i fe a n d Wr i t i n gs

259

Conclusion: Assessing Case Case’s former student Louis B. Jennings testified to Case’s diligence as a teacher, concern for his students, and insistence that all students do the best work of which they were capable. Jennings writes that Case was “more of a psychologist than one might think,” given his austere bearing.137 Years later, Jennings completed his dissertation on Case: “Shirley Jackson Case: A Study in Methodology” (University of Chicago Divinity School, 1964). Upon his retirement from Chicago, Case’s colleagues and former students honored him with a Festschrift, Environmental Factors in Christian History.138 Soon after his death, colleagues again honored him in a memorial issue of the Journal of Religion (29.1; Jan. 1949). The essays therein by Bernard Meland, C. C. McCown, and Paul Schubert convey a vivid sense of Case’s impact on the Divinity School.139 Historian Grant Wacker claims that Case’s work stands as an exemplary illustration of “consistent historicism”; he and his colleague Gerald Birney Smith, Wacker argues, “taught a generation of theological students at Chicago and elsewhere exactly how and where to drive the nails into the coffin of orthodox rationalism.”140 Case, as I shall detail, also tried to drive it into Ritschlianism. (Chicago theologians faulted Ritschl for holding, as Shailer Mathews wittily put it, that “there is an essence of Christianity independent of Christians.”)141 Ultimately, however, Case’s approach to early Christianity would be overwhelmed by ­Neo-​­Orthodox currents. Only in the 1970s and beyond did the “social history of early Christianity” again flower as a subdiscipline, with theory now joined to a deeper level of scholarship.

Chapter 9

Case’s Assumptions, Influences, and Approaches

Assumptions Religion Shirley Jackson Case did not shy from informing students and readers what religion “was” and what ­ it—​­ Christianity ­ especially—​­ was meant to “do.” “Function,” for him, was key. Not primarily a matter of intellect or doctrines, religion, he wrote, is “an experiential way of life,” whose interpretations may vary considerably. The “type of life” always trumps the “theoretical justification adopted to support its validity”:1 theology, in other words, is an intellectual attempt to rationalize experience. Religion itself, he cautioned, should never be confused with its “­by-​­products” (that is, doctrine, theology), which often mistakenly assume that Christianity led a “static existence” throughout time. Rather, religion, like all aspects of human culture, evolves and grows. Its very development implies that history is a continuum.2 Case was a partisan of “lived religion” long before that term became popular. Scholars, he claimed, should take as their objects of study “actual persons working out their religious problems” in the diverse worlds they inhabit.3 Unlike modern practitioners of “lived religion,” however, he could not observe and interrogate the subjects about whom he wrote. Doubtless to his regret, he was stuck with texts. Although he lacked both the theoretical sophistication and the deep knowledge of ancient Christianity that enabled the rebirth of the social history of early Christianity in the late twentieth century, he had taken a step in that direction. Since religion, in Case’s view, stems from “needs” and aims at ­problem-​



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

261

s­ olving, scholars must attend carefully to the “vital forces,” the “environment,” that produced a religion’s particular manifestations. A doctrine’s value should be judged by “the degree to which it served contemporary needs.” No religion, he argues, “remains immune from the vagaries of the human animals that give it historical existence.”4 Case highlights the religious community and its institutions. In this category he includes rites, cult, physical equipment, and (last) doctrines, both ethical and theological. Particular a­spects—​­ such as temples, officials, or ­ sacraments—​ ­should be studied “in light of their connection with the social whole,” including secular government, societal organization, geography, commerce, and cultural interests.5 Institutions acquire their importance, Case argues, “not from the assumption of normativeness for the past, but from the pragmatic fact of functional worth in the vital experiences of the individuals and groups who first instituted and subsequently perpetuated the items in question.”6 These views Case expressed in popular form at a debate staged in 1921 between Clarence Darrow and himself on the topic “Has Religion Ceased to Function?” That the debate was sponsored by the Workers University Society suggests the broad audience that the organizers aimed to reach. The debate offers considerable entertainment, largely through the witty comments made by Darrow, although Case too evinces surprising jocularity. Case faults Darrow for defining religion in an “­old-​­fashioned unscientific way,” as if some kind of “heavenly essence” descended to earth, an inert and “fixed quantity of ritual and doctrine.” Darrow, he charges, has misunderstood what religion is and how it functions, namely, as a “fact of social history, the result of a gradual growth.” Devised “in accordance with the desires and interests of the people who make it,” religion continues to be remade in succeeding generations. Constant development is necessary for religion to keep up with new needs. When, encased in the forms of an earlier era, it ceases to function, it is either remade or discarded. The very fact, Case argues, that religion continues to exist testifies to the fact that it is functioning. Doctrine, he tells his audience, is only one, and a ­late-​­emerging, phase of religion. People do not go to church for intellectual, but for social reasons. Case hints that those of “too much intellect” often don’t go.7 Christianity Like all religions, Christianity should be studied “in terms of l­ife—​­the vital religious experience of actual people”; its dogmas, ethics, and rituals are quite

262

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

secondary.8 Case does not restrict “actual people” to a few intellectuals whose writings are extant, although given the paucity of evidence regarding the ordinary practitioners of the Christian past, elites are of necessity (and from his point of view, unfortunately) showcased. For too long, Case charges, scholars (like McGiffert) have taken a “literary approach” to Christianity: they have simply examined texts by the great men of the church, without seeking to unearth the religion “behind” the text and the circumstances that produced that particular manifestation.9 Christianity’s character and content in any particular period can be ascertained only by looking to its practitioners, who provide its special psychological, emotional, and intellectual coloration. Christianity constantly changes just because it is “the religion of real people.”10 The newer approach to Christian history, Case claims, lies in its deep interest in “the actual l­ife-​­process of the Christian society in its totality from its earliest beginnings down to the present moment. The history of Christianity is the story of religious living on the part of real people who from first to last have constituted the membership of the Christian movement.”11 In reconstructing the history of Christianity, the scholar should acknowledge its “perpetual continuity”: this is the “genetic reality.”12 Moreover, development in early Christianity, Case claims, pertains not only to outer forms (which would leave an inner, unchanged “fixed quantum” allegedly established by Jesus), but also to the religion’s very substance.13 Christianity, Case continues, is not about “obedience to law or creed or custom,” but is “a spontaneous outflowing of spiritual energy expressing itself in all of life’s activities.” The religion, the “parent,” created its product, the church. Past generations devised this “ecclesiastical m ­ achinery”—​­that is, the c­ hurch—​­for answering their d ­ eep-​ 14 ­felt needs. Dogma, Case reiterates, was its product, not its foundation. His position thus differs not only from Catholic or Anglican ecclesiasticism, but also from the doctrinal emphases of traditional Reformed and Lutheran Protestantism. As we shall see, it colors which aspects of early Christianity he praises, which he faults, and which he chooses to overlook. ­Socio-​­historical Method: Functionality William Hynes comments that the criterion of “functionality” became the most representative mark of the s­ ocio-​­historical method so esteemed by Chicago professors. For Case, “function” replaced the appeal to the “genuine” in previous generations. (Whereas for the latter, “genuine” referred to something



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

263

earlier or original in the Gospels, Case uses “genuine” to denote a saying or event that “answered a real religious need” of the time.)15 Looking to a particular teaching’s “function” in its ancient environment could enable a sympathetic understanding of the Christian past, even if it was not useful for modern Christians. Thus Case could highlight aspects of early Christianity that Protestant Liberals usually tried to overlook. Case directed students that when examining Christian doctrines, they should ask what “incentives” prompted the doctrine, “the social and psychological conditions that have impelled revision of former beliefs or the formulation of new opinions.”16 As will be detailed below, among the incentivizing forces in the “environment” of early Christianity were traditional religions of various kinds (for example, state religion, ­emperor-​­worship, “mystery religions”) with their aspirations, terminology, and rituals. Early Christian leaders learned to adapt the new faith to ancient expectations and hopes so that their religion could make its way in the world and eventually “triumph.” Constant adaptation, casting off elements no longer suited to a new environment, was essential: “adjustment” is a word that runs throughout Case’s analysis of Christianity. Although he does not use the term “bricoleur,” Case pictures Christians piecing together disparate elements from various aspects of their “environment,” testing out what worked and what did not. “Functionality” provides Case with a criterion for assessing the worth of ancient traditions for today’s Christians: to what degree do they still have “functional value”? Although the problems of modern Christianity differ from those of the ancient world, the latter can inspire when it “revives in imagination that type of life which made the Christian movement a power in the past.”17 Thus the religious value of the New Testament, for Case, lay in the inspiration offered by persons therein described, their spiritual energy and moral motives, “not in the permanent validity of their ideas.”18 Creative religious living, however, should aim to transcend all past and present ­standards—​ ­including those of Jesus himself.19 The piety of the “religious worthies” of yore is not sufficient for ­present-​­day Christians, who seek inspiration from them but do not grant them authority.20 The authority of the Bible for the present is thus limited. As “the record of religious strivings,” Case writes, the Bible fails as an absolute guide for our time.21 Similarly, c­ reeds—​­defined as “a record of what Christian men in the light of their immediate experiences had ­believed”—​­have value for Christians today only to the extent that the “conditions and experiences” that underlay

264

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

them are still present. (Case notes one positive function of creeds: they prevent the church from devolving into individualism.) The developmental view of history, Case makes clear, discourages idealization of the past.22 Modernism and Liberalism Case usually rejected the label “Liberal” for his position. He often wrote the word with s­ care-​­quotes around it, suggesting that he thought “Liberal” a misnomer. He rather identified himself as a “Modernist,” while acknowledging that this designation had already been taken by progressive Roman Catholics.23 As both Case and Mathews preferred the label “Modernism,” the distinction was a hallmark of the “Chicago School.”24 “Modernism,” in contrast to “Liberalism,” Case claimed, is “a method of dealing with the construction of religious thinking, and its general tenor has been (a) the appropriation of modern ways of thinking and knowledge to the reinterpretation of traditional religious ideas; (b) a desire to recover from tradition those elements that can be held valid today (thus it tends t­ oward a new apologetics); and (c) a disposition, tacitly or openly expressed, to ascribe a large measure of authority to the new way of thinking (and in this last aspect it becomes a new illiberalism).”25 To be sure, Case used the term “liberalism” in a general sense to mean “an attitude” marked by “freedom of thinking, empirical inquiry, receptivity ­toward all new knowledge.” Here, the term simply signals “openness” and is not restricted to a particular form of late n ­ ineteenth-​­century German Protestantism.26 To this reduced usage he does not object. Usually, however, by “Liberal,” Case designates a theological school associated with Albrecht Ritschl and Adolf von Harnack. Case confessed that he disliked the name “Liberal” because it implied that those who do not adopt the views of those German theologians are “illiberal.”27 Most important, Case faults Protestant Liberalism as a “new form of supernaturalism.” It retains the notion of religious mystery even when discussing physical and social science, and thus presents itself as “a new apologetic.”28 In notes, perhaps for a talk on “The Inferiority Complex in American Theology,” Case relegates Protestant Liberalism to a category that includes ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy (“­crisis-​­theology”), an earlier Biblicism, and still earlier, Calvinistic Presbyterianism, especially its Scottish variety. Common to these movements is the belief that a theology must “derive its ultimate validity from a norm established in the past.” So long as America merely borrowed European theology and ­culture—​­as it had largely done up to Case’s ­time—​­the term



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

265

“Liberal” seemed normal usage for views that contrasted with traditional orthodoxy. Now, however, the situation is changing. “Perhaps,” he speculates, “when European culture has completely blown up, a new and genuinely American type of religious thinking may come into its own.” American Protestant theologians feel “inferior” to their European counterparts, but Case faults the latter for the pessimism undergirding their traditions.29 In this light, Case encourages an optimistic, truly “American” theology. ­Way-​­Stations in the History of Liberal Protestantism To classes and in published works, Case described and critiqued Protestant Liberalism. Before the eighteenth century, he claims, traditional Protestants and Catholics alike held that Christianity was, in essence, “a quantity of divine instruction, supernaturally given and designed to cover all the essentials of true religion.” Whether this defined quantity was more perfectly preserved in a church, a canon of Scripture, or a system of metaphysical speculation, is, for Case, “only a subsidiary question.”30 The ­eighteenth-​­century impetus provided by Deism, Romanticism, empiricism, political revolutions, and thinkers such as Gotthold Ephraim Lessing and Johann Gottfried von Herder led to the abandonment of this view.31 Yet even in the next century, scholarly views of Christianity’s “development” often did not countenance true change: John Henry Newman’s theory stands as case in point.32 In modern times, Case tells students, scholars have engaged in heated debate over “development” in Christian history.33 Positions range from “no development” (traditional Catholicism), to development as (only) the unfolding of a germ (John Henry Newman), as the gradual realization of the “divine absolutistic idea” (Georg Hegel and Ernst Troeltsch), as requiring the separation of Christianity’s “essence” from the “extraneous accretions” (Harnack), to the “scientific” view that Case ­favors—​­namely, that Christianity is constituted by a continuum, by “the totality of the o­ n-​­going historical movement.” Here, no end is presupposed; notions of “germ,” “idea,” “essence” are discarded as apologetic devices. To designate one feature as the “essence,” Case objects, renders everything else “unessential.”34 Hegel’s developmental scheme, in Case’s view, was singularly lacking. Focusing on “the idea,” doctrine, and abstraction, Hegel treated Christianity as “the reproduction of a set of ideas divinely determined beforehand.” Hegel, he charges, was not a historian; he took interest only in “the abstract elements of universality in Christianity rather than with its concrete phenomena.” He

266

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

neglected the “vital situations” out of which religious ideas arise and which for Case serve as the criterion for estimating their value. Hegel’s Christianity, in other words, does not appear as “a genuine product of vital historical forces.” Moreover, Hegel overemphasized Christianity as “a religion of external authority.” Case concedes that some of Hegel’s f­ollowers—​­for example, members of the Tübingen S­ chool—​­took more interest in history than had Hegel himself and sought to correct these deficiencies of his scheme.35 The Pietist turn to personal religious experience left its mark on the theologies of Schleiermacher, Ritschl, and “Liberal” Protestants.36 Schleiermacher’s positioning of religion in the realm of feeling, in consciousness, in “a sense of the divine” was decisive.37 Case himself was not immune from Schleiermacher’s influence; he described the theologian’s task as giving “a rational account of the content of the religious consciousness of ­man”—​­adding his own particular qualifier, “in contact with real life.”38 These developments form the background to Case’s discussion of Ritschl, his primary target. Ritschl, Ritschlians, and N ­ ineteenth-​­Century Protestant “Liberalism” In an autobiographical statement written in 1932, Case recalled the influence that Ritschl exerted in his seminary days: “Ritschlianism was the prevailing type of theology taught in our classrooms. The moral and spiritual ideas of Jesus and Paul were thought to constitute the heart of the New Testament message. Thus it was easy to believe that ‘­value-​­judgments’ attested by a ­present-​­day religious consciousness were reproducing strictly the actual content of the religion that had been held by the first and best representatives of lived. William Christianity.”39 Case’s embrace of Ritschlianism was s­hort-​­ Hynes claims that Case’s break with Ritschlianism marked his transition from a New Testament scholar with a partially developed s­ ocio-​­historical method to a historian of Christianity with a fully developed one.40 The tendency ­toward “­historical-​­mindedness” that grew throughout the nineteenth century, Case claims, came to fruition in Ritschlianism.41 Ritschl, he writes, borrowed Hegel’s absolutism and applied it to ethical values. He appropriated Schleiermacher’s claim that God’s oneness was perfectly revealed in Jesus, who (in Ritschl’s phrase) has “the value of God for us.”42 Ritschl, however, broadened Schleiermacher’s stress on the individual’s dependence on God to emphasize the community: Christianity for Ritschl is (in Case’s words) “a type of experience realized within the community of believers.” He represents Ritschlianism as characterized by a strong Christocentrism, on the one



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

267

hand, and on the other, by its promotion of the K ­ antian-​­inflected “liberal 43 Jesus” as an ­ethical-​­religious ideal. The Tübingen School, and New Testament criticism more generally, had led the turn to history. Ritschlians, Case tells students, looked to the study of history “as a source of information about Jesus.”44 Here, history became the foundation for Christological dogma: the Jesus of history has the value of God for us. For Ritschl, the immediate experience of the historical Jesus obviated metaphysical definitions regarding the Godhead. Yet Case represents Ritschl as fearful that the scholarly quest for the Jesus of history was subverting Jesus’ religious importance.45 Case rather dismissively describes Ritschlianism as a turn to “Jesusism.”46 Moreover, Case faults Ritschlians for imagining that Christians’ religious experience had remained basically uniform in content from the time of Jesus onward. In addition, he charges, Ritschl had no sense of interaction between Jesus’ essential Christianity and contemporary life of the time (that is, Case’s “environment”).47 Ritschlians mistakenly believed that they could replicate in their own era the original content of Christianity.48 This meant that they had to overlook, among other points, the first Christians’ “realistic eschatology, their belief in demons and angels, their vivid supernaturalism, their sacramentalism, their notion of the miraculous content of religious experience.”49 Despite Ritschl’s interest in history, Case charges, he lacked a true understanding of historical development within Christianity, and of how such developments were spurred by forces outside Christian doctrine. Later Ritschlians, Case argues, “transferred supernaturalism into the strictly moral and spiritual sphere,” a transfer welcome to some modern Christians embarrassed by a “supernatural” Jesus. These later Ritschlians, however, were not motivated by solely historical interests any more than were their predecessors. They read history “to find proof for a certain type of religious conviction; and the fact that they are always able to arrive at this desired goal is something of which their critical readers should not fail to take cognizance.”50 Harnack is among the later Ritschlians whom Case faults. Critiquing Harnack’s popular work What Is Christianity?, he charges its author with clinging to the notion of an “essence” of Christianity, a “kernel” amid the “husk” that can be sloughed off. Yet even the “kernel,” in the end, is reduced to the bare affirmation of the Fatherhood of God and the brotherhood of man.51 The “essence,” in effect, is simply the believer’s repetition of “Jesus’ experience of God’s fatherhood and man’s sonship.”52

268

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Case also takes aim at the selectivity of New Testament texts that Harnack and his followers appropriated to depict Jesus, namely, the “Q” strata of Gospel traditions (for example, as found in the Sermon on the Mount), from which they constructed Jesus as “a teacher of moral and spiritual idealism.” Case claims that scholars’ treatment of the Jesus of the Logia (“Q”) made him sound like “the Ritschlian Messiah to the Jews,” bringing the latter “a new knowledge to be realized more perfectly in personal living.”53 As we shall shortly see, Case had further criticisms to make of Harnack’s historiography. Contemporary “Liberal” Protestantism Case generally differentiates Ritschl’s more technical theology from the wider currents of “Liberal” Protestantism that followed. The latter, Case claims, contained “two divinely authenticated ingredients”: an evolving understanding of “the ethical will and purpose of God,” and “an unchanging essence or germ of eternal truth ultimately tracing back to Jesus.”54 Liberals tried “to give fixity to Christianity by making it simply a reproduction of the example and teaching of Jesus.”55 They tended to believe that the “essentials of eternally valid dogma” could be found in the past, especially in the New Testament: thus “tenable absolutes in doctrine” could be recovered from history. Case counters that the new emphasis on “function” in r­eligion—​­his o­ wn—​­is “undermining confidence” in Protestant Liberalism.56 In the end, both Ritschlians and Protestant Liberals appealed to Jesus’ own “personal religious living,” which they thought could be recaptured from the Gospels. Imagining that the religious life that Jesus had preached fit neatly with their own views, they appealed to him “to justify all sorts of [their] favorite ideas and ­interests”—​­to sanction pacifism, or business, or labor, or conversely, capital, and so on.57 Challenges to Ritschlianism and Liberalism Challenges to Ritschlianism and “Liberalism” arose from diverse quarters. One such, Case notes, proposed that social reform, not theology, should serve as a, or the, major tenet of Christian ethics. Here, the difficulties of Liberal theology are simply bypassed. While Protestant ethics had often centered on personal morality, with a concomitant “defeatism” regarding the world’s evils, Case claims, the new social thinking prompted human activism, aiming to make the will of God prevail upon earth. Since God, these Liberals believe, has charged



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

269

humans to work out “their own salvation under his guidance,” they must strive to “usher in Utopia as their goal, the Kingdom of God.” Secular society is to be saved, not destroyed. The church does not stand against the world but permeates it: “Salvation cannot be effective merely by rescuing a select body of individuals into an ecclesiastical society, but by a reconstitution of society itself as God becomes effectively immanent over the total range of society’s operations (economic, civic, political, international, etc.).” Social thinking today, Case tells students, both supplements and alters traditional Protestant individualism. The ­often-​­vaunted Protestant Reformers, he admits, rarely grasped the seriousness of their era’s social problems. Ever since, Protestantism lacked a social sense until it was recently revived, particularly in the Social Gospel movement.58 As noted above, Case also charged Ritschlians and “Liberals” with overlooking or discarding points of ancient Christianity that they found unacceptable regarding eschatology, supernatural beings, sacraments, and miracles. Preserving only a “narrow area” of early Christianity, they try “artificially to modernize the past,” a venture that inevitably proves unsatisfactory and that now is being undermined by the new functional emphasis.59 Educated modern Christians cannot inhabit the ­thought-​­world of early Christianity, yet the items they so blithely discard were often the ones that early Christians deemed most important, fundamental, and abiding.60 On this point, Case directs attention to the apocalyptic eschatology of some New Testament writings. Case recalls the jolt he experienced as a student when he discovered that the Synoptic Gospels and the “genuine” letters of Paul were thoroughly saturated with the expectation of the return of Jesus and the coming of the Kingdom. That these events did not happen raised the uncomfortable question, had Jesus and Paul been mistaken in other matters as well? “The nerve of Biblical authoritarianism seemed to be seriously lacerated, if not indeed completely severed,” Case writes. Nevertheless, he refused to pretend (as he thought Ritschlians and “Liberals” did) that New Testament views conformed to ­twentieth-​­century ones. Case sympathizes with pious students who imagine that higher criticism seemed “to be taking away our Lord and we were at a loss to know where to find him.”61 Even Schweitzer, Case notes, that great proponent of the eschatological Jesus, in the end retreated to speaking of the Jesus “spiritually arisen within men.” Case mocks this pious claim: in such confessions, more inspiring than intelligible, does one meet “the spirit of Jesus or only the spirit of Schweitzer?”62 With historical studies undermining many traditional Christian beliefs,

270

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

where then to ground the truth of Christianity? Later Ritschlians, including Harnack, had searched for an unshakeable “essence” of Christianity. Others, Case notes, turned to “the simple certainties of inner experience,” “the seemingly impregnable fortress of inner religious certainty.” Schleiermacher’s “feeling of dependence” required no other authority than one’s own ­self-​­consciousness.63 Thus Case, without explicitly stating the point, views this use of Schleiermacher’s theology as a conservative retreat when the historical authority of the Bible had collapsed. Given these seeming impasses, Case writes, some triumphantly proclaim, “let the dead bury their ­dead”—​­that is, just forget history. Case rejects this call, noting other functions that a study of history could play for Christians today. For example, even though they have largely rejected the apocalyptic teaching of early Christianity, they can explore how such beliefs contributed to “the success and efficiency of the new religious movement,” how they had “functional significance for a specific situation.”64 Christians, in other words, can cultivate a sympathetic understanding of how these beliefs functioned in earlier eras, even if unhelpful today. Again, the past is not the arbiter of the present. Case dryly predicts that a longer historical view and better insight into the “genetic forces that determine the ethical convictions of all individuals” will surely dampen the idea that a moment in the past contains “the ultimate in religious values,” embodied in Jesus as “the infallible model for all time to come.” Case is adamant: there is no historical resting place, only a “continuous quest” that (at best) draws inspiration from the past. Chicago’s divinity students should go beyond the faulty “Liberal” constructions; they “are called to be high priests of tomorrow’s spiritual order and propagandists of a new righteousness that will not enter into its kingdom until it aspires to excel the righteousness of the yesterdays.”65 Fundamentalism and Premillenarianism If Ritschlianism and Protestant Liberalism constituted one target of Case’s critique, Fundamentalism was a ­second—​­and with a wider reach to the ­non-​ ­academic public. William Hynes comments that while Harper urged Chicago scholars to serve the general community, Case went further in educational outreach. The commitment to improve the state of public knowledge, however, led “the Chicago School into a running battle with the fundamentalists in the 1920s. For many this was not a battle but a war. It was a war for the ‘lay



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

271

mind’ in which Chicago made use of the ‘lay weapon’—​­the secular functionalism of the ­socio-​­historical method.”66 Fundamentalism, although “less vociferous” at the moment Case was writing, nevertheless had assumed “acute forms,” such as Pentecostalism. He defined Fundamentalism more generally as the belief that biblical inspiration and authority were the true faith “once and for all delivered,” including traditional doctrines, such as the Trinity. All types of Protestant Fundamentalism, Case claims, adhere to the notion of “an authoritative revelation delivered in the past and regulative for all future religious thinking.” He mocks the practices as well as the doctrines of those who wish to retain “the stranded hulk” of some “­worn-​­out” ritual, such as ­foot-​­washing: do its advocates wish to return to the footwear and “lavatory customs” of the first century? Roman Catholicism, too, Case claims, has its form of Fundamentalism in ­Neo-​­Thomism, characterized as ecclesiastical authoritarianism, the “scholastic method of philosophical speculation,” and an affirmation of the “rights of ‘natural theology.’ ”67 Here, his critique resembled that of Catholic Modernists. An aspect of Protestant Fundamentalism that Case particularly abhorred was Premillennianism. George Marsden, in his Fundamentalism and American Culture, considers Case and Mathews as central to the project of arousing sentiment against Premillennialism. Marsden notes that in 1918–1919, most issues of Mathews’s journal, The Biblical World, contained at least one feature attacking it.68 World War I had revived the notion among American Premillennialists that God was soon to bring a cataclysmic end to the world; any human efforts to rescue the situation, they claimed, would be futile. Case scored this belief as “pernicious.” Doubtless, he conceded, some biblical writers expected such a catastrophic end. Modern Premillennialists, however, pervert Scripture by ignoring the context and function of such descriptions in the biblical ­era—​ ­namely, to sustain ancient peoples in times of trouble.69 Case deems the mindset of modern Premillennialists “mythological” and “a violent anachronism”: they view humanity’s career on earth as “one long process of deterioration from the days of Adam until the day of final doom.” Society, they claim, is to be damned, not redeemed. Case counters by naming various ways in which the world has advanced, not declined (for example, in the prevention and cure of disease, the spread of education). Wishing only to “rescue individual souls,” Premillennialists make no effort to remove the causes that lead humans astray. Case, writing soon after the United States had entered the war, charged that at this moment of the world’s great need, Premillennialism is “peculiarly vicious.”70

272

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

In 1918, the same year in which his Millennial Hope was published, Case wrote “The Premillennial Menace” for The Biblical World.71 Here, Case again accuses Premillennialists of dividing Christians at the very moment when America is “engaged in a gigantic effort to make the world safe for democracy.”72 These enemies of democracy are “a serious menace to the nation’s morale in this hour of its need.” For them, the war signals that Christ is soon to return and that human striving for a better world is in v­ ain—​­a teaching “all the more dangerous because it masquerades under the cloak of piety.” Perhaps, Case suggests, they secretly hope that Germany will win? Perhaps Germany is funding the propaganda that Premillennialists are spreading across America?73 Premillennialists, he claims, teamed up with the ­anarchist-​­leaning Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) to oppose the war:74 war makes for strange bedfellows. Apparently, Case expressed such sentiments to reporters from the Chicago Daily News, from which source they were reprinted in Premillennialist publications. Case told reporters that two thousand dollars a week was being spent to spread Premillennialist teaching, and hinted that “German sources” were funding the endeavor. He added, “In my belief the fund would be a profitable field for government investigation.”75 Even in the first century, Case reminds readers, the notion of a cataclysmic end of the world was an “elusive hope.” (The Kingdom did not dawn, and in the form that the first Christians expected, it “never will.”)76 Those espousing this illusion had to learn the hard way that God “works through human agencies to make known and accomplish his purposes in the world.” Now, Premil­ lennialists pray that God will destroy the very world that they should rather be working to reform.77 Yet, far from defeating Premillennialist thinking, Marsden argues, the war and controversies around it brought together disparate elements within conservative Christianity in a cultural battle against “Modernists” that would mark the postwar years.78 Given Case’s hostility to Premillenarianism, it is unsurprising that when writing on this topic, he downplays the apocalyptic aspect of Jesus’ teaching and ­worldview—​­much like the “Liberals” he critiqued. In The Evolution of Early Christianity (1914), he acknowledges scholars’ new interest in Jewish and early Christian eschatology. Wilhelm Bousset, he charges, overlooked this aspect in his enthusiasm to make Paul a proponent of the Kyrios cult; Albert Schweitzer, by contrast, strongly overplayed it, trying to explain everything in Paul’s letters by reference to it.79 Case retreats to calling Jesus’ apocalyptic imagery merely “the decorative garment” that clothed his central, n ­ on-​­apocalyptic message; he used it only “to please the eye of a m ­ iracle-​­loving age.” The imag-



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

273

ery, however, soon gained precedence in early Christian teaching over “the essential body of religious ideas that inspired worthy Christian living.” Case now attributes the eschatological vision of the Kingdom of God to Jesus’ disciples and other early followers, not to Jesus himself. He regrets that some of his own contemporaries mistakenly believe that the supernaturalism of early Christianity was its “essential item.”80 When critiquing “Liberals,” Case argued that moderns should not downplay the centrality of apocalyptic thinking in early Christianity. He had, however, a different battle to wage when he confronted Premillennialists. ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy In the 1930s and 1940s, Case’s writings reflect his growing concern over the “unhistorical dogmatism” now dominating Protestant theology on the Continent (that is, ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy): Premillenarian pessimism, he thought, was being reborn in a different guise. The retreat by Karl Barth and his colleagues to ­Reformation-​­era theology and dogmatic biblical interpretation, he charged, only widened the rift between the church and the modern world, fostering disillusionment and despair.81 These theologians of crisis claim that ultimate knowledge must be sought in revelation. Yet, Case counters, what Barth calls “revelation” is always an interpretation of revelation.82 For Case, the only kind of revelation that can be considered enduring is “that which repeats itself in the experience of actual persons.” Moreover, Case charged, these philosophies of despair “consigned history to the cosmic rubbish heap,” deeming it bankrupt as a religious resource for modern humans.83 He devoted a chapter to this topic (“The Revival of Historical Dualism”) in The Christian Philosophy of History (1943).84 Whereas some early Christian writers based divine “otherness” on God’s infinite and incorporeal nature, modern ­Neo-​­Orthodox writers, Case claims, ascribe it “to the hopeless status of man in this evil world.” Barth in effect revived the Augustinian “extreme contrast” between almighty God and impotent humans. Like Augustine, the N ­ eo-​­Orthodox consider it “sheer folly for man to arrogate to himself any power or responsibility for effecting his own or the world’s salvation.”85 Reviving a form of “­super-​­human authoritarianism” and conceiving God as “totally other,” Case charges, leaves unanswered “how this absentee deity can be known”: God’s contact with history becomes “irruptive and sporadic, warning men of their helplessness and of impending judgment,” but not helping humans to better society.86

274

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Case (as always, looking to “genetic” factors in the “environment”) believed that ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy was prompted, first and foremost, by the increasingly complex modern culture. Barthians lost confidence in “liberalism’s fundamental postulates of divine immanence, initiative and responsibility of the individual, and optimistic progressivism.” To them, Liberalism seemed inefficient (unlike authoritarian governments, whether ecclesiastical or secular), muddling, and unrealistic; and Liberals, too naively trusting in human nature and “progress.” ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy stressed the primacy of paradox, denied divine immanence, distrusted human reason, and deemed human activism futile.87 Case here supports the progressive views of “Liberalism,” although, as we have seen, he dissociates himself from some aspects of that theological movement. Case names several “environmental” factors that may have stimulated ­Neo-​­Orthodox pessimism. Some of modernization’s benefits, he concedes, produced evils in their wake; for example, the organization of labor led to strikes, higher costs of goods, and labor racketeering. On the intellectual side, Case points to the translation of Søren Kierkegaard’s works into German between 1909 and 1911, which promoted the pessimistic view that evil was dominant in the world. Meanwhile, critical social thinking, spurred by Marxism and Socialism, deemed the established social order a source of evil. Finally, the eruption of World War I and its aftermath encouraged the notion that evil forces ruled the world. Instead of reflecting on the disasters of the war to promote greater efforts in the future, some (Barth), preaching a message of defeatism, viewed the war as a sign that human efforts were futile. These theologians elevated the temporal distresses of Europe into “an ­all-​­pervading cosmic process.” This “philosophy of despair” suited the mood of postwar Europe, especially of Germany. The perplexed and discouraged, Case claimed, fled to a “­supra-​­temporal world” for the solution of life’s problems.88 Case scoffs at these theological tendencies as a “recent vogue.” Over and again, he attributes the “cult of crisis” to the disturbing recent disruptions that had beset Europe: its theologians protested the notion of progress, rejected individual effort as leading to advancement, and predicted future catastrophe for which God (or possibly a dictator, he darkly suggests from the vantage point of 1933) was the only rescue.89 Case clearly believes that this movement harbored undemocratic and politically dangerous tendencies. Its thinkers, he charged, are blind to the goodness that is present in nature, man, and society, and cites Psalms 8:4 and 19:1 to bolster his argument. Relieving humans of responsibility, ­Neo-​­Orthodox theologians look to God to bring the e­ schaton—​ ­“as though the end were in sight,” Case dryly adds. They take too short a view



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

275

of human history and culture; they obscure the point (as do some Premillennialists) that the good has made progress in some areas. They remove God from the processes of the physical universe and from history, denying God “his sustaining fatherhood.”90 Since, in Case’s view, Barthians give no opening for “moral idealism,” they display “no vital interest” in Jesus’ ethical teaching. They downplay Jesus’ example, his devotion to “noble ethical ideals.” For them, the ethical element in Jesus’ message serves only to warn, not to educate. They do not see Jesus as “a beacon to light their path along the way of individual and social endeavor.”91 Reviewing the English translation of Rudolf Bultmann’s Jesus (with its title significantly altered to Jesus and the Word), Case charges that the book has “modernized” Jesus, as did Ritschlians, albeit with a different spin. Bultmann has rewritten Jesus to fit the new Barthian theology: here, Jesus is not “concerned with setting up human ideals or with developing human capacities for ­character-​­building,” but is simply the bearer of the Word of God that breaks through from beyond. Jesus’ “pronouncements were a message from without,” Case writes, “and not an expression of ideals and attainments inherent in his own spiritual personality.”92 ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy, he charges, revives the very dualism that modern religious thinking rejected.93 When scoring the alleged evils of N ­ eo-​­Orthodoxy, Case willingly assumes the ­otherwise-​­discarded mantle of Liberalism: Barth and his followers look backwards, whereas liberal thinkers look forward. Liberals emphasize humans’ responsibility for bringing the Kingdom of God to realization in human history; their worldview is “humanistic, empirical, activistic, and optimistic.” They take on the struggle, not depending on God to solve all crises.94 They believe that God chooses to work in the world through the agency of humans, rejecting what they consider the “Calvinistic pessimism” of the ­Neo-​­Orthodox. Although Modernism has its defects, Case concedes, the cure for them is “more modernism.”95

Influences James Harvey Robinson and the “New History” Before Annalistes Jacques LeGoff and Pierre Nora made famous the “Nouvelle Histoire” in the 1970s, an earlier “new history” thrived in America. This “New History,” as espoused by James Harvey Robinson of Columbia University in

276

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

the first years of the twentieth century, greatly influenced Case. Robinson scorned textbooks with their lists of names and dates, and faulted historians’ predilection for “merely political events and persons.” Centering history on the state (a legacy from Leopold von Ranke), he claimed, had crowded out attention to many human endeavors.96 Robinson urged historians to focus on “the ways in which people have thought and acted in the past, their tastes and their achievements in many fields besides the political.”97 As a historian, Robinson looked to the everyday, the inconspicuous, and the common.98 Instead of emphasizing the typical, he charged, historians wrongly accent the dramatic or lurid detail, the “commotion.” They overlook “the lucid intervals during which the greater part of human progress has taken place.” The ability to recognize continuity in history has accordingly suffered.99 This point resonated with Case, who devoted an entire chapter of The Christian Philosophy of History to the topic “The Continuity of History.”100 As detailed below, he charged earlier church historians for overemphasizing “crisis” as the dominant motor of historical change. Robinson also advocated the utility of history as a discipline. Historians, he urged, show how their field helps modern people understand themselves and humankind’s “problems and prospects.” His endeavor, he insists, differs from the traditional appeal to the past to provide moral guidance or consolation in the present: the present is moving so rapidly that merely citing past examples cannot solve its problems. Rather, present conditions and “needs” are illuminated by the historical and social processes that generated them. The conditions that produced (for example) the Holy Roman Apostolic Church, trial by jury, or the liberal arts differ greatly from today’s; to understand them, to show “how things come about,” is a major purpose of historical study. To accomplish its task, the “New History” avails itself of the work of anthropologists, economists, psychologists, and sociologists, who have revolutionized our understanding of “the origins, progress, and prospects of our race.” Robinson calls this tracing of causes and development a “genetic” approach.101 This term, Case will frequently repeat. Robinson stressed “development.” History is not “a stationary subject,” but develops along with society and the social sciences.102 It seeks “sanction in the future, not in the past.”103 (Robinson, keen on “progress,” suggests that the sin against the Holy Ghost may today be reinterpreted as “the refusal to cooperate with the vital principle of betterment.”)104 Presaging a debate that would occupy the late twentieth century, Robinson argues that history shows that much of what is mistakenly attributed to nature should rather be assigned to



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

277

nurture.105 In Robinson’s era, historians were rejecting the subject’s classification with “literature” and aspiring to a more “scientific” a­ pproach—​­although Robinson warns that history can never be “an exact science.”106 Robinson deeply influenced the direction of ­history-​­teaching in secondary schools: as the intellectual force behind the 1916 Social Studies Report, his views tipped the teaching of history ­toward the modern, the present, and a “social studies” model.107 Case, we shall see, was much indebted to Robinson. History of Religions Scholarship Chicago Divinity School faculty had taken an interest in the religions of antiquity from the University’s earliest days. At its founding in 1892, the University had established a Department of Comparative Religions, and Harper had called George S. Goodspeed to head this wing, as well as to teach ancient history.108 Three years later, the University established two lectureships (the Haskell Lectures and the Barrows Lectures) that would bring speakers in the field to Chicago. The 1890s saw the growing popularity of the history of religions. In 1897, the American Oriental Society (founded in 1842) formed a section devoted to that topic. In 1893, the World Parliament of Religions, part of the Columbian Exposition, drew thousands to Chicago to learn about “other” religions and to hear testimonies to their own.109 Joseph Kitagawa notes that the comparative study of religions was greatly furthered by the religious liberalism of ­turn-​­­of-​­­the-​­century America, a tendency later partly reversed under the influence of N ­ eo-​­Orthodoxy (“a theological renaissance”). He regrets that the field’s early pioneers in America did not establish strong graduate centers for training in the history of religions: although “comparative religions” had been in vogue up to the 1920s, its scholarly base and resources had not been secured. In seminaries of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, he notes, the field was popular, albeit often “as a tool for the Christian world mission.”110 Case understood the central problem of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule to be the relation of New Testament Christianity to its immediate religious environment in the G ­ reco-​­Roman world. The History of Religions School, he claimed, found its models and parallels in the contemporary world in which early Christianity developed, not in ancient Egypt, Babylonia, Persia, or India.111 Case had read at least some of the major works of the School, including Bousset’s Kyrios Christos, Reitzenstein’s Poimandres and his Hellenistischen Mysterienreligionen, and Gunkel’s Zum religiongeschichtlichen Verständnis des

278

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Neuen Testaments.112 Case reviewed Kyrios Christos for Chicago’s American Journal of Theology in 1914,113 the same year in which he published The Evolution of Early Christianity, in which he detailed points of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule. Case noted that members of the “School” differed in their estimates of Christianity’s “genetic relation” to Judaism. Some (like Gunkel) stressed that link; others (like Bousset) downplayed it. Bousset had argued that the Kyrios cult in early Gentile Christianity pushed the (Jewish) eschatological emphases of early Christianity far into the background. In Bousset’s reading, Case reports, Paul early adopted the Kyrios cult as a model for interpreting the religion that developed around Jesus. Although Case stressed that early Christianity had borrowed features of G ­ reco-​­Roman religion, he charged that Bousset had discarded the eschatological emphasis too readily. Schweitzer’s studies of Paul (Geschichte der paulinischen Forschung [1911]) had swung totally in the opposite direction, making eschatology central. Case opts for a middle position: Paul retained a “Christianized form of the Jewish apocalyptic hope,” even as he adapted Christian teaching to a Gentile environment. Would it not be better, Case asks, to call Paul’s religion a “Messiah” cult rather than a “Kyrios” cult?114 Reviewing Kyrios Christos, Case develops these points. He elaborates Bousset’s conclusion that Paul’s Christianity was greatly indebted “to the influences of oriental mystery cults already present in the syncretism of his day.” While ­pre-​­Christian Gnosticism prepared the way for these mystical tendencies, Christianity itself developed in a less mystical direction, but kept the notion of Jesus as “the present lord [kyrios] of the community.” Case praises Bousset for carrying his study up to the time of Irenaeus: the longer time span helps “to correct the notion that the Christianity of the New Testament is essentially a different thing from that of the apostolic or ­post-​­apostolic age. It is all a part of one continuous stream of development.” While praising Bousset’s “general method of expounding Christianity in the light of religious conditions within the G ­ reco-​­Roman world,” Case faults him for making Paul “too u­ n-​­Jewish and too uneschatological,” while making the first Christians “too u­ n-​­‘spiritual’ and too unecstatic,” depicting them as if they were adherents of the (later) Christianity promoted by James in Jerusalem.115 Case also reviewed Bousset’s ­Jüdisch-​­Christlicher Schulbetrieb (1915) in Chicago’s American Journal of Theology. Here, Bousset had probed Philo’s and Clement of Alexandria’s sources pertaining to advanced educational institutions (“schools”). Case concludes that despite Bousset’s sketchiness on details, he had importantly emphasized the need to study these authors “primarily in



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

279

the light of their own immediate environment.”116 Once again, Case stresses a characteristic point of the History of Religions School: texts of the Roman era should be studied in light of their contemporary setting, not that of the f­ar-​ ­distant past. Case’s Bibliographical Guide shows some of his developing ­interests—​­for example, anthropology of religion. Under “Christianity in Newer Fields,” he lists ­Lévy-​­Bruhl’s How Natives Think and R. H. Lowie’s Primitive Religion, in addition to textbooks on Religionsgeschichte and G.  F.  Moore’s ­two-​­volume History of Religions. He also lists the review article by A.  Eustace Haydon, “­Twenty-​­Five Years of History of Religions,” published in the Journal of Religion in 1926.117 Luigi Salvatorelli’s “From Locke to Reitzenstein: The Historical Investigation of the Origins of Christianity,” published in the Harvard Theological Review in 1926, similarly furnished Case with much information. Salvatorelli’s lengthy essay detailed Gunkel’s role in steering the field of Christian origins away from Greece and Rome, and ­toward “the Orient.”118 The author also described Reitzenstein’s studies of the Hermetic literature, Bousset’s of Gnosticism (that challenged Harnack’s view of Gnosticism as a heretical branch of Christianity), and Cumont’s of Mithraism and “oriental” religions within the Roman Empire.119 Another scholar Case admired for his work on pagan influences on early Christianity was Carl Clemen. Clemen’s inaugural lecture at the University of Bonn was published in 1904 as Die religionsgeschichtliche Methode in der Theologie, in which he stressed a basic principle of that “School”: that scholars should analyze New Testament views by comparing them with those of other religions.120 When Chicago’s Ernest Burton went to China in 1908, the University hired Clemen to fill in. Clemen was a favorite at the Divinity School; its American Journal of Theology published fourteen reviews of his works.121 In 1908, Clemen had completed his book Religionsgeschichtliche Erklärung des Neuen Testaments, which a few years later was published in English as Primitive Christianity and Its N ­ on-​­Jewish Sources.122 Case approves Clemen’s postulate that “the truth of an idea or the value of an institution is surely altogether independent of its origin.” Other religions, Clemen argued, may well have left their mark on Christianity, even when Christianity opposed them.123 A few years later, in 1913, Clemen published Der Einfluss der Mysterienreligionen auf das älteste Christentum,124 which brought “influence” closer to the areas in which Case was interested. History of Religions scholarship, which fostered comparative study and looked to “genetic” influences in a religion’s “environment,” clearly was useful to Case.

280

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Roads Less Taken: Pragmatism, “Vitalism,” and Science By all accounts, philosophy was not a strong aspect of the Divinity School curriculum in its early days. William Hynes, in his study of Case, calls Case and Mathews “­anti-​­philosophical,” noting that neither appears to have had any contact with John Dewey and G. H. Mead.125 Another sign of the lack of interest in t­ hen-​­contemporary philosophy at the Divinity School: in the three decades of Chicago’s publication of the American Journal of Theology, only three reviews of William James’s work appeared, and just one of Dewey’s. Only in the late 1920s, when Whitehead scholar Henry Nelson Wieman joined the Divinity School faculty, did at least one form of contemporary philosophy (Whitehead’s) get a boost. Hynes concludes that the greatest weakness of Case’s historical method was “its persistent lack of philosophical circumspection.”126 Some of Dewey’s principal points could have been usefully appropriated by Case. In his t­ wo-​­part essay of 1902, “The Evolutionary Method as Applied to Morality,”127 Dewey first defines “genetic” as pertaining to “the manner or process by which anything comes into experienced existence”; in some cases, it can be identified with the experimental method.128 History, Dewey continues, is “a process that reveals to us the conditions under which moral practices and ideas have originated. This enables us to place, to relate them. In seeing where they came from, in what situations they arose, we see their significance. . . . ​History is for the individual and for the unending procession of the universe, what experiment is to the detached field of physics.”129 Dewey’s words succinctly sum up how Case viewed the historical task. Moreover, Dewey wars against “idealists” who imagine that an earlier formulation “sets the standard of reality and of worth” for what comes later, that the “earlier datum has some sort of fixity and finality of its own.” Only an old, “purely metaphysical conception of causation” imagines that a cause is “somehow superior in rank and excellence to the effect.”130 Dewey looks to the historical method as a way to determine how specific moral values arose and then to gauge their significance through time. Genetic theory holds that even beliefs that appear to be necessary and universal have arisen, developed, and responded to given situations. Genetic theory, he writes, accords a “positive moral validity to any belief that has arisen as a persistent response to a situation.” By looking to the circumstances that generated certain moral ideas and the effects that they produced, we are lifted out of the realm of “mere opinion, sentimentality, and prejudice.”131 However much in Dewey’s thought would have resonated with Case (his



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

281

functional approach to history, his optimism, his concern for American democracy), he does not cite Dewey on “genetic” history and related topics. He may have adopted the word “genetic” without studying Dewey’s philosophy for ­himself—​­or borrowed it from James Harvey Robinson.132 Given Case’s frequent use of the words “vital” and “vitalistic,” we might imagine that he had studied Henri Bergson and “vitalistic” philosophy. In the first decade of the twentieth century, William James had promoted Bergson’s thought in America.133 Bergson’s Time and Free Will (1889), Time and Memory (1896), and Creative Evolution (1907) all appeared in English translation in 1910 and 1911.134 Bergson himself lectured in America in 1913 and was warmly received.135 An excited reviewer for the journal Current Opinion listed the various American journals and newspapers that had noticed (and usually heralded) Bergson and his writings.136 One such was the Divinity School’s own Biblical World, edited by Shailer Mathews, in which a systematic theology professor at Yale had laid out how Bergson’s philosophy celebrated mysticism and ­intuition—​­categories welcome to religionists.137 Despite this excitement and Case’s own frequent use of the terms “vital” and “vitalistic,” I have found no evidence that he actually read Bergson. Surely there were aspects of Bergson’s general t­hought—​­its notion of evolution as producing new and unexpected trajectories, its easy alliance with religion of certain ­types138—​­that would have resonated with Case’s thought, but if Case shied away from philosophy in general, he certainly would not have found Bergson’s complex tomes easy to understand. He seems instead simply to have picked up some popular catchphrases of the day and put them to his own use: for him, “vital” betokens “life,” that which he aimed to find “behind” the texts. As noted above, another turning point of the “Chicago School’s” approach was Henry Nelson Wieman’s introduction of Whitehead’s philosophy to the Divinity School in the late 1920s.139 In the decades that followed, “Process” approaches became hallmarks of the “Chicago School.”140 Historians such as Case could no longer claim a monopoly on what made the School “great.” Case’s advocacy of science was greater than his interest in philosophy. Here again, he was not a s­pecialist—​­and spun the import of scientific thought to support his own theology. He credited science, broadly conceived, as prompting welcome developments in theology, such as encouraging Christians to abandon the notion of God’s “capricious intervention” in the world through miracles. Case urges readers to accept the scientific interpretation of the natural world.141 He even argues that theological and philosophical developments of the nineteenth century (Hegel in particular) spurred the theory of evolution, even

282

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

before Charles Darwin elaborated it. Case gave a religious nuance to evolutionary theory, claiming that l­iberal-​­minded theologians welcomed it: “The doctrine of evolution, now promulgated as a scientific theory, saved the day for many a theologian. . . . ​Evolution was only another name for God acting not merely from above but within his world, displaying his beneficent, intelligent, infinite and eternal energy. Even to posit a simian ancestry for man did not seem to cut him off so sharply from deity as was done by the older doctrine of a total depravity imposed by Adam upon his descendants.”142 Liberals, allegedly relieved by the claims of evolutionary theory, now had sanction to read parts of the Bible allegorically and to develop a more ­science-​ ­friendly type of natural theology.143 Whether Case himself was among the “relieved” is here unstated: he was no friend of allegorical interpretation and criticized Protestant Liberals for their misplaced adulation of “texts.” Elsewhere, Case wrote that we now see that “the natural impulse of men stems from a brutish ancestry, and religion faces the herculean task of making moral and spiritual ideals flower above the beastly strain of savage blood inherited perhaps from a Neanderthal man.” Fortunately, Case admits, humans have had eons in which to accomplish this flowering.144 Case also left unanswered whether there had been similar moral evolution. Answering “yes” might have an unfortunate effect: ascribing development as a natural evolutionary process not requiring human effort might suppress “personal ethical initiative” and attempts to improve the social order.145 I conclude that the two contemporary movements that significantly impacted Case’s construal of Christian history were the “New History” and the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule. Whether he was influenced by various stripes of contemporary philosophy remains much less certain. Although Case does not always cite works that influenced him (in many writings, he provides no documentation of his sources), he may have read more of philosophers such as Dewey than his texts manifest.

Historiography The History of Church History Like LaPiana and McGiffert, Case believed that graduate students in church history should become familiar with the development of their discipline. Not only does such study provide an understanding of history’s sweep, Case



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

283

claimed; it also offers insight and guidance regarding present and future conduct. It provides “a new sense of man’s responsibility for creating a better society.”146 The moralism inflecting earlier views regarding history’s value still colors Case’s account, despite his proclamation of a strictly “­socio-​­historical” approach. In his course “Historical Method” (Church History ­306—​­on which, more below), Case presented his students with a brief survey of the history of Christian historiography. Although he himself stressed continuity in history, he believed that past historians had favored the notion of “crisis.” Hence he organizes his scheme around different alleged “crises,” although by putting the word in scare quotes, he indicates his suspicion of this traditional approach. Moreover, the “crisis” model savored of the despised Barthian “theology of krisis.” Nevertheless, he wrote, “history [that is, what historians have written] teaches us that Christianity thrives on crises.”147 What was wrong with the historiographical model that emphasized “breaks”? In addition to reinforcing a traditional periodization of Christian history that seemingly erased the notion of continuity, Case charged, it tended to idealize the past and construe the present as “decadent.” Scholars with scientific interests in history, he wrote, who embrace the theory of evolution, have rejected “catastrophe” as a historical model. Among the “catastrophes” that the theory of evolution prompts Christians to discard is the notion of Adam’s Fall. Evolution, Case assured readers, explains the darker aspects of human nature differently.148 A second theme running throughout is Case’s disdain for “literary” history. In a course on “Christian Thought” for Divinity School students (Christian Theology 304), he explained the problem: systems of ideas, devised by only a “few exceptional persons,” are highly individualistic. Historical study should rather include “low” forms of culture as well as “high.” Finding “variety,” not “essence,” should be the historian’s goal. In contrast to the “literary method” (such as McGiffert employed) that focuses on texts produced by Christian intellectuals through the ages, the “­socio-​­genetic method” attends to “the circumstances conditioning or stimulating Christian thinking in specific situations.” Despite his critique of McGiffert’s “literary” approach, Case recommends his History of Christian Thought, God of the Early Christians, Protestant Thought Before Kant, and The Rise of Modern Religious Ideas.149 While faulting McGiffert’s approach, Case depended on his scholarship. Case describes to students how the historiography of Christianity developed from a “­myth-​­type” approach, rising through philosophical speculation

284

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

(whether Platonism, Aristotelianism, ­or—​­­surprisingly—​­even Pragmatism), to “the emergence of critical thought,” spurred by the physical sciences and the rise of historical studies. The latter includes the study of documents, newer views of human history that demolished the story of the “Fall,” and the history of cultures, which similarly challenged the notion of a “chosen people” as recipients of revelation. Next, the rise of social studies boosted the importance of ethics. Last, psychological studies have illumined both individual religious experience, especially mysticism, and group or institutional psychology. The aim, Case adds, is not to discover doctrinal truth, but simply to ascertain what types of Christianity have been considered true or false at different times and by whom.150 Early Christian Historiography Introducing historical method in Church History 306, Case sketches Jewish, Greek, and Roman contributions to historiography. Of early Christian historians, he mentions Hegesippus, Julius Africanus, and especially Eusebius of Caesarea. Eusebius’ catalogue of bishops in the Ecclesiastical History, Case tells students, is patterned on the diadochai of the philosophical schools: another instance in which Christians copied from pagans. Eusebius, however, treats his subjects from the point of view of “literary history,” so despised by Case. Moreover, Eusebius’ purpose is apologetic: to justify Christianity’s history and “prove that the church is a divine establishment.”151 “Crisis,” in Case’s view, is the key theme that provides the model for Eusebius’ successors. In the East, the “crises” calling for historical narration include the Arian and Christological controversies, Julian’s reaction against Christianity, and Theodosius’ favoring of Christianity and repression of paganism. In the West, the “crisis” centers on the barbarian invasions. Rufinus of Aquileia, Case notes, intended his translation of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History, to which he added two books, “to steady the Christian mind under the disturbance occasioned by the barbarian invasions.”152 Jerome, however, seemingly did not register the importance of the new “crisis” that his younger contemporaries (Augustine, Orosius, and Salvian) saw coming in the West. He wrote his Lives of Illustrious Men (modeled on Suetonius: again, Christians copy pagans) to refute critics who charged that Christianity lacked philosophers, orators, and teachers of distinction. In his Chronicle, Jerome improved upon Eusebius’ work by including Roman history and literature, adding a section that covered from the late years of Constantine



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

285

to the death of Valens in 378. In addition, Jerome used Latin historians with whom Eusebius apparently was not acquainted (for example, Eutropius, Suetonius, Ammianus Marcellinus, Aurelius Victor). Jerome’s saints’ Lives also show “his apologetic and edifying interest in history.” Thus, Case alleges, for Jerome, “history was used to demonstrate the divine antiquity and the cultural ­ istories—​­apologetic, edifying in respectability of Christianity.”153 Jerome’s h aim, and based on “literary” ­sources—​­were no more “real” history than were his predecessors’. With Sulpicius Severus’ Chronica, Case claims, we encounter a new “crisis”: the Priscillianist “menace,” which Sulpicius feared was “impairing the strength of Christianity from within and inviting mockery and insult from without.” Sulpicius hoped “to counteract the appeal of Priscillian’s intellectualism,” believing that Priscillian “had ruined his excellent intellect by wicked studies.” (Sulpicius, Case remarks, would have preferred that Priscillian cultivate “monkish piety.”) Countering Priscillianist intellectualism represents, to Case, Sulpicius’ “protest against ‘Modernism.’ ”154 Case apparently knew little about Priscillian’s ascetic leanings. The barbarian “crisis” in the West, Case claims, stimulated a new interest in history. Augustine’s “optimistic eschatology” predicted the triumph of the City of God and the establishment of the reign of Christ. Salvian of Marseilles, for his part, took the barbarian invasions as God’s just judgment on humanity’s ­sins—​­but thought that virtuous barbarians showed better prospects than had wicked Romans.155 Attitudes likewise varied concerning the “crisis” of the barbarian invaders (or “settlers,” if one held a more pacific view): Victor of Vita in the late fifth century detailed the crimes of Arian Vandals against Catholics in North Africa, while Cassiodorus more readily accepted the new “settlers” in the West. No one in antiquity or the Middle Ages, however, looked to “the genetic processes” that had occasioned change.156 To Case’s mind, a scientific approach to history was not possible in those eras, given the assumptions and motives that governed its writing. Early Modern and Modern Christian Historiography A different “crisis” loomed with the Protestant Reformation. At the beginning of this era, Case claims, neither Catholics nor Protestants felt the need for historical study: Catholics, because they had an authoritative church, and Protestants, because they had an authoritative Bible. The new interest in history, as manifested in the Magdeburg Centuries, was motivated by Protestants’ desire

286

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

to show the corruption of the Catholic ­Church—​­a very different motivation from the impetus to the new humanistic learning inspired by the Renaissance. In fact, Case bluntly claims, Protestants set that learning back.157 Impelled by this new “crisis,” Catholics from the sixteenth to the eighteenth centuries awoke to the importance of historical study. Scholars such as Baronius, Case tells students, “pursued it more efficiently than did Protestants.” Catholics’ aim, however, was not scientific but apologetic, for edification and cultural ends (for example, to show divine Providence at work in Catholic history). Sometimes Catholic scholars wrote at the behest of Catholic princes, as did J.-​­B. Bousset for Louis XIV, or to defend Gallicanism against the Italian party within the Church, as did Claude Fleury. Among Protestants of the era, biblicism at first hindered the study of Christian history: they leapt over the period between the Bible and the Reformers. In both early modern Protestantism and Catholicism, Case charges, apologetics reigned.158 In fact, it still holds sway among those who appeal to the past to justify present arrangements or proclaim what “should” be.159 Only in the nineteenth century, Case tells students, did Protestants begin to embrace the scientific historical method. What encouraged the new historical study? He answers: the recovery of old documents; the emergence of a new interest in humanity and confidence in natural law; the pragmatic morality of Kant and the absolute idealism of Hegel. These currents promoted the first critical reconstruction of early Christian history (specifically, of Paul’s activities) by F.  C.  Baur. Elsewhere, Case notes the Hegelian influence on Baur’s scheme, a point out of favor with his own cohort. Case writes: “The type of thinking that Kant and Hegel had inspired made possible a cultivation of historical interests that probably never could have been realized on the basis of the naturalistic rationalism of earlier times. . . . ​History could now be read in the light of moral and spiritual idealism.”160 The German church historian August Neander, although more pious than Hegel, was similarly imbued with Christian “absolutism.” Both English rationalism and Hegelian idealism, Case charges, “made doctrine too completely an intellectual abstraction,” rather than “a vital historical reality.”161 Case on Adolf von Harnack During the period of Case’s education and early teaching career, many scholars considered Harnack’s work definitive. Case, however, came to think it defective. In an essay, “Historical Study of Christian Doctrine” (1945), Case attacked



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

287

Harnack’s historiography. Although he praises a few points (for example, that Harnack gave “heretics” a place in his histories), Case finds Harnack’s definition of dogma (as the product of the Greek spirit working on the ground of the Gospel) methodologically “vulnerable.”162 Why “vulnerable”? First, Case asserts, Harnack presupposes that there is a fixed amount of gospel teaching on which the later superstructure was raised. This assumption shows that he still harbors the idea of an original deposit, “a given canon,” albeit one greatly shrunk to fit Ritschlian notions of revelation: extracting passages from the Gospels, Harnack decides which of Jesus’ teachings are divine, the “kernel,” not the “husk.” From Case’s perspective, this procedure lies in the realm of apologetics.163 It is not scientific history. A second defect in Harnack’s mode of operation: he fails to draw out “the vital social roots of Christian doctrine” and neglects the church as a developing social organization. He works from dogma to cult, not vice versa. (In Case’s view, dogma arose “to preserve the traditions and ceremonies of the ecclesiastical institution from losing their identity and validity on coming into contact with Greek speculation.”) Christian doctrine, for Case, is rooted in the life, the “matrix,” of Christian groups.164 Case, however, eager to showcase the “environment” of early Christianity, overplayed Harnack’s alleged inattention to the “matrix.”165

Case on the ­Socio-​­Historical Method in Church History Having faulted church historians of the past for failures in method and assumptions, Case was eager to outline what he considered correct historical method, a subject that occupied him throughout his career. He wrote more about method in historical study than about the ­subject-​­matter of late ancient Christianity. His endorsement of a ­social-​­historical approach to early Christianity has been revived in the past h ­ alf-​­century, although scholars today are usually more cautious about the possibility of acquiring sure knowledge of “the people” behind and within early Christian texts. William Hynes outlines the major components of Case’s s­ ocio-​­historical method. By “social,” Hynes writes, Case signaled both the environmental setting and the social nature of religion itself. History was for him the central mode of human understanding. Historians’ work should embrace scientific, developmental, and empirical approaches, eschewing normative or “didactic” ones; it should emphasize “functionality” and “vitalistic” social processes. The

288

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

approach is “genetic” (in that it looks for the causal nexus underlying phenomena) and spurs human activism. Hynes observes that over time, “function” became more important for Case than his early stress on “the personal religion of Jesus.” Yet, Hynes adds, Case failed to examine the assumptions of the ­socio-​ ­historical method ­itself—​­a failure perhaps aggravated by his ­anti-​­philosophical stance.166 Case, in his first essay on the topic, “The Historical Method in the Study of Religion” (1908),167 defines religion as “the Godward consciousness of the human race, the soul’s sense of its relation to deity . . . ​the ­God-​­faculty of man.” He attributes a “common religious instinct” to all humans. At this early stage of his career, Case focused mainly on the Jesus of the Synoptic Gospels. He was confident that scholars could get “behind” the texts to uncover “the real Jesus of history,” as distinct from the Evangelists’ portraits. In a throwback to the Ritschlianism he had allegedly rejected, he affirmed Jesus’ uniqueness and searched for “the facts which reveal its basis.” “Rigid research,” he claims, will uncover ­truth—​­which, paradoxically, is also ­self-​­attesting.168 Such claims as these led Paul Schubert to write that although Case was a proponent of historical relativism, he nevertheless drew “absolutist” conclusions from his relativist premises.169 Even in 1908, however, Case hints at positions he would later develop. He urges the study of comparative religions, psychology of religion, critical history, and archeology. He advises historians to take the rhetoric of early Christian doctrine with the proverbial grain of salt. Eager to link religion and science, he encourages his audience to train their minds to uncover the secrets and laws of God’s universe.170 Case, in 1908, was still “in process.” The year 1921 finds Case more forthrightly endorsing the methodology that became a hallmark of “Chicago School” historians.171 This he did in an essay, “The Historical Study of Religion,” written for the inaugural issue of the Journal of Religion.172 The first pages of “Historical Study” borrow extensively from James Harvey Robinson’s “New History” essay. Case extols the new approach to history that goes beyond kings and armies to focus on the everyday elements that have always characterized humans’ lives. “The Great Man,” he claims, has his place, but should be understood only in the context of “the common life of his contemporaries.”173 “The new history,” Case explains, “asks its representatives to make society rather than documents their point of departure in reconstructing the story of the past.” This is precisely Case’s desired mode of operation. Advocates of the “new history,” he reports, study institutions as an aspect of “the social milieu by which they were produced and maintained.” (Protestants, he adds, have been



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

289

too prone to study persons and dogmas rather than institutions.) The “new historians” take a developmental approach, looking for the genetic connections of past events, “the causal nexus underlying phenomena,” such as social stimuli, politics, economics, and psychology.174 Historians cannot compare “ideas” without connecting them to the soil and atmosphere that nourished them. Historians should (as Robinson recommended) seek help from sociology, psychology, and anthropology. Case especially highlights anthropologists’ contribution: they show historians how to get at “the presuppositions underlying thought and conduct”­175—​­an emphasis that would be reborn in later t­ wentieth-​ ­century histories. Case’s description of “the causal nexus” emphasizes influences “outside” religion itself; discounted is a confessionalism that imagines revelatory events or divine inspiration as the “causes” of religious experience. Case seeks to convince his readers that religion is a worthy historical subject insofar as it has been and remains “a vital factor in the social evolution of humanity.” Christianity, like the “ethnic” faiths (for example, Judaism), has grown and expanded “under the continued stimulus of social environment.” Historians of Christianity must look to the “actual personal experiences” of its devotees. They must immerse themselves psychologically in the ancient world, seeking out the presuppositions that underlie the thought and conduct of the era. They should work inductively from “concrete and empirically verifiable data” to form their hypotheses and conclusions. Their task, unlike that of speculative theologians, is to observe and interpret that data.176 The emphases of the “New History” provide Case with ammunition against Protestant Liberal historians, such as McGiffert. The latter, by focusing on intellectual history, ignore (so Case alleges) how the “environment,” “genetic forces,” acted upon and shaped the lives of believers. McGiffert’s Apostolic Age, Case charges, despite being a welcome study of issues internal to the early Christian community, largely ignores the environment of believers’ lives.177 As a commentator later put it, Case faulted the Liberals’ ­literary-​ ­historical method, which looked to a group of surviving books but “failed to take account of the society that produced the books.”178 Downplaying texts in favor of “the people,” Case argues that the historian’s first concern is to interpret religious movements and “only incidentally” to expound sacred literatures. Historians seek for “the real people who constituted the personnel of the Christian communities and who acquired and exhibited their religion in actual life as members of a definite social order.” Scholars today who continue to limit themselves to studying only New Testament texts, Case charges, show themselves to be novices in the historical discipline. Literary criticism,

290

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

he argues, must be tested by the social conditions, the “social experiences” out of which documents arose.179 In a sense, Case claims, “all history is, or ought to be, social history.”180 Today, it seems less obvious how scholars can get to “the people” without close attention to the texts that allegedly represent them: the “linguistic turn” has intervened. Case was optimistic that the ­socio-​­historical approach would change the way that Christians look to the past: the “idealized past” they had previously imagined would lose its authority. Thus the ­socio-​­historical approach has for him a salvific function in delivering Christians “from the bondage to the past as an ideal for modern living.” They can now look to the future, which emerges through “a process of vital growth from within.” It is futile, Case insists, to allow “the dead hand of the past” to control that emerging future. The present and the future, not the authority of the past, justify the creation of new forms within Christianity.181 The ­Socio-​­Historical Method in Case’s Courses: “Historical Method” and “The Historical Approach to Christianity” Case also expounds the s­ ocio-​­historical method in two courses: Church History  306, “Historical Method,” with notes from 1937, and “The Historical Approach to Christianity,” with notes from the 1920s. Here again, he borrows from James Harvey Robinson. He explains Robinson’s view that humans are creatures of memory; recovering memories, in a larger sense, is the task of historical study. How to test the dependability of society’s memories is the problem of historical method. Humans, creatures of imagination, often fancy that there had been a Golden Age in the past. In religion, this belief tends to prompt the study of history for normative ­ends—​­a disposition that “undermines strictly scientific method.” In 1937, Case warns students against the “dogmatic method” (­Neo-​­Orthodoxy), “already in vogue,” that hinders genuine historical scholarship. A “real” historian eschews apologetics and employs an empirical method to discover “what happened” and the underlying propelling circumstances. When applied to e­ ver-​­evolving Christianity, this method affirms Christianity as “primarily an affair of life rather than a body of formal institutions or creeds or books.”182 Documents themselves, Case reiterates, are not history, but are only the products of history. Here, wrong approaches marred “the old style Church History,” as did the attempt to foist modern ideas onto ancient texts (for example, attributing a “social program” to Jesus). Modern interests must be sharply distinguished from the world of the text: the



A ssu m p t i o n s, In flu e n c e s, a n d Ap p roach es

291

historian must suspend judgment about “the ­present-​­day virtues or defects of the religion” under consideration.183 Case leads students through the stages of historical investigation. First, documents must be located, read, and interpreted in light of the specific environment from which they came: Case calls this “a social orientation of documents.” ­Students-​­­as-​­historians must also use ­non-​­literary data, such as inscriptions, buildings, utensils, art, and architecture. (Case adds a note to himself to illustrate this point by reference to catacombs, Mithraic remains, old Roman roads, and excavations at Pompeii.) They must also assemble bibliographies of previous scholarship. Then comes the task of criticism: textual, “higher,” and of ­non-​ ­literary remains. Case adds that the mere fact of a text’s inclusion in the canon of Scripture is no longer considered a test of validity. The notion of “canon,” Case tells students, is misleading as a historical category: “apocryphal” and pseudonymous books are just as truly historical products as canonical ones, while some “canonical” ones, such as the Gospel of John, are considered historically unreliable by critics. Archeological data, too, are liable to misuse: some archeologists let their fancies run wild, while others appeal to archeology to bolster and defend ancient tradition. In all historical work, Case notes, imagination must be checked or restrained by the available data. Moreover, some historical “Introductions” students may consult mislead, in that the author imports “too much hypothetical reconstruction.”184 Case advises students to check the items listed in the Bibliographical Guide to the History of Christianity that he and his Chicago colleagues published in 1931. Historians of Christianity must use all the material at their disposal: inclusiveness is key. Generalizing from only one or a few testimonies leads astray, since it gives an inadequate representation of common b­ eliefs—​­and “common beliefs” are what historians should be after. Learning about the physical environments, the particular geography, climate, and so on, is ­necessary—​­but “environment” also means the “social environment” of institutions, politics, religion, occupations, and economics.185 With the appropriate data in hand, the researcher must then ask, are they reliable, and how are they to be connected into a historical continuum? People and events, Case warns, do not stand in isolation to each other; “all happenings stand in genetic connections in the light of which they can only be fully understood.” He points students to a good source for learning to test the credibility of witnesses: Introduction to the Study of History by Charles Langlois and Charles Seignobos. Case’s papers contain seven pages of his notes on this book in English translation.186

292

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

In the end, Case warns that history is not a science in that it does not operate under a “single, a­ ll-​­controlling law governing the course of events”: there are no monocausal explanations in history. History, in fact, can be considered a science only in terms of its research method. Moreover, every historical reconstruction lies open to revision. In “Historical Method,” Case suggests for readings a dozen works and authors, including Robinson’s New History, Lucien Febvre, and books on the economic interpretation of history.187

Conclusion Case, propounding the “­socio-​­historical method,” hoped to uncover “the people” and the social order that lay “behind” Christian texts. Although liberal in his thinking, he rejected much of Protestant Liberalism, including Ritschlianism, as supernaturalistic, tied to the authority of the past, and centered on “texts.” In this, he was aided by James Harvey Robinson’s “New History” that borrowed from anthropology and other newer disciplines of the day, as well as by History of Religions scholarship. Case preferred for himself the designation “Modernist,” and under this banner went forth to wage war against Fundamentalists, Premillennialists, and N ­ eo-​­Orthodox, all of whom he charged with an unchristian pessimism and an antiquated supernaturalism. That he switched his claims depending on the groups he confronted is shown by his varying approaches to early Christian apocalypticism. In his view, almost all church historians to date had approached their task in misleading ways, failing to get at the “life” of Christians of earlier times. I next turn to show the extent Case did or did not adopt these assumptions and apply these methodological principles to his writing and teaching about early Christianity.

Chapter 10

Case’s Teaching of Early Christianity

What Case Taught and How Archival materials pertaining to Case’s courses on early church history, while revealing much about how he organized his classes and what he expected from students, contain fewer details of content than the historian might wish. He apparently discarded many teaching materials when he retired; his publications must fill in the gap. Largely uninterested in Christian doctrine, Case covered it in the most perfunctory way. His interest lay entirely in the “environment” of early Christianity, in the ways in which forces and movements external to the religion shaped and influenced its development. Among these, he gave special attention to the state (especially to Roman imperialism), to G ­ reco-​­Roman religions and philosophies, to early Christians’ “way of life,” and to social developments within the religion. Most of Case’s courses on these subjects were graduate seminars (numbered in the 400s) in which, his papers suggest, students were responsible for leading class discussions and presenting reports. This practice offers a second reason for why so few lecture notes from Case remain: he did not lecture often. Notes from several courses indicate that Case made some introductory remarks on the topic of the day and left the rest up to student presenters.1 Although this practice leaves less material for mining, it shows that the German model of the “seminar,” so vaunted by church historians of the era (often more in theory than in practice), was finally operative in an American divinity school. It also reflects the aim of William Rainey Harper and subsequent administrators that the University of Chicago should make its mark in graduate education. The one extant (but

294

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

partial) set of student notes for “Roman Imperialism and Christianity,” however, is disappointingly thin. The Divisions of the Church History Curriculum Case’s notes show that there were two different divisions of Church History courses that he and his colleagues devised for Chicago students. In one, they proposed three 4­ 00-​­level (graduate) courses, devoted respectively to (1) ethics (“Christian life”), (2) cultus (“institutional activities”), and (3) theology. Of these, Case taught the first two, while Shailer Mathews usually shouldered theology.2 In a second division, Case taught a first introductory course on early Christian life in its “environmental” setting. This was followed by three “intensive courses”: Christianity (1) in relation to the state; (2) in relation to religions of the time; and (3) in relation to c­ ulture—​­that is, “philosophies.”3 A sample of Case’s course content and expectations for students will here suffice. An example of a course in the first division of graduate courses is “Christian Life in the Roman Empire” (Church History 422),4 which surveyed “early Christian ideals and practices in their development from the beginning to the fifth century.” The reserve list includes books in German and French. Topics for seminar papers, with the names of students to whom they were assigned, include “Economic Life and Teaching in the Church of Alexandria, ca. 200– 250”; “Training of New Converts for Christian Life, to Augustine”; “Christian Attitudes Towards Occupations, ca. 180–325.” Case also poses review questions, for example, “State the chief ethical heritages which Christianity obtained from Judaism”; “What ethical contributions were made by Epicureanism and Stoicism?” The students’ class reports should treat such points as Christians’ relationship to Jewish ethical ideals and “techniques,” and with state authorities; their standards for conduct; their concern for property and possessions; their interest in asceticism; and their norms for judging ethical conduct. The modern problem of Christians’ duty to and responsibility for public morality, he tells students, did not exist in the early Christian era.5 A final exercise in Church History 422 asks students to summarize the ethical teaching of I Clement, the Ignatian letters, the Didache, the Epistle of Barnabus, the Shepherd of Hermas, and the Epistle to Diognetus, noting the points Case had prodded them to consider in their class reports. Another graduate seminar taught by Case (Church History 414) was labeled “Organization of the Christian Society.”6 This course presumably filled



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

295

the “cultus” s­lot—​­that is, the church. Assigned topics for seminar papers include “The Transition from Preacher to Priest in the Second and Third Centuries”; “Financial Support of the Early Church”; “Pagan Influences on the Christian Institution in the Time of Constantine”; “The Effect of Social Environment upon the Evolution of Christian Worship.” Students were also assigned primary and secondary texts on which to report in class. Under the second division, Case frequently taught “Early Christianity and the Roman State.” This course focused on events before 313, with briefer discussion of the reaction under Julian and, a few decades later, “the suppression of paganism by method[s] not dissimilar to those earlier employed against Christianity.” Preliminary assigned readings include Revelation; I Peter; Ignatius’ Epistle to the Romans; the Martyrdom of Polycarp; Justin’s Apologies 1 and 2; Eusebius’ Church History, Book V; Tertullian’s Apology, The Shows, To Scapula, and On Flight; Lactantius’ On the Manner in which the Persecutors Died; and Augustine’s City of God, Book XX.7 Unlike many Protestant professors in the nineteenth century, Case did not treat New Testament texts as qualitatively different from those of the patristic era. After some preliminary reading in common, Case turned “Early Christianity and the Roman State” over to students; one would prepare a report, and another would critique it. Case provided extensive reading lists and noted specific points that students should explore. Topics for reports included “The Spread of Christianity in the First Three Centuries”; “Christianity Under Constantine”; “The Reaction of Julian”; “The Extent and Causes of the Persecutions”; “The Legal Status of the Christians”; “Christian Political Theory”; “Christian Participation in Politics and Civic Life”; “Christians in Industrial and Commercial Life”; “Christian Social Theory and Practice”; and “Christianizing the Ancient Social Order.” Case sometimes asked students to contrast the positions of Harnack and Loisy on the nature of the Catholic Church, or to treat “the functional significance of Christianity in the fourth century.” As this list suggests, Case veered considerably from a narrow interpretation of “Christianity and the State.” He announced that he would cover “triumphant Christianity’s treatment of paganism” in his course on “religions,” and Christian defenses against pagan accusations in his course on “philosophies.”8 Case’s seminar on “Christianity and the G ­ reco-​­Roman Religions” (alternatively, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions”)9 was second in the trilogy of “intensive” courses. Adopting a comparative approach that assumed a competitive marketplace of religions in the Mediterranean world, Case aims to “investigate special problems in . . . ​the relationships between Christianity

296

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

and its rivals,” especially those that illuminate Christianity’s development and success. He asks students to engage history as a social phenomenon, not simply to study literary documents for their own sake. They should treat religions as “worshiping communities,” not as “philosophies.” Cult, he claims, is prior to dogma; emotion and practice come prior to intellectual interests.10 (The order of historical development, Case posits, runs from cult to myth to dogma.)11 Thus the course will not focus on the beliefs of pagan cults, but on institutional and personal religion, on “religious habits and interests.” Centering on beliefs leads to a “serious misunderstanding of the real problem in hand.”12 The comparative approach, Case declares, seeks out the “genetic relationships” between Christianity and other religions on the scene prior to Christianity’s ­advent—​­that is, it investigates which religions came earlier and possibly influenced Christianity’s development. Through such comparisons, students may find clues to the causes of Christianity’s success. The “genetic and environmental method” of studying Christianity’s history, Case notes, has focused new attention on both Jewish and Gentile settings; the latter especially has gained prominence in recent times,13 reflecting the interests of the Religions­ geschichtliche Schule. When exploring which pagan religions were the “prior occupants of the field” to Christianity and which (such as Mithraism) developed later, students should try to discover whether the hold of the “heathen cults” on adherents was “vital” or “superficial.” Why this distinction? If these cults had only a superficial hold, converts to Christianity might not carry much of that heritage with them into the new ­religion—​­but if the hold was strong and “vital,” then neither converts nor Christian missionaries could have escaped the influence of “heathen antecedents.” On this point, Case warns students to be skeptical of the claim, fostered by contemporary Epicurean and Sophist philosophers and satirists, that the “old religions were practically dead.”14 Case implies that the hold was “vital” insofar as he stresses how much nascent Christianity borrowed from those “heathen antecedents.” Topics for seminar papers in “Christianity and ­Greco-​­Roman Religions” included rites of initiation, religious healing, the h ­ ero-​­savior, the m ­ other-​ ­goddess, life after death, and mysticism. In addition, students were each assigned an “­extra-​­reading” book on which they were to report in class, such as Cumont, The Mysteries of Mithra; Vittorio Macchiors, Zagreus, Studi sull’ Orfismo; Emil Petersen, Die Wunderbare Geburt des Heilandes; and Loisy, Les mystères païens et le mystère chrétien. Case apparently expected students in this course to handle materials in German, French, and Italian with relative ease.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

297

He asked them to conclude the “intensive studies” they were preparing with “a genetic and comparative study of the whole,” that is, of “all” the ­Greco-​­Roman religions.15 Third in the trilogy of “intensive courses” was “Christianity and the Graeco-​­ ­ Roman Philosophies” (or “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies”), Church History 416. In one iteration, the course was divided into four parts: (1) the problems raised for epistemology, cosmology, theology, and anthropology by “the introduction of intellectual criticism”; (2) “institutions for the cultivation of intellectualism” (philosophical teachers and schools, literary interpretation, especially the allegorical method); (3) Christianity’s relation to various intellectual movements of the ancient world; and (4) “particular exponents of Christian intellectualism” (Paul, the Apologists, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Augustine).16 In another version of “Contemporary Philosophies,” Case announces that he will cover the era between Alexander the Great and the end of the New Testament period.17 That he does not strictly follow this scheme is signaled by his lengthy notes (taken largely from the Encyclopedia Britannica) on ­pre-​ ­ ow-​­familiar theme: the course is ­Socratic philosophy.18 He announces a n chiefly interested not in “the New Testament as a body of literature but in the Christian movement which produced” it. That philosophy was not Case’s strong point is suggested not only by his reliance on encyclopedia articles, but also by a note to himself: a list of books that he intends to buy for his own use “before giving the course again.” Among them are Eduard Zeller, Die Philosophie des Griechen, fourth edition; Hans von Arnim’s three volumes of Stoicorum Veterum Fragmenta; Hermann Usener’s Epicurea; Johannes Geffcken’s Kynika und Verwandtes; and Charles Bigg’s Neoplatonism.19 He needed help. Even in a course on philosophy, Case did not focus solely on ideas. What interests him are the “vital experiences,” the “vital problems,” the cults and myths that prompted (later) philosophical formations and elaborated theologies. Case believes that philosophy concerns p­ roblem-​­solving. He organized the course under the rubric of these “problems”: ontological, regarding the constitution of the universe (the physical world, gods, and humans); epistemological (the nature of reality and the means of knowledge); and ethical (the chief end of existence; the mission of humans on earth). Gentile converts, Case imagines, would be familiar with these themes, while those “who came from without as missionaries into this world” (presumably, Jews like Paul) also attempted to solve these problems.20 Case apparently believed that the “ordinary” people lurking “behind” the texts had some knowledge of ­Greco-​­Roman philosophy.

298

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Through this study, students are to learn about “phases of actual life” in the world in which Christianity emerged: the religious demands the philosophers attempted to meet, the methods by which they did so, and the contributions they made. In each case, students should investigate “the chief genetic forces” that prompted the philosophy, and the “needs” to which the philosophies ministered. After this exercise, students can compare the philosophers’ problems and solutions with those of Christian thinkers. They can explore how each philosophy functioned in relation to these problems and assess its contributions to human development in the period.21 As was his custom, Case divided the course material among the students, each of whom was assigned a particular philosophical school on which to report. Among paper topics were “The School as a Means of Philosophical Instruction,” “Influence of Indian Philosophy upon the West,” “Salvation According to the Philosophers,” and “The Effect of Philosophy upon Christianity: Was It Detrimental or Beneficial?” In another version of the course, paper topics included “Paul and Stoicism,” “The Early Apologists and ­Graeco-​ ­Roman Culture,” “Pagan Culture in the Alexandrian School of Christianity,” “The Function of the Book in Ancient Culture,” and “Allegorical Interpretation of Religious Traditions.” For each topic, Case provided a list of books that the student presenter should consult. Ancient Christian sources that manifest philosophical reflection and borrowings, in Case’s lists, include Justin’s two Apologies and Dialogue with Trypho; Tatian’s Address to the Greeks; Athenagoras’ Plea for Christians; Minucius Felix’ Octavius; Clement of Alexandria’s Exhortation to the Heathen; Origen’s On First Principles; Lactantius’ Divine Institutes; and Augustine’s City of God.22 Other Courses Case Taught Archival materials detail other courses Case taught. Church History  412, “Monuments of Early Christianity,” dealt with n ­ on-​­literary remains: catacombs, buildings, inscriptions. Protestant scholars, Case complains, have neglected archeological remains, focusing their attention on literary sources, especially on dogma. Since they had little interest in ritual, they often overlooked the symbols connected with it that Case considers “the chief medium used for expressing Christian beliefs.” Only elites had philosophical interests, while “the symbolism of the monuments portrayed the fears, hopes, beliefs, customs and rites cherished by the masses.” Moreover, Case states, when interest in material culture began to develop in modern scholarship, Roman Cath-



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

299

olic scholars took the lead; their conclusions, however, were often apologetic, attempting to justify and reinforce Catholic ritual and dogma. Since Protestants tended to believe that Christianity rapidly defected from its original “pure” state, they suspected the early dating (by Catholic scholars) of monuments that seemed to attest to beliefs and practices of Romanism: Peter’s martyrdom in Rome, the Roman primacy, the doctrine of the Eucharist, the veneration of the Virgin Mary, and prayers to and for the dead.23 Case’s folder for this course is crammed with copies of inscriptions and notes on various archeological remains. This course, he believed, enabled him to get closer to “the people” than did high literary texts. Case also taught “Outline History of Christian Thought” (CT 304). Even here, he managed to tilt the course ­toward his own ­non-​­literary interests. “Thought,” he stresses, entails more than a system of ideas formulated by “a few exceptional persons” or “the official action by assemblies or selected authorities.” Formal dogmas do not exhaust it; historical study includes “low cultures” as well as “high.” Case warns against the “literary method” that (merely) expounds the ideas of outstanding individual thinkers: McGiffert’s History of Christian Thought falls into this category. Case, by contrast, advocates the “­socio-​­genetic method” that looks to the specific circumstances that prompted Christian thought. He asks students to note the influences that worked for change as well as those that “conserved uniformities.”24 After describing how Jesus’ later followers assimilated him and his teaching to categories familiar to Gentile converts (Lord of the cult, the h ­ ero-​­helper), Case turns to such topics as the authority of church officials, the sacraments, and Christ’s divinity. According to the course syllabus, students were to explore how early Christian writers absorbed Greek philosophy, especially Stoic and Platonic currents, how, for example, Justin, Irenaeus, Tertullian, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen addressed themes of divine transcendence and ­Christ-​­­the-​­Logos, while propounding new, Christianized ethics.25 At the University of Chicago Divinity School, Case also participated in several t­ eam-​­taught Divinity School (as contrasted with graduate) courses. In the “Historical Study of Christianity” (Divinity 302),26 the professorial team took a flying leap from ancient Hebrew religion, through the religions of India, the Far East, and Islam, to Christianity, eastern and western, to the present. (Case’s section covered “Christianity in the Ancient Mediterranean World.”) Here, Christianity’s “environment” included a staggeringly wide expanse, both geographically and chronologically. A second t­eam-​­taught Divinity course in which Case participated was

300

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

“Divinity Education” (Divinity 301).27 This course traced the history of ministerial education from ancient to modern times, at home, abroad, and on the mission field. It encouraged a “­functionally-​­focused curriculum.” Students learned how the theological curriculum had developed, touching on ­nineteenth-​­century scholars’ encouragement of philosophical training and historical criticism, on evolutionary theory, and on the rise of sociology. For this ­team-​­taught course, Case provided the introductory lecture and one on “The Training of the Minister in the Ancient Church.” Throughout, “Divinity Education” emphasized a theme that marked the “Chicago School” from the start: that the curriculum must change in both form and content to meet new “needs.” Students were asked to consider proposals for change, such as reducing the number of required courses or increasing the length of ministerial education to four years. Such changes could accommodate the introduction of new subjects and allow for greater specialization. Case urges “efficiency” in curriculum planning and as a goal of ministerial education. Later in his career at Chicago, Case also taught a course on “Historical Method” (listed variously as Church History 21 and 306), the content of which was detailed in the previous chapter.28 Correspondence Courses and Summer Session Case also taught correspondence ­courses—​­part of outreach to the ­community—​ ­at the University of Chicago. In one such course, “The Ancient Church” (Church History 2), Case covered from 180 to 600 C.E.29 The students, o­ ff-​ ­campus, were required to send in critical papers of about sixteen pages for each of the seven sections of the course. For each section, Case gave detailed instructions on reading assignments and points to which students should especially attend. The final exam questions are (unsurprisingly) light on theology, although they occasionally concern historiography (for example, students are asked to summarize Loisy’s critique of Harnack’s view of Christianity’s development after the Apostolic Age). Case’s grade sheets reveal that B was the most frequent grade assigned, with a good smattering of A’s. Enrollments in Case’s correspondence courses ran between seventeen and t­wenty-​­four. Course records indicate that between two and five women enrolled in each of them. More detailed materials remain from the correspondence course titled “The Rise of Christianity,”30 for which Case prepared an ­eighty-​­­three-​­page “syllabus” (more precisely, a typed set of notes) that covered Christianity’s first two centuries. The notes, however, largely pertain to the New Testament era



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

301

and its background in Palestinian Judaism, although Case also discusses the ­so-​­called mystery religions, Asklepios as a model for healing the sick, cults of dying and rising deities, and the Roman ­ruler-​­cult. Case’s emphasis on the “personal religion of Jesus” suggests an early date for this course.31 “Development,” “vitality,” and “needs” are themes here present that also occur in his later writings.32 The University of Chicago, as noted above, had pioneered the notion of a summer term of study. Case participated in this enterprise as well. Ever practical, he began with a brief lecture to s­ ummer-​­term students on the best way to work: they should acquire a notebook for taking notes on lectures and their readings, and for preparation of class papers and theses. For p ­ aper-​­writing, the notebook serves an “awakening” purpose (as a jog to memory regarding the readings they have done) and an “organizing” purpose (that is, a stimulus to their reflections as they prepared their presentations).33

Roman Imperialism in Case’s Lectures and Writings Case’s Course on “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” The only set of student lecture notes among Case’s papers is from a class in 1929 on “Roman Imperialism and Christianity.”34 (In other years, Case taught variations of this course, titled “Christianity and the Roman State.”)35 These ­thirty-​­nine lectures offer an insight into what Case taught in lecture classes. The course appears elementary; all the assigned reading is in English. Case advises students to frequent the library simply to cast their eyes over titles of books on this topic: mere observation would ­benefit—​­no reading required.36 Case begins his lectures on “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” by contrasting the (largely Protestant) individualism of America with the imperial mindset of antiquity that tightly linked religion and politics. He lists the characteristics of ancient imperialism, its autocratic nature, its desire for conquest and (with Alexander the Great) colonization. Rome’s ancient history, however, was not imperialistic: imperialism was imported from elsewhere. Imperial Rome’s concern for order reminds Case of Mussolini’s.37 The natural concomitant of imperialistic beliefs was emperor worship, which Case compares to Americans’ reverence for the flag. Romans under imperial rule believed that the empire was eternal (Case cites Cicero and Vergil), ensured by emperor worship. Inscriptions honoring Augustus show that

302

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

many saw him as a savior figure: the Roman world through emperor worship was prepared for the idea of (Christian) salvation. Case links types of belief about the divine with forms of human government: whereas polytheism had suited Greeks and others living in communities disconnected from each other, a monotheism that made room for angels and lower semidivine beings better suited the politics of Roman imperialism.38 Case devotes five lectures to Judaism and Romans’ relations with Jews in and beyond Palestine. He stresses that Jews of the era had been “imperialized,” in effect, by travel, the use of the Greek language, and the Dispersion. The imperialistic tendency could not but foster universalism and promote the destruction of “racial religion” (that is, ancient forms of Judaism). Judaism’s antiquity, its sacred, revealed books, and its monotheism were appealing to some Gentile Romans, but, Case claims, the Jewish revolts of 66–70 and 130 C.E. marred Judaism’s attractiveness. Moreover, Judaism failed to “meet the needs of men trained in the mystical and sacerdotal rites of the gentile world.” Christianity needed to break with Judaism, Case argues, to become a world religion adaptable to the needs of a broader clientele.39 Why did Christianity succeed in the Roman world? Case lists several reasons. First, Christianity enjoyed the desirable features of Judaism, yet offered more. For example, it developed an “institutional technique”; its leaders understood the importance of ­institution-​­building. Moreover, Christian leaders were willing to adapt to Gentile circumstances: as Christian preachers became more familiar with what these contemporaries desired in a religion, they enlarged their presentation of the faith so as to cover “the entire area of proper religious yearning.” Christian l­eaders—​­especially P ­ aul—​­implicitly understood that “the business of religion is to serve living men, and not to preserve the ordinances of a dead band.” Early Christianity also had the advantage of allowing more expression of emotion than did Judaism. Case cites I Corinthians as an instructive example of Christianity’s “emotional appeal.”40 (Elsewhere, he claims that early Christians’ ecstatic manifestations were the sticking point that impelled Jews to force Christians out of Judaism.)41 In addition, potential converts welcomed the special help that Christianity offered in the form of sacraments and ceremonies that prompted better ­living—​­not mere preaching, as Case implies was the case with Diaspora Judaism.42 True, Case admits, some problems attended Christianity’s message, especially the failure of the Kingdom’s arrival and Jesus’ return. Today, he adds, we would consider persons who held such views “insane,” but that was not the situation then. Christians got around the embarrassing problem of the



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

303

Kingdom’s ­non-​­arrival by pushing it far into the future. Moreover, since Gentile audiences disdained the Jewish idea of the resurrection of the body, astute Christian preachers simply replaced it with the more appealing Gentile notion of the immortality of the soul.43 Christianity enjoyed a larger reach when it appropriated popular ideas from its “pagan” environment. In the next lectures, Case retreats to further discussion of Judaism, John the Baptist, and earliest Christianity. Straying far from discussion of the Roman Empire, he seems to have forgotten the purpose of the course. The student ­note-​­taker lists only the next topics to be taken up, with no notes on particular subjects. Whether Case ran out of time to treat relations between the Roman government and Christianity or the student abandoned n ­ ote-​ ­taking, we do not know. According to topic headings, the course was intended to cover to the time of Theodosius I, but no notes extend that far. We must turn to Case’s writings to see the continuation of his thoughts on Christianity and the Empire. Case’s Writings on Christianity and the Roman Empire: A New Imperialism Case’s publications offer more on the topic of Roman imperialism in relation to early Christianity. Here, his interest in the “environment” in which early Christianity developed, in the “life” of the Empire’s inhabitants, is given free rein. From the beginning, he claims, Christianity had contained enough elements of “imperialism” that it fit well with its environment. How was even earliest Christianity imperialistic? The preaching of the coming Kingdom, with Jesus as its ruler, represented “an emphatically imperial type of religion,” even though Christianity’s earliest practitioners were not much concerned with Roman politics. From the time of Julius Caesar’s deification on January 1, 42 B.C.E., the way was set for the worship of emperors. Although Augustus was cautious in his appropriation of such honors, he was elevated to a place with the gods on September 17, 14 C.E. Exaltation of rulers, however, had a long prehistory. Statecraft and religion had been tightly linked in earlier centuries and in diverse geographical areas: Egypt, Assyria, ancient Israel, Greece, and early Rome.44 The deification of the office of emperor was one of many contributions that the Orient made to Roman culture. In imperial Rome, e­ mperor-​ ­worship served as an expression of appreciation for the new, stable social and political order.45 Moreover, Case claims, interest in the supernatural characterized the

304

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

psychology of Roman imperialism and enabled emperor worship. The state’s reverence for the supernatural can also be seen in its adoption of oriental religions, especially the cult of sol invictus. The reforms of Diocletian in the closing years of the third century show that emperors still considered religion necessary for a ­well-​­ordered society.46 Case argues that Christianity could be considered a form of imperial religion in that it conserved the values of the older ­emperor-​­worship but “heightened the significance of the imperial idea” by presenting Jesus as the sovereign of a new heavenly kingdom. Christians, he writes, told Gentiles that Christ was “a more effective deliverer than any of the emperors who were being worshipped as ‘saviors.’ ” Moreover, as healer and savior, he was superior to Asklepios and the gods of the mystery religions; he was “above all other claimants to divine honors.” Thus did Christian missionaries promote “a new imperial cult designed to supplant all rivals.” Christians rapidly made the transition from the “national messianism of their Jewish environment to the cosmic messianism of the G ­ raeco-​­Roman world.” The focus on a deified or s­ emi-​­deified ruler helped them pass from their original Jewish to a Gentile setting.47 Case notes the parallels between the ways that Romans thought of Caesar’s lordship and Christians thought of Jesus’: both could be called “son of God,” both were revered as saviors, both could be imagined as having been chosen by God or the gods for a special purpose and as exalted to heaven after death.48 Here, Paul was a key figure: he presented the Jewish Messiah “in a form which transcended that of the Roman emperor who was being worshipped as savior, Lord, son of God, and God. Christianity was the new imperial religion which held out to believers not merely temporary civic blessings but membership in an eternal divine kingdom.”49 Case admits that Paul’s brand of Christianity (“mystical and ecstatic”) lost favor in the late first and second century: it was less useful when the goal was consolidation. Moreover, Paul’s religion was too “­pro-​­Semitic” for some and too free regarding the Old Testament for others. Clearly not all Gentile Christianity was a “Pauline” creation.50 Case offers a pragmatic assessment of why Roman emperors warmed to Christianity in the early fourth century: no need to adduce miracles or visions. In his presidential address to the American Society of Church History in 1925 (“The Acceptance of Christianity by the Roman Emperors”), Case claims it unsurprising that emperors declared Christianity a licit religion. When Galerius saw that persecuting Christians cut off a channel of divine power available to aid society, he called an end to the persecutions. We need not, Case adds, imagine him as insincere or motivated by his impending death; his acceptance



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

305

of Christianity as a licit religion was simply an extension of an older policy that rendered ­non-​­Roman religions acceptable. Galerius, Case concludes, was “a perfectly good exponent to the very last of the traditional religious policy of Roman imperialism.”51 Prudent imperial decisions fostered Christianity’s ascendancy. Constantine’s gift of money to North Africa churches (about $100,000, Case reports, in currency of his own time) was one such prudent calculation: since it would have cost much more to restore “the decaying heathen temples” than to build new Christian churches, his act signals “administrative frugality.” Ancient society benefited from the church’s establishment as a state institution, even though some early Christian ideals were thereby sacrificed.52 Once Christianity gained power in the fourth century, Case continues, it availed itself of imperial might to suppress rival cults without and dissidents within. Constantine, however one may assess his Christianity (or lack thereof ), was the “master hand” that transformed Christianity into an imperial state religion. His concern was the social welfare of the Empire, which he wagered Christians might advance.53 Christianity now came into its own as “an imperial institution,” charged with administering or supervising many affairs of state.54 Now, the relation of God to “temporal political affairs” was r­e-​­thought: the emperor would have a strong hand in determining true doctrine and enforcing decisions “by removing recalcitrant officials of the church.”55 Christians, Case wryly adds, discovered that “God had made more extensive plans for the ordering of temporal history than had formerly been imagined.”56 Given Christianity’s new power, its devotees had no need to look for Jesus’ return in apocalyptic splendor: “The kingdom of this world had now become the Kingdom of their Lord. Already the Galilean had conquered.”57 Theodosius, in Case’s view, merely continued a pattern that had been in place since the beginning of the Empire. His declaration that Christianity would be the state religion rested on a “psychology” similar to Augustus’: both sought out supernatural sponsors for the Empire. With Theodosius’ action, “the Kingdom of God was finally established on e­ arth—​­though in a very different manner from that in which the Christians of earlier times had expected its establishment.”58 Treating Ambrose’s chastisement of Theodosius, Case writes, “At last an emperor had bowed the knee to the church; imperial authority had passed to Christianity.”59 By late antiquity, Case claims, Christian writers had embraced the view that Christianity and empire were ­co-​­extensive. Thus Augustine could model his notion of the City of God on earth on a “transcendental imperial system.”

306

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

(An astonished Jerome in Bethlehem could declare himself numb with grief that the unimaginable had happened: Rome had been sacked.)60 Augustine, Case argues, brought to its logical conclusion “the idea of the church as a supernatural imperium.”61 To Augustine’s mind, the church was no longer in the Empire, but the Empire was within the church. This assimilation, Case posits, represents a more radical change on the part of Christians (previously indifferent or hostile to the state) than was emperors’ granting Christianity the status of a recognized religion: “Roman emperors in adopting the new religion departed less radically from the psychology of their predecessors than Christians did in becoming Roman imperialists.” The imperialistic model now continued its march, manifest in the papacy from the fifth century onward.62 All this, Case claims, could be accounted for without recourse to “the supernatural.” Ordinary human processes and motivations could explain these developments.

­Greco-​­Roman Religions and Philosophies Case had a strong interest in ancient Mediterranean religions. Although most of his popular works were written without the footnotes that would reveal his sources, his early book, The Evolution of Early Christianity (1914), has two pages of footnotes that list his reading on Greek and Roman religions and the s­o-​ ­called mystery cults. Among his entries is the 1910 essay by Ephraim Emerton of Harvard, “The Religious Environment of Early Christianity,” which sketches many of the same themes; Case perhaps borrowed from (and developed) Emerton’s essay.63 Case emphasized the rapid dissemination of various religions around the Roman Empire. By the time that Christianity, Asiatic in origin, entered the Roman world, Romans were accustomed to receiving oriental cults.64 Slaves, free laborers, small traders, and members of the army all crisscrossed the Empire, bringing their own religions with them and acquiring others. The conditions of the Empire and movements of peoples, Case argues, could not but foster universalism. The cults absorbed elements from their “environment,” resulting in considerable syncretism. (Syncretism, Case stresses, does not necessarily entail a reduction to a religion’s lowest common denominator.) Implicitly rejecting Rostovtzeff’s theory that the resurgence of “the masses” led to the decay of late ancient civilization, Case rather suggests that these religions, in which high and low classes mingled, were a unifying feature that provided emotional satisfaction, peace, and hope. To this end, they should be given



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

307

more credit than is commonly accorded them. Moreover, since death levels people of all social classes, the hope for afterlife was a strong draw for those from various walks of life.65 “Class” does not always divide. One of Case’s most constant claims was Christianity’s deep relation to ­Greco-​­Roman religions and its early split from Judaism. Christianity’s success, he concluded, was dependent upon its ability and willingness to adapt itself to contemporary conditions. Although it “conserved and enhanced the values of the old” (that is, Judaism), it shed some aspects of its original Jewishness and restated the new religion in terms acceptable to ­non-​­Jews: if its devotees had not, Christianity would have soon died out. With Ritschl, Harnack, and Bousset, Case argues that Christianity’s passage from a Jewish to a Gentile clientele was rapid.66 Within a short time, the main adherents of the new religion were former practitioners of one or more of the ­Greco-​­Roman religions. To meet these converts’ religious “yearnings,” Christian leaders adjusted their message and took from those religions a useful vocabulary and imagery. As a latecomer to the scene, Christianity profited “by the labors of predecessors,” and had the chance to improve upon pagan themes and practices, borrowing “organization, ritual, doctrine, and practice.”67 Moreover, it was not just a similarity of “form,” Case insists: content and ideas were adopted as well, such as conceiving Jesus as “Lord” and “Savior.”68 Christianity, in effect, entered the competitive marketplace of late ancient religions and made its wares attractive. Not through the elaboration of theological ideas, doctrine, did Christianity win the day, but through “a long and gradual process of social evolution.” Case considers it fortunate that Paul was not a philosopher, since in its early years, Christianity pitched its appeal to the masses; thus it “ultimately triumphed as an organized cult rather than as a philosophy of religion.”69 Only later, with the recruitment of more educated classes, would Christianity acquire some intellectual trappings. Christianity, Case argues, was able to capitalize on the “supernaturalism” that he considers a striking feature of the early Roman Empire. New Testament writers astutely realized that they must present Jesus as a ­miracle-​ ­worker “if he were to compete successfully with rival heroes who already held the field.” They needed to show that Jesus could “render the full quota of services that had previously been credited to his predecessors.” Christians learned from their pagan competitors effective approaches to the supernatural, for example, through formal prayers, offices, priesthood, churches, holy days and festivals. Case dramatically claims: “Into this Gentile world Christianity came as another new religion out of the Orient, and it won its way

308

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

not by attacking supernaturalism but by heightening its significance for its Gentile adherents and extending it to areas of thought and life more suitable to their needs.”70 Case’s description of this phenomenon hints at his doubt that the original religion of Jesus was primarily oriented to the s­upernatural—​­a view perhaps left over from his earlier (and otherwise rejected) Liberalism. Within four hundred years, however, “Christianity had acquired a full supernatural equipment. . . . ​Every form of supernatural belief current in the environment was revised or transformed and supplemented to serve the purposes of the new religion.”71 Soon, supernaturalism was taken as a mark of piety; people of “high respectability,” who a few centuries earlier would have thought subservience to supernaturalism “rankly superstitious,” were among the devotees. Christian supernaturalism, Case claims, “arose to serve a functional need” as the religion expanded within its environment. It rendered a “valuable service.”72 Case gives nuance to the common perception that there was “bitter conflict” between Christianity and the pagan cults: such a view hinders comparative study. He concedes that pagan criticism was soon leveled at Christianity, and that later, when Christianity became well established, p ­ agans—​­Tacitus, Celsus, Porphyry, and Zosimus, among o­ thers—​­briskly defended their own traditions. Case, however, challenges the argument that the conflict was so thorough as to preclude the possibility of interrelationships. He ingeniously construes Christian polemic against the pagans as another example of “borrowing”: it “owed a measure of its inspiration to heathen antecedents, taking over the methods of heathen criticism of Christianity.” Case gives an example: the Christian destruction of pagan temples in late antiquity had its counterpart in Diocletian’s destruction of churches.73 Case also considers the extent to which the “remarkable transformations” that Christianity underwent in the first four centuries of its existence were dependent upon its “contact with rivals.” Here, he admits, modern scholars are sharply divided, some holding that there was no or little influence, or what influence there was entailed “corruption.” Case, by contrast, considers the question “wide open.” Historical approaches to the study of religion, he tells students, emphasize evolution, not degeneration.74 His writings and class notes confirm that he was clearly aligned with those who stressed the importance of Christianity’s “contact with rivals.”



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

309

The Religionsgeschichtliche Schule Case’s stress on Christianity’s similarity to ­Greco-​­Roman cults reveals his reading in works of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, especially Wilhelm Bousset’s Kyrios Christos. Case’s interest in the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule centers on primitive Christianity in its immediate ­Greco-​­Roman religious environment. Bousset had argued that the Christian Kyrios cult pushed the original Jewish Messianic eschatological cult into the background. Case, as noted above, considered Bousset’s claims exaggerated; after all, Paul’s letters manifest many eschatological features. Perhaps, he suggests, it would be more accurate to call Paul’s a “Messiah” cult rather than a Kyrios cult.75 Among his reading notes and lists of works to consult, Case recommends Samuel Angus, The Mystery Religions and Christianity (1925); Cumont, Afterlife of Roman Paganism (English translation, 1911) and Oriental Religion in Roman Paganism (English translation, 1911); Reitzenstein, Die hellenistischen Mysterienreligionen (3rd ed., 1927) and his Die Vorgeschichte des christlichen Taufe (1929); Bousset, Hauptprobleme der Gnosis (1907); and various works on Mandeans and Manicheans. He considers Manicheanism “a revival of oriental [Persian, Babylonian] speculation, thinly overlaid with a veneer of Christian ideas.” Discussing Augustine’s youthful adhesion to Manichean teaching and practice, Case calls North African Manicheanism a form of “modernism”: it held that truth could be measured “by the test of rationality.” That the Manichean leader Faustus scored “the futility of theological theory” shows him to be a true “modernist.”76 Reviewing the first volume of Prosper Alfaric’s L’Evolution intellectuelle de Saint Augustin, covering Augustine’s transition from Manicheanism to ­Neo-​­Platonism, Case praises the author’s attentiveness to “environmental influences” and r­eal-​­life experiences: Alfaric consistently applied Case’s favored “genetic principle of historical investigation.”77 The Mystery Cults Case accords the mystery cults special attention in his elaboration of Christianity’s spread. These religions, he tells students, were “individualistic” insofar as they taught salvation for a person regardless of his or her nationality or social status. Despite this emphasis, the mystery cults were new social units, albeit composed of a select few, the saved. Many featured a hero, who through his death and resurrection effected the salvation of the devotee. Through sacramental rites of initiation and sacred meals, a blessed immortality, a new birth,

310

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

and protection from illness and other ills were assured. These esoteric rites offered “perpetually new stimuli” to the cult’s devotees, who found help therein for their bodies as well as their souls.78 Case, stressing parallels between the mystery cults and Christianity, claims that while Christianity borrowed from these cults, it did them one better: Christian leaders portrayed the ­savior-​­figure Jesus as ministering “more effectively” to the world’s needs. Paul, he writes, was the first to discover that “Christianity could be made to function as a new mystery religion more capable than any of its predecessors of yielding adequate supernatural assistance for the needy human spirit.” Like the cults that featured a dying and rising god, Christianity (in Paul’s version) promised union with the dying and rising Savior, a divine hero who would give “immortal blessedness” to his followers. Moreover, Paul, like his contemporaries, believed that whoever ate at a deity’s communion table thereby partook of the god’s substance. Yet Christianity offered even more: its glorified Messiah supplanted those divine heroes, and ministered “more effectively” to the world’s needs.79 Discussing the theme of a hero’s suffering, death, and triumph, Case asks students to compare Philippi­ ybele-​­Attis ans 2:5–10 with Plutarch’s On Isis and Osiris 27.80 In discussing the C cult, he calls Attis’ victory over death “an Easter celebration.”81 Primitive Christianity was not, in other words, unique in what it promised. But it was better. Case, nevertheless, takes care to explain that Christianity’s status as a borrowing religion does not diminish its value: when religions are tested by the criterion of “vital efficiency,” novelty and uniqueness of origin are not of primary importance.82 Christianity’s “superior vitality” was evidenced in the very fact that it could absorb and reinterpret aspects of the G ­ reco-​­Roman heritage.83 It took elements of other ancient ­religions—​­not merely some few points of doctrine or r­itual—​­and imbued them with “life.” Christianity, Case insists, was not simply “paganism redivivus”: the borrowed elements had to “react” on individuals with “powerful personalities” to create something new. The fundamental worth of Christianity is manifest in the way that its advocates “ministered to the vital religious needs of the time,” even when they used already established methods and tools. The “environment” of early Christianity becomes key to its interpretation.84



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

311

Gnosticism Among the r­ edemption-​­oriented religions and cults that influenced Christianity, Case especially showcases Gnosticism. Case sometimes calls Gnosticism a “philosophy,” but insists that its “genetic affinities” were not with Greek philosophy, but with the mystery religions and “oriental dualism.”85 Writing in 1917, Case reports that earlier scholars had considered Gnosticism to be a ­second-​ ­century fusion of Greek philosophy and Christianity, but now they acknowledge a ­pre-​­Christian Gnosticism and stress oriental rather than Greek elements. He styles Gnostics “­out-​­­and-​­out dualists,” and places Marcion among them.86 Case defines Gnosticism as “­pre-​­Christian oriental mysticism,” whose fundamental interest (like the mystery religions) was the salvation of the individual soul through divine help; it was “a program for saving men’s souls.” To its p ­ re-​ ­Christian form, Gnostics added Christianity’s notion of a ­savior-​­figure.87 When Gnostics became acquainted with Christianity, they accepted the parts that met their needs and rejected the rest “as unnecessary or untrue.” Thus they could revere Christ as Savior, while diverging from (­proto-​­orthodox) Christianity on “the meaning of salvation and the proper technique for its realization.”88 Gnosticism’s contributions to the mainstream church were both “positive” and “negative”: the church appropriated some elements, but rejected others. On the one hand, Gnostic dualism promoted a “rigid asceticism,” one of its most pronounced (and from Case’s viewpoint, unfortunate) contributions to Christianity. Moreover, its advocacy of “magical sacraments” found a home in Christianity. On the other hand, Gnosticism evoked Christians’ opposition, thus contributing to the rise of Christian orthodoxy: the church was prompted both to develop a more intellectual approach, “a more effective apologetic” that would appeal to the educated and cultured, and to develop a New Testament canon. Yet what Gnosticism lacked, mainstream Christianity could supply. Gnosticism’s deficiency in “institutional strength” spurred Christian leaders to claim authority for the church, for the Old Testament, and for properly appointed officials rather than freewheeling individuals.89 Moreover, by downplaying the physical body of Jesus, Gnosticism impaired a confession of his genuine h ­ umanity—​­thus prompting the orthodox to declare the full and perfect humanity of the divine Christ.90 From Bousset’s article on “Gnosticism” in the Encyclopedia Britannica, Case extracts a list of early Christian works in which references to Gnostic literature, and some fragments from it, abound.91 Gnosticism came to carry even more negative resonance for Case in later years. In 1935, reviewing Hans Jonas’s Gnosis und spätantiker Geist (1934), Case

312

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

links Gnosticism as presented by J­ onas—​­an “existential” a­ pproach—​­with Barthianism: both feature “complete estrangement between man and God,” salvation given “wholly from without,” and humans as “helpless” until they hear the summons from beyond.92 ­Greco-​­Roman Philosophies Another, albeit weaker, link between the ­Greco-​­Roman “environment” and early Christianity lay in p ­ hilosophy—​­or in Case’s preferred term, Christian “speculations.” Although Christianity was a “worshiping community,” not a philosophy, Case argues, “the Christians’ intellectual reaction upon the data of their religion was more vigorous than in the case of many other cults.” In general, he observes, cults may “canonize” their rites and confessions, but do not propose doctrinal schemes. Elaborating Christian doctrine, however, was “a wholly secondary, and mainly an individualistic product,” “open to wide variations” throughout history. Certainly such elaboration had not taken place by the end of the first century. Case comments that as doctrinal claims gained ground as Christianity’s spread to “gentile soil,” interest in philosophical speculation grew; its impetus, however, did not arise from the ­Greco-​­Roman (religious) cults, which he sees centered on “practice.”93 Some of Stoicism’s features, Case notes, were easily adaptable to Christian teaching; for example, its heightened sense of the supernatural (it supernaturalized even the realm of the natural, he adds). Moreover, Stoicism’s allegorical treatment of myth provided a useful interpretive device for Christians, enabling old traditions to be “modernized.”94 In addition, the Stoic Logos was adapted to fit Christianity’s divine agent; here, Tertullian claimed that Seneca was “ours.”95 The Christian Logos, however, differed from the Stoic principle, insofar, as Justin wrote, he “wore flesh.” To Christians, Jesus’ “flesh” or “body” was necessary for the efficacy of the Eucharist and baptism.96 Moreover, Case continues, Christians could share Stoicism’s view that character was “the supreme test of social respectability”: human effort mattered. Stoicism also taught much about social reform, but no organized effort to ameliorate society resulted.97 Here, Christianity did better: its charity effort was organized through the mechanism of the church. Stoicism, however, encountered difficulty in winning converts, for it lacked “mystical features.” This latter quality, Christianity possessed: unlike rationalistic philosophers, Case claims, Christian teachers adopted “the epistem­ ological theory of oriental mysticism.” Moreover, Stoicism could not offer



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

313

present union with a deity or “certainty of blessed immortality.”98 Thus Christianity could benefit from accepting some features of Stoic teaching and practice, but offering much more. As for Epicureans, Case claims that they were for centuries the only “critics of the supernaturalistic social philosophy current in the gentile world,” yet they had no “constructive program for effecting social amelioration.” Like the Stoics, they emphasized individualism. Case has heard of the writings of the Epicurean Philodemus that had been rescued from the ruins of Herculaneum.99 Unlike Stoicism, in Case’s view, ­Neo-​­Platonism constituted a form of “Philosophical Mysticism.”100 Ecstasy, not rationality, was its goal. Although Platonic philosophers might eschew popular superstition, their ideal of knowledge was “­other-​­worldly” in character. Case faults ­Neo-​­Platonism for its “philosophy of human helplessness and resignation.”101 In this, ­Neo-​­Platonism to Case seemed aligned with Gnosticism and, in modernity, with the dreaded Barthianism. Since he lacked expertise in late antiquity, he had less familiarity with theologies such as Gregory of Nyssa’s or Augustine’s that would have suggested Christianity’s deeper investment in ­Neo-​­Platonic philosophy. Case’s coverage of philosophies of imperial Rome was sketchy at best. He apparently believed that the religions of the day had a more direct impact on Christianity. Moreover, his lack of interest in philosophy more generally doubtless contributed to his brief and superficial treatment of G ­ reco-​­Roman philosophy. Christianity, as it made its way to the higher classes, needed to acquire an intellectual patina. The way was paved by s­econd-​­century Apologists such as Justin, who eased over problems occasioned both by Christianity’s retention of “ancient records” (that is, the Old Testament) and by its desire to appeal to an educated class. The uneducated, Case hastens to add, were less likely to feel the need for an apologetic defense of their religion; the “average man” was quite satisfied with the Apostles’ Creed and had no need of philosophy. ­­Second-​­and ­third-​­century thinkers labored to make the Old Testament “a Christian possession” and find in it testimony to the antiquity of the Logos.102 Case names Clement of Alexandria as the first Christian leader who tried to rescue intellectualism from the degradation it had suffered at the hands of the Gnostics. Clement portrayed Christianity as “no enemy to prosperity and culture”; rather it was “the saving power by which these estimable endowments of God were turned to their proper uses.” Yet even for C ­ lement-​­­the-​­intellectual, Christians were to believe first and only later exert their minds to defend, expound, or develop the content of their faith.103 Case considers “astounding” Christianity’s

314

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

passage from a clientele with no social prestige to what he extravagantly describes as “the only respectable faith for men of culture and high position in the Roman Empire.” The God of the Christian faith, he writes, became increasingly “the God of temporal culture.”104 Eager to present early Christian activities in terms familiar to ­twentieth-​ ­century Christians, Case credits Origen in the third century with founding “the first Christian ‘University Press,’ ” supported by his “business manager,” Ambrose.105 A second example: the negative response that met Jerome’s biblical translations gives Case an opening to note how bitterly those who clung to the King James version of the Bible resented “tampering” by those offering more accurate renderings of biblical passages.106

Theology Throughout Case’s discussions of early Christian theology, the themes of “function” and “efficacy” are ­ever-​­present. He argues that since religion, at the time of Christianity’s origin, was “essentially a quest for deliverance from the buffetings of a hostile world,” it was “normal” for Jesus’ early followers to conceive him as a deliverer: “they had to make him a superhuman savior from the ills that beset ordinary mortals.” So keenly did they feel “the inspiring uplift of his spirit” that they claimed he had been raised from the dead and would return to establish the Kingdom of God on earth, “after the model of contemporary Jewish apocalyptic expectations.”107 Over time, with Christianity’s establishment in the Gentile world, the “Jewish program of messianic deliverance” by Jesus retreated; “death and revivification were his new credentials.” Christianity thus “successfully equipped itself with a new God appropriate to the experiences and needs of the growing Christian society.”108 Case’s choice of words indicates his skepticism regarding the historical veracity of some New Testament accounts. It was Jesus’ followers who made him into the divine Christ. Post–New Testament theology receives small attention in Case’s course “The Rise of Christianity.” He argues that the “Apostolic Fathers” (the term itself a ­seventeenth-​­century invention) should not be distinguished as a separate class or be associated with the Apostles. He also acknowledges the fast fading of the apocalyptic hope, and the adoption of the Gentile view that at death the soul goes immediately to a place of bliss or of torment. He stresses that severe persecutions of Christians were only occasional, the number of



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

315

martyrs relatively small, and these at first prompted largely by the whims of local officials. Case, like McGiffert, believes that Irenaeus’ appeal to writings that would become the New Testament, displacing the earlier appeal to the Septuagint, was of central importance for Christianity’s development. Moreover, the conflict with ­so-​­called heretics increased the sense of solidarity, uniting Christians across the Mediterranean area. This universalizing tendency would only grow stronger in the century ahead.109 As the new religion enlisted a Gentile audience, Christ became “functionally” God for ordinary Christians.110 Theologians might need the Hebrew God, but the general populace was “quite adequately served by the Lord Jesus Christ”: Case acknowledges his debt on this point to McGiffert’s God of the Early Christians.111 Case, following McGiffert (whom he otherwise critiques), underscores the great problem of s­ econd-​­and t­ hird-​­century theology: “to define the position and nature of Christ.” Building on an earlier impetus, the Apologists began “the process of pushing back upon the earthly Jesus the glory of the heavenly Christ”; now, the historical Jesus and the Christ of faith were one. By adopting from pagan philosophy the notion of the Logos, thus uniting Christ and God, the Apologists could “obviate the charge of polytheism.”112 They could protect God’s transcendence while offering a mediator from the divine realm to the created world and human history. Yet Logos theology carried its own problems: it made Christ a secondary God, of lesser dignity than the Father. Soon, Case writes, the doctrine of God would take precedence over Christology, as Christianity was transformed into an imperial mode.113 An imperial mode would require a supreme governor. Case prefers to treat “heresy” as a social, not an intellectual, problem.114 Thus beliefs that were “detrimental to the efficacy of the sacred ceremonies of the church” must be ruled out. In Case’s view, the church sometimes needed to formulate doctrine so as “to preserve the social solidarity” of the religion. Origen’s view that the sacraments and other ministrations offered by the church were only a first step in the process of becoming Christian (considerable education being required beyond this first elementary ritual), would, unsurprisingly, alarm more ecclesiastically minded bishops at Nicaea, for whom a strong church, not educational attainment, was the desideratum.115 Case warns readers that although they may smile at the “war of words” that comprised the Arian conflict, they should remember that this was serious business in late antiquity: some suffered dire penalties for their beliefs. In his view, Arius’ attempt to devise an intellectually satisfying statement resembled the program of ­present-​­day Modernists. The creed devised at Nicaea, Case

316

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

claims, signaled “a general declaration of willingness to refrain from further debate on the main issue.”116 The deposition of Arius shows how ecclesiastical officials without “academic interests” could “silence a devout and w ­ ell-​­educated subordinate who had, as it were, recently emerged with honors from the leading Christian university of the day. . . . ​Christianity’s rapidly increasing institutionalism was incompatible with the cultivation of a free and vigorous intellectualism.”117 If the creed aimed to silence further debate, it failed. Far from healing divisions, the conciliar decision, Case claims, marks “the birthday of Arianism and Athanasianism,” a dispute that continued for more than a century.118 Case’s claim foreshadows later theories that such decisions provoked the birth of theological ­parties—​­not vice versa. The attention Nicaea has attracted, Case asserts, is out of proportion to its significance. Not even its statement regarding Father and Son was ­really new. Its importance lay elsewhere than in doctrine; namely, it marked the first time that “ecclesiastical legislation transcended both ancient tradition and individual apprehension of truth as norms for justifying the beliefs of Christians.” Athanasius’ role in the conflict, Case argues, lay less in his theological formulations than in the fact that he was the one leader of his time “who consistently resisted the control of the church by the head of state.”119 Case downplays Athanasius’ On the Incarnation: not a “philosophic” treatise or “refined speculation” (such as Origen’s), it was simply a believer’s affirmation.120 Still, the needs of worship demanded that the divine and the human be brought into closer association. Philosophical points that troubled a few intellectuals were not that important. Arians, in Case’s view, had pushed God far away from the human sphere, but their embrace of a very human Jesus made it difficult for their “orthodox” opponents to emphasize fully Jesus’ humanity. The Nicene pronouncement tried to blend “speculative interests” of converted (largely Greek) intellectuals with “a picturesque (mythical) and sacramental” ­interest—​­salvation mediated by a ­hero-​­­figure—​­fostered by the church. While the philosopher had to renounce “his rigid insistence on the logic of a transcendental monotheism,” “the biblicist’s interest suffered most,” in Case’s view. The life of the earthly Jesus was “virtually expunged,” completely overshadowed by “the metaphysical Son of God.” Before long, the Nicene statement, as expounded by later councils, “enjoyed a prestige quite equal if not superior to that of Sacred Scriptures.”121 From Constantine’s time on, Christological doctrine could be validated by what Case calls an “imperial” or “legislative” method: “What logic could not unify, the voice of authority could affirm.”122 Case assigns to the realm of “psychology” the late f­ ourth-​­and fi ­ fth-​­century



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

317

Christological controversies: opponents differed on the composition of the human person. In these discussions, the West’s stronger focus on the human aspect of Jesus stemmed not from a wish to conform better to biblical representations, but because it accorded better with the type of ­religion—​­less ­speculative—​­that the West had embraced.123 In Case’s view, the later Christological struggles over the divine and human natures of Jesus resulted largely from the need “to validate the sacramental rites of the church.” Four centuries of Christological development, Case somewhat acidly claims, served (only) one very valuable function: it gave to the church “a full measure of divine authority.”124 Apparently he could not think of other valuable functions. In Case’s discussions of theological development through the centuries, “Christology” continued to carry a negative valence. Even in the nineteenth century, he argues, after the development of biblical criticism, apologetic interests promoted speculative Christological discussion. Here, he presumably points to Ritschl’s Christological focus: recall that he described Ritschlianism as a turn to “Jesusism.”125 Now, two years before his own death, Case sees the revival of older Christological concerns in ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy: “the lure of Christology,” Case writes, “has renewed its blandishments.” Even among “liberal” professors, he adds, Christology has been ­reinstated—​­here he points at Ritschlian “Liberals” such as McGiffert. Case, by contrast, recommends an “empirical” approach, one that looks to “the practical effectiveness of [Jesus’] conduct and the appealing quality of his spiritual ideals.” The “religion of Jesus,” he writes, “stands ­self-​­accredited” by these effects.126 Case also was interested in the philosophies of history that had prevailed throughout the Christian era. Augustine’s providential view of history, which remained dominant for centuries, supported the belief that God, not humans, makes history. This notion, Case feared, dampened any human effort to improve society. Only in the nineteenth century was Augustine’s view finally abandoned, supplanted by the claim that humans are responsible for making history and creating a better social order. This message of human empowerment, he now worried, was endangered by Barthian theology, with its “despair” over human history and resuscitation of “a dualistic way of thinking.”127 In a book review written in 1937, Case critiqued European thinkers whose confrontations with the Russian revolution (Nicolas Berdyaev) or World War I and the rise of Nazism and Fascism (Paul Tillich) had, he thought, promoted an even gloomier assessment of humans’ control of history: in their thought, even the “providence” to which Augustine and Orosius had appealed was conspicuously absent.128

318

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Case’s concerns lay more with western rather than eastern Christianity. The new peoples who came into the Christian empire, he tells students, were disposed to action, not reflection. This tendency contributed to western emphases on monastic discipline, as well on human responsibility and merit, such as Pelagius taught.129 Case calls Pelagius’ Christianity “humanist,” while (again) casting Augustine’s extreme contrast between God and humans as “Barthian.”130 The most worrisome aspects of early Christian theology had resurfaced.

The Institutional Church Case’s view of the c­hurch—​­ “a formal cult with a strong monarchical ­organization”—​­is thoroughly pragmatic, anthropocentric, and devoid of supernatural associations. He attributes Christianity’s “triumph” to its strong organization. Since the monarchical principle was “the dominant social ideal of the age,” Christianity caught its spirit and, when circumstances allowed, established “a single religious empire throughout the Mediterranean world.” The social triumph of Christianity, as Case calls it, occurred when early Christians either abandoned or supplemented their earlier “individualism” by organizing in a church and focusing on social concerns, although (he adds) they did not attempt to change societal structures. The church, then as now, is a “mechanism that we employ to nourish the interest, direct the energy, and channel t­oward useful ends the activities of religious people. This is the purpose for which historical Christianity created the church.”131 Again, Case links church organization to “empire.” When prescribed dogmas supplanted voluntary beliefs, he writes, the church, like the imperial administration, assumed “dictatorial” rights over human affairs. The western church saw the need to fix its ecclesiology, to develop a “thoroughly unified institution.” Western Christians, unlike more theologically oriented Easterners, understood worship as “primarily an act of ­obedience”—​­a trait strongly emphasized in the writings of the North Africans, Tertullian and Cyprian, whose views pointed ahead to the future. Irenaeus, an early “exponent of the Western temper,” saw the institutional church as essential for salvation. For Irenaeus, Case claims, Christian unity was based on “the postulate of universal institutional regularity.”132 How different Case’s Irenaeus looks from McGiffert’s! Unsurprisingly, Cyprian receives Case’s special attention as an architect of the western church. Cyprian modeled his vision of the episcopate, Case writes, on the municipal and provincial conciliar system of administration, with one



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

319

difference: that bishops were not mere delegates of their respective congregations. Cyprian’s view of the episcopate rests on the notion that since all authority comes from God, no discord should exist among bishops. Someone to enforce that unity was n ­ eeded—​­and with the conversion of emperors to Christianity, the enforcer was found. Cyprian’s ­episcopal-​­centered vision of the church, however, carried with it two dangers. First, it was all too easy for aggressive bishops to limit episcopal authority to their own sees, as, for example, Rome did in later times. Second, it implied a measure of uniformity that was unrealizable as Christianity expanded; elements of diversity had to be given a place. By the late fourth century, bishops could test their power against that of the emperor himself, as Ambrose’s disciplining of Theodosius I shows.133 Augustine, Case writes, brought to its logical conclusion the “idea of the church as a supernatural imperium.” His efforts were devoted to discovering and then defending “the reliable source of authority wherein his mind and his heart could come to rest,” namely, the church. Yet, like N ­ eo-​­Orthodox theologians of the present, he fell prey to disillusionment, coming to believe that it was “sheer folly for man to arrogate to himself any power or responsibility for effecting his own or the world’s salvation. God was almighty while man was utterly impotent.” For Augustine, God used the church as the instrument to realize his purposes. Case reminds readers that it was Donatists, Augustine’s opponents, who contended for separation of church and ­state134—​­that great American ideal.

Ethics: Christian Life in the Roman Empire Case treated early Christian ethics under the rubric of “Christian life.” The most fundamental requirement of early Christianity, he writes, was that its followers exemplify “a certain type of life.” The theoretical justification for that “life” was of secondary importance and was subject to wide divergence. Christianity’s success was largely due to “the ideal manner of living advocated and frequently exemplified” by its practitioners. Case takes a firmly behaviorist approach: righteous living prompted a new religious ­experience—​­namely, that Christians felt Christ and the Holy Spirit to be within them.135 If the end of the world was not in sight, Christians must fit themselves into the social order. The rigorists could not provide a model of social adjustment; some flexibility of standards must be granted. (Here, Case’s theme is similar to LaPiana’s: accommodation.) As early as the Synoptic Gospels and

320

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

the book of Acts, occupations such as tax collector and soldier were not forbidden to Christians, while in the second century, Christian Apologists made much of Christianity’s support for the Empire. Case adds that soldiering in late antiquity, unlike the era of World War I, had not demanded “the life blood of the empire’s youth in the name of patriotism.”136 Despite Case’s favoring the “accommodation” model of Christian ethics, he nevertheless praises the rigorist Tertullian, both for his critique of pagan mores and for setting high standards for Christian behavior. In the late second and early third centuries, Tertullian “mercilessly laid bare the monstrous evils of ­heathenism”—​­but his critique did not end there. His rigorism, in Case’s view, “continued to be a healthful factor of great importance in the future history of Christianity.” He here hints that a rigorous ethic was a factor in recruitment to Christianity. Christians’ distinctive way of life contributed to making themselves “the religious masters of the ancient world,” as events of the fourth century showed. Yet, since Christianity drew its clientele from “the lower and uneducated classes,” the acceptance of these high ethical ideals was slower and less enthusiastic than Christian leaders wished. Christianity’s standard confronted the mores of the lower social classes: the disconnect, Case argues, shows why Paul was reduced to stressing “elementary moral principles.”137 Many of Case’s published writings on the theme of early Christian ethics and “life” continue to reveal an apologetic bias, as much as he eschewed such an approach in his statements on method. Thus he accords more “Protestant” values to Christians of that time than do later social historians. For example, he implies that early Christians developed schools for the education of children. Moreover, he claims, they exalted marriage and family life.138 When confronted with I Corinthians 7, Case argues that Paul counseled Christians against reproducing since “the time would be too short for children to grow to maturity”; thus it was better to devote time to building up the Christian ranks by winning adult converts.139 ­Nineteenth-​­century Protestant apologetics was not quite dead. Asceticism and Marriage Like other Protestant commentators, Case is uneasy at the double moral standard that soon was accepted in early Christianity: the exaltation of asceticism was “not an altogether healthful development.” In listing motives for the development of monasticism (for example, distrust of society; rejection of Christians’ worldliness; escape from barbarian plundering), he does not include any



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

321

that might be considered “spiritual.” Sometimes he ascribes asceticism’s development to fear of the “crumbling world,” in the face of which, monastic devotees evinced “failure of nerve.”140 The ascetic writings of John Chrysostom and Jerome prompt acerbic comments from Case. He remarks that for six years in monastic seclusion, Chrysostom had rejoiced “in his ­self-​­inflicted pain,” which permanently damaged his health. Moreover, his ascetic tendencies left him “utterly without qualifications” for the position of bishop of Constantinople: he mercilessly flayed the rich, attempted to impose ascetic discipline on everybody, and severely reined in his lower clergy. Of Jerome’s ascetic regime, Case writes, “Since the flesh had no rights, emaciated bodies were the fittest tabernacles for pure souls.” Although Case’s readers might be inclined to dismiss Jerome’s monastic Lives as “hardly more than pious fairy tales,” Case regrets to report that they inspired future generations to espouse this austere and unfortunate brand of Christian living.141 Early Christian views on marriage and divorce also caused friction in the larger social environment: Case briefly mentions the dispute between Callixtus and Hippolytus regarding Roman marriage law,142 the issue that so interested George LaPiana. Case compares the loss of social status that a Roman woman of senatorial rank would encounter in marrying below her class to a modern working girl’s losing the title “Miss” if she married below her status: she would now be reduced to a lowly “Bridget” or “Hilda.”143 Irish and German immigration to America had left their mark on Case’s examples. Politics and Social Issues In addition to changes in the arenas of the economy and of intellectual culture, there were also developments in Christians’ approach to politics. The earliest Christian indifference to politics, Case explains, began to change with the growth of (pagan) e­ mperor-​­worship and the resulting persecutions of Christians. That more cultured Apologists “defended Christianity as an integral part of the state” complicated the problem in the era of the persecutions: now, the state looked less friendly. Taking an oath to the genius of the emperor, for example, became a source of conflict.144 Regarding service to and within the Empire, Case notes that philosophical writers of the day were not very mindful of social issues, so Christian indifference to the larger society did not seem altogether novel. As Christians’ social status rose and “imperial efficiency” broke down after the time of Marcus

322

Sh i r le y Ja c k so n Ca s e

Aurelius, however, debate about Christians’ role in public life increased. Case notes that early Christians’ “puritanical” antipathy to public entertainments survives into the present: some still object to such entertainments, as well as to dancing, c­ ard-​­playing, and bathing beaches.145 Economics In regard to issues of wealth and property, Case concedes that since Christians needed funds to support the church and its activities, church leaders necessarily developed more favorable attitudes t­oward the possession of wealth. Predictably, Case cites Clement of Alexandria’s treatise on “the rich man who is saved,”146 adding that ministers today could quote it in their churches “without giving offense to the richest member of the congregation.” Earlier, Case treats Pliny’s concern regarding Christianity (as ascertained from the P ­ liny-​­Trajan correspondence) as motivated by economics: if Christians withheld their funds from usual purchases, such as buying meat that had been offered in traditional sacrifices, how to recapture those economic resources for the public good?147 Case marshals evidence from early Christian writings to illustrate how the church came to be an economically successful institution. In the second century, the fact that the Roman church could return to Marcion his donation of 200,000 sesterces shows its “financial ­self-​­sufficiency.” By the end of the third century, the Christian religion was well on its way to economic success; its attention to charity, in Case’s opinion, was “the conspicuously redeeming feature” that offset the religion’s acquisition of worldly goods. Writing in the midst of the Great Depression, Case claimed the futility of advising the poor man (as had Jesus) to take no thought for the morrow.148 Prudence must temper romantic idealism regarding the virtue of poverty. Case understands the economic arrangements of wealthy late ancient landowners to presage feudalism. He labels Christian leaders of the fourth century, such as Basil of Caesarea, members of the “feudal class.” They were, he writes, part of “a feudal aristocracy living in prosperity on estates worked by peasants who were virtually bound to the soil”: note that Case avoids the word “slaves” and does not mention the situation of coloni. Basil, Case adds, used his monastery to minister to the poverty and suffering of the needy, and thereby set a pattern for other monasteries. Thus he was instrumental in “socializing” the monastic ideal.149 Like other Protestant writers of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Case found some small redemption for the ascetic ideal in these charitable and productive activities.



Te a c h i n g o f E a r ly Ch r i st i ani t y

323

Conclusion The analysis of Case’s teaching on ­patristic-​­era Christianity is sharply hampered by the extant archival remains, a result in part of his teaching largely seminar classes to graduate students, in which the latter carried most of the course discussion. It is also constrained by his focus on (only) the first three centuries of Christianity, and by his tendency to write books for popular audiences that give few clues as to his sources. Despite these problems, the main outlines of his approaches and his views can be sketched with reasonable confidence. Case’s version of early Christianity stressed its associations with and borrowings from ­Greco-​­Roman religions, including the “supernaturalism” he found so characteristic of the age. The imperial cult, he claimed, provided a model for Jesus as ruler of a Kingdom. His readings in literature of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule convinced him that Gentile and “Oriental” currents should receive more attention than any lasting influence of Judaism. Like other Protestant scholars of his era, he downplayed Jewish influence in early Christianity. Case’s emphases strongly reflect his notions of what Christianity “was” and should “do”: a “vital” form of life that encouraged righteousness, not an intellectual movement centered on writings of “great men.” He bypassed theological explanations as much as possible. Advocating a “genetic” and “environmental” approach, Case analyzed early Christianity in ­social-​­science terminology (favored by the “Chicago School”) of “function,” “efficiency,” and “technique”: that Christianity “triumphed” in the ancient world was due to its superior manifestations of these qualities. In the competitive marketplace of ancient religions, it knew how to effectively service its adherents. Gloomier assessments of the world in early Christian literature reminded him of nothing so much as the pessimism of American Fundamentalism and of Barthianism, then sweeping European Protestant theology. Case’s theoretical framework, nevertheless, was stronger than his knowledge of later antiquity, which faded sharply after the third century.

Conclusion

“We are in the midst of a theological revolution,” Philip Schaff wrote to Arthur Cushman McGiffert in 1892. McGiffert and the other two protagonists of this book hoped so; Schaff feared ­so—​­“Catholics and infidels laugh over it,” he added.1 (Not all Catholics, as this book has shown.) History, as an academic subject, had come into its own. In 1888, historian Charles Kendall Adams, introducing the third edition of the Manual of Historical Literature, celebrated the rising importance of this discipline. In the past, he wrote, history received “only such charitable attention as could be given it by some benevolent professor after his energies had already been too exhausted by the absolute necessities of what was thought to be more important instruction. But all that has now been changed. Where but a few years ago a single tired instructor taught history only as a work of charity, we now see a number of teachers zealously devoting their entire energies to the study and the teaching of history alone.”2 By Adams’s time and in the following decades, a dedicated professorial position or two for church history had also become more common at mainline seminaries and divinity schools. Moreover, at Union Theological Seminary, Harvard Divinity School, and the University of Chicago Divinity School, the teaching of church history had begun to look more like the teaching of history in secular colleges and universities and less like confessional apologetics. It is perhaps no accident that this shift was prominent at seminaries and divinity schools associated with universities. Was it a revolution? Whether of dramatic or more modest proportions can be debated: no guillotine, it must be admitted, was applied to the necks of the Old Guard. Yet, as conceived and practiced by Arthur Cushman McGiffert of Union, George LaPiana of Harvard, and Shirley Jackson Case of the University of Chicago, Protestant Liberalism and Catholic Modernism deeply challenged the authority structures of their respective communions. Despite obvious dif-



Co n c lu si o n

325

ferences among them, McGiffert, LaPiana, and Case all insisted that theological commitments should not control critical historical scholarship. In this, their treatments of early Christianity manifested the late n ­ ineteenth-​­century “parting of the ways” between theological commitment and historical research, so well highlighted by Johannes Zachhuber.3 All three embraced the view that ancient Christianity had “developed”; not dropped to earth ­full-​­blown, it had acquired new features and discarded old ones in its passage through time. All three stressed the early dominance of Gentile Christianity over a f­ast-​­fading Jewish Christianity. Each claimed that Christianity’s success in the competitive religious marketplace of late antiquity had been enabled by its adapting aspects of ­Greco-​­Roman salvation cults, the imperial cult, and the “mystery religions,” but offering even more: both a divine hero who was also a historical person, and a strong and efficient institutional structure. “Tradition,” for them, was not to be idolized; rather, the language of confession, creed, and theology should be changed to reflect the needs and worldview of the twentieth century. Protestant Liberals, for their part, questioned the dominance of biblical ­authority—​­and not only because Higher Criticism had called into question the authenticity and historicity of many biblical passages. To be sure, stories preserved in the opening chapters of Genesis regarding the world’s creation and the Garden of Eden had for decades been relegated to the category of myth. Now, however, more critical eyes had been directed to New Testament accounts of Jesus and his early followers. Perhaps Jesus had never imagined that the Last Supper he shared with his disciples would be a permanent institution, a “sacrament” of a church he similarly never imagined? The “eschatological school” of New Testament scholarship had jarringly shown that Jesus had been wrong about the imminence of an apocalyptic arrival of God’s K ­ ingdom—​­and the first disciples, about Jesus’ return after death to initiate that event. But if Jesus was mistaken on this central point of his message, could other aspects of his teaching be accepted uncritically? Surveying the patristic era, these scholars asked why ­twentieth-​­century Christians would wish to emulate leaders of the ancient church who authorized the use of compulsion, the exile and even execution of Christian opponents? Here, Augustine came in for heavy criticism. Catholic Modernists, for their part, sharply challenged Vatican authority. The Catholic hierarchy continued to resist the notion of historical development, the notion that genuinely new Christian practices and formulations had arisen through the course of Catholic history. How could Modernists regard the papacy as infallible when popes in their own era had censored the results

326 Co n c lu si o n

of biblical and historical scholarship, ousted devout priests and respected professors from their positions, and decreed that the claims of history must always bow to those of ­faith—​­as defined only by the Vatican? How to respect an obscurantist Vatican that forbade seminarians access to knowledge of the wider intellectual world and secular scholarship, keeping their heads buried in the sands of medieval philosophy and theology? Were not Catholics of the twentieth century mature enough to consult their own minds and consciences for inspiration? Could Catholicism ever become more democratic? Each of the three protagonists of this book, to be sure, had his particular interests and arguments. For McGiffert, casting off blind authority to the Bible was the great advance of ­nineteenth-​­century Christian scholarship; even the Protestant Reformers had failed on this point. Professors, he insisted, should not teach their students “delusions.” By questioning the normative status of the New Testament for p ­ resent-​­day Christians, McGiffert broke with his ­otherwise-​­Ritschlian commitments. Moreover, McGiffert deemed the creeds and traditions of the early church, so influenced by the philosophical and “metaphysical” claims of that era, largely irrelevant to the concerns of t­ wentieth-​­century Christians. Pragmatism, not ­Neo-​­Platonism, provided better philosophical support. Moreover, the life and work of Jesus should be the center of Christianity, not abstruse formulations about his “Person.” (Indeed, McGiffert argued, for early Gentile Christians, Jesus himself had been “enough God.”) Logos theology had been based on the misguided assumption that a yawning gap separated the divine from the human, a gap that needed to be s­ panned—​­but if there was no such gap, if the divine was incarnate in all humans, what mediatorial role could the Second Person of the Trinity play? The truncated understanding of God’s “Fatherhood” passed down through the centuries similarly needed rethinking. Moreover, since Liberal theology had renounced the notion of human depravity, the sacraments could no longer be understood as rescue and remedy, although they might be retained as (mere) tokens signaling dedication to the Christian life. Types of Protestantism that took a pessimistic view of human nature and focused on personal, not public, sin, were gravely in error. A Christian life should be one of social service. Yet McGiffert scored Protestant colleagues who tried to push “Catholic” developments as late as possible, ignoring evidence as to how early they had been put in place. From the second century onward, in McGiffert’s view, too many Christian writers had ignored what was truly “new” in Christianity; they had rather conceived Christianity only as a “new law” rather than as a religion of salva-



Co n c lu si o n

327

tion. The Fathers’ chief fault, however, lay in their failure to devise an ethic that would reflect the moral teachings of Jesus. Christian leaders’ failure to challenge slavery, for example, and their promotion of an a­ nti-​­marital asceticism, shows their deep ethical lapse. McGiffert’s position, we may note, contains a certain irony: he thought that no period of Christian history was more worthy of study than the patristic era, yet he thought it deeply flawed and no model for ­twentieth-​­century Christians. LaPiana of Harvard brought a ­critical-​­historical brand of Catholic Modernism to his teaching and writing. Scornful of the low intellectual state of Catholicism in America and fearful of ­Fascist-​­leaning ­Italian-​­American priests, he was deeply influenced by Modernist currents in Italy associated with historian Ernesto Buonaiuti, author of Il Programma dei Modernisti and other tracts. From Buonaiuti, perhaps especially from the latter’s admiration for Joachim of Fiore, LaPiana embraced a vision of a church less tied to hierarchical supervision. Himself an immigrant, he brought his interest in modern immigrant groups to his study of immigration to Rome in ­antiquity—​­of which Christianity in that city was a significant beneficiary. Less interested in theology than McGiffert, LaPiana focused his teaching on institutions. Christianity from early times was institutional, a form of the “associated life.” Protestants who imagined a purely “spiritual” Christianity in its first centuries, devoid of institutional structure, were the butt of his sarcastic wit. Moreover, LaPiana believed that ­institutions—​­including the c­hurch—​ ­must compromise and adjust to circumstances to prevent internal “disintegration.” Hence, he sided with early Christian bishops who allowed some leeway for “laxer” Christians: these bishops were not dreamy “Puritans” who fantasized a society of saints. Yet they showed a firm hand in disciplining those who, in their view, were disrupting ecclesiastical unity. Hence LaPiana’s work also contained an irony: his lifelong critique of “­one-​­man” rule in the contemporary Catholic Church and in Fascist Italy found no counterpart in his assessment of ancient Christianity: for the latter, the development of the papacy, rule by “one man,” was necessary for the church’s stability and growth. LaPiana was adamant that history must not be studied via a “theological” approach: from the early modern era onward, procedures for the correct study of historical texts had been in the making, and these protocols must be observed by students of church history. Theology, in his view, had most often caused only “trouble” for ancient Christians, just at the time they needed peace and unity to build up their institution. Their entanglement in imperial politics could work to the church’s detriment; LaPiana liked to compare the situation

328 Co n c lu si o n

of church and state in the Constantinian and p ­ ost-​­Constantinian eras to the Vatican’s ­all-​­­too-​­ready alliance with the Fascist state. Shirley Jackson Case, at first glance, seems the most radical of the three scholars in his attempt to modernize Christianity. He so disliked the Protestant Liberalism of Ritschl and successors that he preferred to call himself a “Modernist.” He promoted a singularly “American” approach to religion that would both shake free from European theological modes and celebrate the virtues and optimism of American democracy. To be sure, not all American Protestants held these values: Case was especially hard on Fundamentalists and Premillennialists. Later in life, he would similarly attack European ­Neo-​­Orthodoxy for its pessimism and retrograde approach to biblical and historical studies. Like McGiffert and LaPiana, Case challenged the normativity of the past for present Christian teaching and practice. He urged his students and readers to abandon the (Liberal) search for an “essence” of Christianity, a “kernel” that could be separated from its “husk.” He relegated doctrine to such a lowly importance that he nearly dispensed with it altogether. Unlike McGiffert, he brought no philosophical interests to his studies. Rather than looking to texts written by “great men” (as he claimed was McGiffert’s practice), he urged scholars to search for the “real people” who created the religion “behind” the texts, for the “vital situations,” the “life” that gave rise to religious ideas and practices. All too often, he charged, scholars have overlooked the “environment,” the social and psychological circumstances that worked to produce such religious manifestations. In this he was influenced by scholars of the Religions­geschichtliche Schule. Case aimed to align the study of religion with the social sciences of his day: “function” and “efficiency” become watchwords for his study of early Christianity. Always, he insisted, scholars should look for a religion’s “functionality” in its particular circumstances. He was particularly taken by the “New History,” as espoused by James Harvey Robinson, which embraced social scientific methods, aimed to uncover “the ordinary” in history, and employed a “genetic” approach that looked to the underlying causal nexus of historical events. Case’s treatment of early Christianity not only largely discarded theology, it also ruled out any appeal to supernatural explanations for events and developments therein. Originally lacking in most supernatural elements, in his view, early Christianity appropriated these from the religious “environment” when its leaders saw how they enhanced the lure of the new religion. True pragmatists, they turned Christianity into the premier religion of the day by their



Co n c lu si o n

329

willingness to adapt and compromise. Even more than McGiffert and LaPiana, Case stressed how much early Christianity borrowed from “pagan” religions of the day: not only names and concepts, but its very conception of Jesus as ruler of a Kingdom and as “Savior” drew its power from associations with imperial religion, on the one hand, and salvation cults, on the other. Yet, early Christian writers’ gloomy estimates of human nature and of the larger world in general, so like those of American Fundamentalists and European Barthians, dampened a positive assessment of ancient Christianity. The archival remains for Case are thinner than those for McGiffert and LaPiana. Moreover, he tended to write for general audiences, which meant that his books and essays often are scarcely documented. Last, his attempt in middle age to remake himself from a New Testament scholar into a historian of late ancient Christianity was only partially successful: he lacked the deep knowledge of the texts and their contexts of McGiffert and LaPiana. Here we have not so much an “irony” as simply a failure. These factors all contribute to his rather unsatisfactory treatment of Christianity in late antiquity. Yet his appeal to social science methods in exploring early Christianity presaged late ­twentieth-​­century explorations of “the social world of early Christianity,” carried out by scholars with both deeper knowledge of p ­ ost-​­Constantinian Christianity and greater theoretical sophistication. As this book makes clear, the efforts of scholars such as McGiffert, LaPiana, and Case to modernize Christianity were of limited success. Although the impact of late t­ wentieth-​­century critical theory, as well as new discoveries and advances in scholarship on antiquity, would challenge a number of Modernist and Liberal assumptions, those versions of progressive thinking still can serve, yet today, to challenge obscurantist and reactionary currents in American religious life.

This page intentionally left blank

Archival Sources and List of Abbreviations

Full information on sources cited in the notes is given in the Bibliography.

Archival Sources Arthur Cushman McGiffert Papers of Arthur Cushman McGiffert Sr. (ten boxes), Arthur Cushman McGiffert Jr. (fifteen boxes, mainly pertaining to McGiffert Sr.), Francis Brown, Charles Briggs, and John Crosby Brown are at Burke Library, Union Theological Seminary/Columbia University. Other papers of John Crosby Brown are at the N ­ ew-​­York Historical Society. Papers of the New York Philosophical Club (Records 1900–1920) are at Butler Library, Columbia University, MS #0929. George LaPiana Papers of George LaPiana (­forty-​­one boxes) are at A ­ ndover-​­Harvard Theological Library, Harvard Divinity School (bMS104). LaPiana documents are listed by the (usually incomplete) information about them at the top of the first page. Shirley Jackson Case Papers of Shirley Jackson Case (­seventy-​­five boxes) are at Florida Southern College. Other papers of Shirley Jackson Case are at Regenstein Library, University of Chicago, as are papers of Ernest DeWitt Burton, Edgar Johnson Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, and Shailer Mathews.

332

A rc h i va l So u rc e s a n d L i st o f Abbrev i at i ons

Abbreviations S = Series; SS = Subseries; B = Box; F = Folder; N = Notebook ABUTS Alumni Bulletin of Union Theological Seminary AHR American Historical Review AJT American Journal of Theology AR Andover Review BS Bibliotheca Sacra BW Biblical World CH Church History CSEL Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiaticorum Latinorum ET English translation HDSB Harvard Divinity School Bulletin HE Eusebius, Historia Ecclesiastica HJ Hibbert Journal HLB Harvard Library Bulletin HTR Harvard Theological Review JBL Journal of Biblical Literature JDT Jahrbücher für Deutsche Theologie JR Journal of Religion MJP McGiffert Jr. Papers MSP McGiffert Sr. Papers NAR North American Review NYR New York Review PJ Presbyterian Journal RM Religion in the Making RR Ricerche Religiose Sp Speculum USQR Union Seminary Quarterly Review UTS Union Theological Seminary UTSB Union Theological Seminary Bulletin

Notes

Introduction Epigraph: Schaff to McGiffert, Lake Mohonk, NY, 3 July 1892 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). Schaff writes on the eve of Union Seminary’s split from the Presbyterian Church. 1. Throughout, “liberal” with a l­ower-​­case “l” conveys the ordinary meaning of “­open-​ ­minded, progressive, not conservative,” while “Liberal” with a capital “L” signifies a particular type of Protestant theology associated especially with the German theologian Albrecht Ritschl and his followers. 2. Clark, Founding the Fathers. 3. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 266–67. 4. Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 113; for its historical background, see chap. 3. Hutchison does not focus, as I do in the present volume, on church historians at important university and seminary centers, but rather provides an excellent study of Protestant Liberalism in its wider social context. 5. Hutchison, “Cultural Strain,” 403, alluding to the end of T. S. Eliot’s “The Waste Land.” 6. Tyrrell, Christianity at the ­Cross-​­Roads. Tyrrell’s preface is dated June 29, 1909; he died on July 15. 7. See Table 6, “Tables of Growth: Numbers of Officers and Students, 1868–1929,” in Morison, ed., Development of Harvard University, xc. 8. Fenn, “Theological School,” in Morison, Development of Harvard University, 463–64; on the degrees (S.T.M. in 1912 and Th.D. in 1914), 469. 9. Commager, American Mind, 41. 10. S. Mathews, “Theology as Group Belief,” 174. 11. See the essay by the Dean of Harvard Divinity School in 1913, Fenn, “Modern Liberalism,” 509–19, who resented the name “liberal” being reserved for a specific type of (Ritschlian) theology (509). 12. See Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case. The archival resources available for detailing Case’s teaching of early Christianity, however, are less abundant than those for LaPiana and McGiffert. McGiffert’s son wrote two short essays on points of his father’s life, but no full biography. Bowden provides a helpful introduction to McGiffert in his Church History, chap. 6, based on McGiffert’s published works (not on archival materials). 13. Here I note McGiffert and Charles Briggs at Union, and Shailer Mathews at the University of Chicago. Also notable is Smyth’s Passing Protestantism and Coming Catholicism.

334

No t e s t o Pa ge s 9 – 1 1

Chapter 1 1. Case’s colleague Shailer Mathews defines this aspect of “Modernism”: “the use of scientific, historical, social method in understanding and applying evangelical Christianity to the needs of the living persons” (S. Mathews, Faith of Modernism, 35). William Hutchison rejects the sharp differentiation between Protestant “liberals” and Protestant “modernists”; Mathews’s book “furthered the assimilation of modernism into liberalism” (Hutchison, “Introduction,” 6, 4, 10). 2. W. A. Brown, “Old Theology and the New,” 8. 3. Daly, “Theological and Philosophical Modernism,” 102. 4. The name is given in the encyclical Pascendi dominici gregis of 1907; I cite the translation in [Buonaiuti], Programme, 153. Alfred Loisy emphasizes that adversaries gave the name (Loisy, Simples réflexions, 13–14). For discussion, see Daly, “Theological and Philosophical Modernism,”  102; Morghen, “Modernismo,” 18. On “Liberalism” contrasted with “Modernism,” see Weaver, “Wilfrid Ward,” 21–23, 34. 5. Petre, “Friedrich von Hügel,” 83–84. Petre, of an old English Catholic family, in 1883 joined the Daughters of Mary in Rome, of which she became head. She resigned her position under Pius X (Kurtz, Politics, 106–8). 6. Petre, Modernism, 45, 202. Modernists, she added, know that no religion can use history without “becoming subject to the laws of history” (54). 7. For the movement’s development in different European countries, see Vidler, Modernist Movement, chaps. 1–8, 23; Jodock, “Introduction II,” 24. The description of Modernism as “a tendency, a spirit, a movement” was common among Modernists: see Tyrrell, “Mediaevalism and Modernism,” 304. For Modernist Buonaiuti, the “distinctive characteristic of Modernism is the very indetermination of its programme” (Buonaiuti, “Antecedents of Modernism,” 79). Recent scholars also doubt whether Modernism was a “movement” (Livingston, “George Tyrrell,” 257). 8. Petre, “Advantages,” 296. 9. On Loisy, see Vidler, Modernist Movement, chap. 9, and 95, 136. 10. On Tyrrell, with excerpts from his writings, see Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 37–50, 112–71; Petre, Autobiography; Livingston, “George Tyrrell,” 239–59. Tyrrell published his translation of Buonaiuti’s essay (“Programme of Modernism”) in 1908, a year after its Italian appearance. Tyrrell, a convert to Catholicism, was dismissed from the Jesuit order; by late 1907, he was deprived of the sacraments by the Vatican, and died in 1909. 11. See von Hügel’s brief account of his spiritual and scholarly life in Briggs and Von Hügel’s Papal Commission, 29–32. For excerpts from his writings, see Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 173–85. Von Hügel, who had homes in England and Italy, supported Il Rinnovamento and Nova et Vetera (Kurtz, Politics, 111, 118–19). 12. For sketches of these, with excerpts from their writings, see Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism. 13. Petre, “Still at It,” 402. 14. On Thomism’s dominance and opposition to it, see Daly, “Theological and Philosophical Modernism,” 95–96, 101; on the “philosophy of action” in France, see Vidler, Modernist Movement, chap. 21. Vidler (255) stresses the Modernists’ emphasis on divine immanence, the practical aspects of dogma, and an evolutionary approach to religion. 15. Especially Tyrrell: truth is substantiated in practice (Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 42). 16. For this influence on Buonaiuti, see his “Faith and the Faiths,” 152.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 1 – 14

335

17. Daly, “Theological and Philosophical Modernism,” 96. 18. Blondel attacked Loisy’s historicism in “Histoire et dogme,” ET in Blondel, Letter on Apologetics, 219–87. Blondel rejected the notion that history might determine the interpretation of dogma (Jodock, “Introduction II,” 21, citing Blondel’s “Histoire et dogme”). 19. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 5–6; Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 13. Loisy insisted that the movement began with church history and biblical exegesis, not with philosophy, as Pascendi dominici gregis assumed (Loisy, Simples réflexions, 143–44). 20. Nearly fifty years ago, Thomas Loome linked strands of Modernism: the desire to engage the contemporary world, and historical criticism of the Bible and early Christianity (“Meanings of Modernism,” 546). 21. See Daly, “Theological and Philosophical Modernism,” 88. For the larger cultural background, see Lease, “Modernism and ‘Modernism,’ ” 17–18. 22. Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 12. 23. The anonymous French Catholics who in September 1906 protested Pius X’s rebuke to the 1905 French Law of Separation (of the state from the church) remind him that French troops stayed in Rome to the last moment, and “if certain regiments were missing in our first battles [of the ­Franco-​­Prussian War of 1870] it was because the road was so long from the Papal barracks to the plains of Alsace” (“Petition from a Group of French Catholics to Pope Pius X,” September 1906, in Sabatier, Modernism, 210). They remind the Pope that he does not know French or understand the French mind (205). 24. For the intersection of political and (Roman) ecclesiastical history in the nineteenth century, see, e.g., Lease, “Vatican Foreign Policy and the Origins of Modernism,” 31–55. For an overview from the French Revolution to Pius IX, see Howard, Pope, chap. 1. 25. Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 10. Alec Vidler claims that the new pope reverted to “the conservative intransigence of Pius IX” (Vidler, 20th Century Defenders, 36). 26. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 133; Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 35–36; Hill, “Politics of Loisy’s Modernist Theology,” 185. In France, ­anti-​­Modernist centers grouped around the Dominicans at Revue biblique and the Society of Saint Sulpice (Kurtz, Politics, 146). 27. English translation of Vehementer Nos: http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/pius_x/encyclicals /documents/­hf_px_enc_11021906_vehementer-​­nos_en.html. 28. Petre, Modernism, 71; Leo XIII also taught that class distinctions should be maintained (71–72). 29. English translation of Notre Charge Apostolique: http://www.catholicculture.org/library /view.cfm?recnum=5456. 30. LaPiana, “Concordats: The Italian Clergy in Its Relations to the Church and to the State” (B6, F9, 41, 42). 31. Pius X, Pieni’ l’animo, trans. Sabatier, Modernism, 182–87, 191–95. Sabatier, a Modernist sympathizer, claimed the decree was aimed at Murri and his followers (118–20). 32. Talor, “Innovation,” 197. 33. Tyrrell, “Mediaevalism and Modernism,” 309. 34. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 250. 35. Petre, Alfred Loisy, 112, 64. 36. Loisy, Simples réflexions, 23. The encyclical in part responded to an essay, “La Question biblique” (Le Correspondent [Jan. 1893]), written by the rector of the Institut Catholique, an enthusiastic advocate of biblical criticism. See Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 44– 45; Vidler, Modernist Movement, 80–88; Loisy, Mémoires I, chap. 8; Loisy, My Duel, 137–46. 37. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 96, 128, 138; Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship,

336

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 4 – 1 6

96, 141–42, 182–83. The Commission affirmed the Mosaic authorship of the Pentateuch and the unity of the book of Isaiah, and cast doubt on Paul’s expectation of the Parousia in his lifetime (I Thess. 4:15–16). After 1915, the Commission did not issue another decision until 1933 (186). 38. Namely, Cardinals Rampolla, Satolli, Merry del Val, Segna, and Vives y Tuto; see Sabatier, Modernism, 143n. 39. For an English translation of Pascendi, see [Buonaiuti], Programme, 149–245. On the condemnations, see Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 63; Vidler, Modernist Movement, 217– 19; Kurtz, Politics, 150–54. 40. Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 99. 41. Slattery, “Workings of Modernism,” 563–64. 42. Schultenover, George Tyrrell, vi, vii. 43. For example, see Loisy, Simples réflexions, 19: Pascendi works up a system that “the modernists ought to have had,” even though they themselves did not profess it. 44. Daly, “Newman,” 190–91: “[Joseph] Lemius [the drafter of the decree] provided n ­ eo-​ ­scholastic orthodoxy with an antithetical system in its own image and likeness.” 45. See n. 39 above. For history, see Vidler, Modernist Movement, chap. 26; Jodock, “Introduction I,” 1–19; Kurtz, Politics, 150–54, 158. 46. Pascendi dominici gregis, in [Buonaiuti], Programme, 222, 228, 220, 185. 47. Pascendi dominici gregis, in [Buonaiuti], Programme, 218–19. Scholars debate how much (if at all) Catholic Modernism owed to Liberal Protestantism. Gabriel Daly, despite Loisy’s and Tyrrell’s disclaimers, claims influence (“Theological and Philosophical Modernism,” 90, 96–97). 48. Pascendi dominici gregis, in [Buonaiuti], Programme, 214. A Modernist sympathizer of the era claimed that the Pope wrote only the last part of the encyclical (the disciplinary measure); the first section “presupposes an amount of reading which the successor of St. Peter has certainly never accomplished” (Sabatier, Modernism, 114, 117). 49. Schultenover, George Tyrrell, 30, citing Acta Sanctae Sedis 5 (1913): 276. 50. See Petre, Modernism, 179–82 (citations on 180–82); Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 170. 51. On “Vigilance Committees” and the a­ nti-​­Modernist oath, see Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 64; Kurtz, Politics, 158. In Germany, Catholic professors refused to take the oath, citing fear of humiliation before their Protestant ­colleagues—​­and the Vatican did not press them (Vidler, Modernist Movement, 202–3, 219). 52. Loisy, Simples réflexions, 272–73. 53. Schultenover, George Tyrrell, v. 54. Loisy, Simples réflexions, 140. 55. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 216. By 1910, the major “war” was over: Loisy had left Catholicism, Tyrrell was dead, and von Hügel no longer considered himself a Modernist; of the major players, only Maude Petre and Ernesto Buonaiuti were left on the scene (222). 56. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 192. 57. Jodock, “Introduction II,” 24. On Minocchi’s role, see Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 11, 13, and chap. 7; and Delmont, Modernisme, 21–22. For sketches of Italian Modernist leaders, see Jordan and Labanca, Study of Religion, 221–36. 58. Von Hügel especially faulted Minocchi; see Friedrich von Hügel to Charles Briggs, London, 1 Jan. 1910 (Charles Briggs Papers, SA, B3). 59. Leonard, Unresting Transformation, 56–57. Genocchi was shortly relieved of the chair. 60. See Delmont, Modernisme, 38.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 6– 17

337

61. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 1, 14. 62. Jemolo, Church and State, 241, citing Fascist speeches given in the Chamber in 1929 as the Treaty and Concordat were debated. 63. Jemolo, Church and State, 89, 180. 64. For example, in December 1903, Pius X told an Italian group that by God’s ordination, “princes and subjects, patrons and proletariat, rich and poor, learned and ignorant, nobles and plebeians” were to be distinguished (reported by Petre, Modernism, 71). 65. Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 60; LaPiana, “Roman Church and Modern Italian Democracy,” 166; Kurtz, Politics, 87–88. On Murri’s understanding of Modernism as a political movement within Catholicism, see Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 95, 97, 103, 152; on his theological conservatism, 115, 153, 177. On Murri’s “submission” to Rome, see Jordan, Modernism in Italy, 27–29; Petre, Modernism, 164; Delmont, Modernisme, 18–21. Murri has garnered more attention from scholars than has Buonaiuti (Morghen, “Modernismo,” 14). 66. LaPiana, “Roman Church and Modern Italian Democracy,” 166. 67. Jemolo, Church and State, 119. Jemolo attributes the shutdown partly to Tommaso Gallarati Scotti’s “clarion call to revolt,” which advocated state control of education, no religious education in elementary schools, and reorganizing the teaching of the comparative history of religions, philosophy of religion, and church history in the largest state universities. Murri renounced his priesthood, married, and became a radical deputy for Monte Giorgio (121–22). 68. Petre, Modernism, 164: Murri’s defection showed the failure of Modernism as a social movement. 69. LaPiana, “Review of Italian Modernism,” 351–75. 70. Murri, “Italian Modernist’s Hope,” 376–81. 71. For a survey from an a­ nti-​­Modernist author, see Delmont, Modernisme, chap. 2, giving excerpts from newspaper coverage of the controversy. 72. On various Italian Modernist journals and their fate, see Jordan, Modernism in Italy, 23–26; Jordan and Labanca, Study of Religion, 246–47; and Delmont, Modernisme, chap. 2, and 479–80. 73. On these journals, see Vidler, Modernist Movement, 192; Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 11; Delmont, Modernisme, 21–22. 74. Buonaiuti, Modernisme Catholique, 98, 106. Minocchi rejected traditional dogmatic approaches and stressed the slow elaboration of Christians’ common experience (107). 75. Jodock, “Introduction II,” 24. 76. Morghen, “Evaluation of Buonaiuti’s Work,” 173. 77. Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 62–63. Nova et Vetera lasted less than a year; it was run by churchmen, in contrast to Il Rinnovamento (Sabatier, Modernism, 125). Buonaiuti details divisions within the ranks in Modernisme Catholique, 114–23. Nova et Vetera used as its epigraph a verse from Luke, “Lift your heads, for your deliverance is coming” (Delmont, Modernisme, 31). 78. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 193; Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 60; Kurtz, Politics, 88, 118–19. On the condemnation of Rinnovamento, see Ranchetti, Catholic Modernism, chaps. 16–17. 79. Sabatier, Modernism, 125; Kurtz, Politics, 90; Schultenover, George Tyrrell, 338. 80. Kurtz, Politics, 89; Chiappetti, “Gli Scritti di Ernesto Buonaiuti,” 105. 81. Schultenover, George Tyrrell, 344. 82. Leonard, Unresting Transformation, 56–57. 83. Friedrich von Hügel to Charles Briggs, London, 4 Oct. 1909, 1 Jan. 1910 (Charles Briggs Papers, SA, B3). Tyrrell criticized von Hügel’s exhortation of the Il Rinnovamento staff to bravery

338

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 8 – 2 2

when he himself was too timid to associate with the condemned Loisy (Tyrrell to Maude Petre, 1 April 1908 [Maude Petre Papers, British Library, Add. MSS 52367], cited in Schultenover, George Tyrrell, 343–44). 84. [Anonymous], What We Want. 85. Schultenover, George Tyrrell, 445. Tyrrell did not want his name to appear. 86. Pius X, “Discourse of Pius X,” 67–71. 87. [Anonymous], What We Want, 3, 7, 59, 63, 51–53. 88. [Anonymous], What We Want, 12, 48, 24. 89. [Anonymous], What We Want, 14, 39, 41, 42. 90. [Anonymous], What We Want, 26–29, 31, 36. 91. [Anonymous], What We Want, 34–35, 43, 44, 45, citing an encyclical of Pius X of 27 Oct. 1904. 92. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 11. 93. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 5–6, 12–14. 94. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 16–17, 19, 92–93, 89. 95. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 100. 96. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 102–6, 22. 97. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 81. 98. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 78–79, 86, 85. 99. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 112, 125–26. 100. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 127–28, 137. 101. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 139–43. 102. Fogazzaro, Saint. On Fogazzaro, see Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, chap. 9. Delmont (Modernisme, 24) blames Fogazzaro for creating among priests and laity a mentality hostile to the Catholic hierarchy. 103. Introduction to Fogazzaro, Saint, ix–x; Vidler, Modernist Movement, 193–96; Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, chap. 14. 104. Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 183. 105. Introduction to Fogazzaro, Saint, xxiv. 106. Introduction to Fogazzaro, Saint, xvii, xxiv; Vidler, Modernist Movement, 196. “The saint” himself acknowledges the influence of Augustine’s On the Work of Monks (Fogazzaro, Saint, 89–90). 107. Fogazzaro, Saint, 194, 60–63. 108. Fogazzaro, Saint, 305, 337, 463. 109. Fogazzaro, Saint, 291–92, 275–76. 110. Fogazzaro, Saint, 153–54, 289, 305, 335, 337, 338, 340, 341. Vidler sees the book as urging the renewal of the Franciscan mystical tradition (Modernist Movement, 196). 111. Jordan, Modernism in Italy, 17–20, 34, 43, 44. 112. The Vatican (in Testem Benevolentiae) charged the American Catholic Church with being too independent in church governance, and in favoring the “active virtues” (such as might spur social reform) over the “passive” ones that extolled contemplation and prayer. Americans claimed that Testem Benevolentiae aimed at a s­traw-​­man; Loisy called “Americanism” “­non-​ ­existent” and a “­phantom-​­heresy” (Loisy, Mémoires, II:95, 253). 113. Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 337–38. 114. O’Connell, Critics on Trial, 355. O’Connell adds (355–56) that a few seminary teachers fell under suspicion (Sullivan and Henry Poels); on these two, see below.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 2 – 25

339

115. Ratté, Three Modernists, 265–67. 116. [Pius X], Pascendi dominici gregis, in [Buonaiuti] Programme, 213. 117. Portier, “Slattery’s O’Connell,” 51. For Slattery’s role in promoting the view that Americanism was the “practical preface” to Modernism, see Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 206. 118. LaPiana, “Americanism; Modernism” (B1, [F5], n.p.). 119. See Portier, “Slattery’s O’Connell,” 56–59; Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 45–46, 60; when O’Connell became head of Catholic University, his liberalism vanished (77, 78–79). Did O’Connell turn “­anti-​­Modernist” for the sake of career advancement? (Portier, “Slattery’s O’Connell,” 45–72). 120. Briggs, Theological Symbolics. Published after Briggs’s death, the book was edited by his learned daughter, Emile Grace Briggs (see “Prefatory Note” by Francis Brown, vii). The dedication to Genocchi: “Beloved Friend and Fellow Servant in Christ Jesus”; also see Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 169. 121. Their book: Briggs and von Hügel, Papal Commission, discussed in Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, chap. 8. See Payne, “Charles Augustus Briggs,” 8, 10; Briggs, “Encyclical Against Modernism,” 199–212. 122. Friedrich von Hügel to Charles Briggs, London, 4 Oct. 1909 (Charles Briggs Papers, SA, B3). 123. For helpful overviews, see Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” chap. 5. Also see Slattery, “Workings of Modernism,” 555–64; the fact that Slattery’s article was published in the University of Chicago’s (Protestant) AJT suggests that he wished to reach a wider audience. Slattery here claims (571) that this journal was the “first American review to be honored with a Roman disapprobation.” Also see Portier, “Slattery’s O’Connell,” 45–72. Gannon adds that Thomas Mulvey also left the Catholic priesthood (Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 338–39). 124. Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 5; for Sullivan’s early life, Ratté, Three Modernists, 269–78. 125. See Ratté, Three Modernists, 284–85, for details. 126. Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 169, 188–89; Ratté, Three Modernists, 319, 327. Ratté claims (322, citing Sullivan’s Under Orders, 125) that he argued against Harvard Divinity School professors, who seem not to believe in God at all. 127. Ratté, Three Modernists, 263–64. 128. “A Modernist,” Letters to His Holiness, 3, 157, 162, 164–65. 129. “A Modernist,” Letters to His Holiness, 8–9, 181, 184–85, citing the Newman quotation from the Dublin Review of Jan. 1907, and earlier, from the Jesuit periodical The Month. 130. “A Modernist,” Letters to His Holiness, xiii, xvi–xviii, 68. 131. Sullivan, Priest, 9–12, 57, 58, 84–86, 94–96, 110–13. 132. Sullivan, Priest, 185–87, 260, 262, 268–69. 133. Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 201, 206, 202. 134. For Dunwoodie Seminary and the Review, see Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” chaps. 3 and 4. 135. Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 328, 333; DeVito, “New York Review,” 141, 142. On the New York Review’s dissemination of Modernist views in America, see Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, chap. 7. European authors: George Tyrrell, “Consensus Fidelium,” NYR 1.2 (1905): 133–38; George Tyrrell, “ ‘Dogmatic’ Reading of History,” NYR 1.3 (?) (1905 or 1906): 269–76 (issue number and date not clear in UTS’s copy); Ernesto Buonaiuti, “Lucian of Samosata and the Asiatic and Syrian Christianity of His Times,” NYR 2.1 (July–Aug. 1906):

340

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 5– 2 6

49–65, and “St. Francis of Assisi in Modern Critical Thought,” NYR 2.4 (Jan.–Feb. 1907): 459–78; William F. Hughes’s review of Buonaiuti’s Lo Gnosticismo: Storia di Antiche Lotte Religiose (NYR 2.6 [May–June 1907]: 798–99). 136. DeVito, “New York Review,” 141, 142, 143. Among essays that promote this claim is Petre, “New Catholic Apologetic,” 602–9. 137. Ward, “Spirit of Newman’s Apologetics,” 3–14. Ward, a Newman enthusiast, edited the Dublin Review. On the extensive correspondence between Tyrrell and Ward, see Letters from a “Modernist.” 138. E.g., Francesco Mari, “­Assyro-​­Babylonian Elements in the Biblical Account of the Fall,” NYR 3.2 (Sept.–Oct. 1907): 163–80; Francis E. Gigot, “Higher Criticism of the Bible: The Name and the Thing,” NYR 1.6 (?) (1906): 724–27 (issue number and date not clear in UTS’s copy); William L. Sullivan, “Three Heavenly Witnesses” (I John 5:7), NYR 2.2 (Sept.–Oct. 1906): 175–88. 139. “Notes,” NYR 2.2 (Sept.–Oct. 1906): 248–50; even if Moses did not write the Pentateuch with his own hand or dictate it, or if he used written or oral sources. 140. “Notes,” NYR 2.4 (Jan.–Feb. 1907): 517–20. 141. “Notes,” NYR 3.1 (July–Aug. 1907): 81–83. 142. Edward J. Hanna, “Human Knowledge of Christ, I–IV,” NYR 1.3 (1905): 303–16; 1.4 (1905): 425–36); I. 5 (1905–1906?): 597–615; III. 4 (Jan.–Feb. 1908): 391–400. Volume numbers and dates not clear in UTS’s copy. 143. DeVito, “New York Review,” 144–47. On Vatican suspicion of the Catholic Encyclopedia, see Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 328, 343–44, 348. 144. Archivo Segreto Vaticano Segr. Stato 1908, rubr. 82, fasc. 5, 94rv. (on Pascendi), cited in “In Wilder Zügelloser Jagd,” 18; Archivo Segreto Vaticano, Delgazione apostolica degli Stati Uniti, Diocesi, 28, Merry del Val to Falconio, Vatican, 12 Dec. 1907, cited in Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 135–36. Archbishop Farley defended the Review to no avail. 145. DeVito, “New York Review,” 149–50. 146. Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, 51; Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 326–27. 147. Fogarty and Schratz, “Americanism,” 219. 148. Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 350, 340. 149. See Fogarty, American Catholic Biblical Scholarship, chap. 6. 150. Poels, “Statement Presented to the Board of Directors at Their Meeting in April, 1909,” in Poels, Vindication, 14–20. Poels claimed that Denis O’Connell in Rome mentioned a professor who was undermining student belief, without naming him, and the Pope thought that he meant Poels. The Pope told O’Connell to remove the ­professor—​­but he mistook which one (40–41). 151. Poels, “Statement Presented to the Board of Directors,” in Poels, Vindication, esp. 14–17. 152. Latin text given in Poels, “Statement Presented to the Board of Directors,” in Poels, Vindication, 25, 29–30, 32, 43. See Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 215–16, 230. 153. Poels, “History and Inspiration,” 189–90. 154. Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 210, 213. 155. Poels, “Statement Presented to the Board of Directors,” in Poels, Vindication, 25–27; see Ellis, Formative Years of the Catholic University of America, 180; Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 230; Poels, “Supplementary Information,” in Poels, Vindication, 100–102. 156. Gannon cites as reasons not only fear of Modernism, but also educators’ endorsement of Newman’s notion that universities should disseminate received knowledge, not advance it by discovery and original research (Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 358).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 7 – 2 9

341

157. Gannon, “Before and After Modernism,” 350; Appleby, “Church and Age Unite!,” 243. 158. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Harvard Divinity School,” “Divinity School,” (B1, F8), 5; new draft, 2. 159. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 296, 19. I acknowledge my large debt to Zachhuber’s book. 160. Reardon, ed., Liberal Protestantism, 20; against Hegel and Schleiermacher, Ritschl insisted that Christianity was not simply an instance of the wider phenomenon of religion (27). In 1935, historian Wilhelm Pauck summarized the chief themes of European versions of Protestant Liberalism: “the individualism of Christian experience” and “the relativism of its historical nature” (“What Is Wrong with Liberalism?,” 151). 161. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 53, referring to Ritschl’s essay “Uber geschichtliche Methode in der Geschichte des Urchristenthums,” JDT 6 (1861): 429–59. 162. Volume I: Ritschl, Critical History of the Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation; Volume III: Ritschl, Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation. Hereafter, Christian Doctrine. Publication and translation history in Richmond, Ritschl, 26. Historian David W. Lotz argues that this work aimed not to cover all points of a systematic theology, but just one doctrine (“Ritschl in His N ­ ineteenth-​­Century Setting,” 12); extended discussion in Lotz, “Albrecht Ritschl and the Unfinished Reformation,” 337–72. 163. Ritschl, Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche. 164. Mueller, Introduction, 14, 15. 165. Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 123. See 122–32 for his discussion of Ritschlianism in the United States. 166. Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 124, 127 (Schleiermacher, in feeling; Kant, in religion “beyond the boundaries of reason alone”). Hutchison especially notes William Adams Brown’s Essence of Christianity. 167. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 160–61, 210, 163, 264, 266; the Tübingen School program, Ritschl thought, had degenerated into “­neo-​­rationalism” (142). Lotz emphasizes Ritschl’s insistence that theology should grow out of h ­ istorical-​­critical study of Christianity (“Ritschl in His ­Nineteenth-​­Century Setting,” 12). 168. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 281, discussing Harnack, Zur gegenwärtigen Lage des Protestantismus (Leipzig: Fr. Wilh. Grunow Verlag, 1896), 10–11, which retains much of the Reformers’ doctrine. 169. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #63, 615. For discussion, see Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 176–80, 196, citing Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #27, 238, 199. For how the “realms” play out in “the lifestyle of the Christian,” see Richmond, Ritschl, chap. 6. 170. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #29, 218, 219; #27, 199; “Instruction,” #8, 224; #50, 242. 171. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #62, 611; #45, 414; #44, 389; “Theology and Metaphysics,” 177. Ritschl liked On Christian Liberty the best of Luther’s many treatises: see Lotz, “Ritschl in His N ­ ineteenth-​­Century Setting,” 23. On Ritschl’s lack of success in harmonizing theological and historical views of Jesus, see Marsh, Albrecht Ritschl, 156–63. 172. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #54, 527, 535. 173. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #68, 670. 174. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 195, 258, 251. 175. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 210, emphasizes that Ritschl’s version of Kant was taken from a now l­ ittle-​­known philosophical movement, Speculative Idealism (or Speculative Theism), 206–10. 176. Richmond, Ritschl, 22, 46–49, downplays Kant’s impact on Ritschl’s theology.

342

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 9 – 3 1

177. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #29, 219, citing Kant’s Critique of Judgment, #87. 178. Ritschl, “Theology and Metaphysics,” 157. 179. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #29, 221–22; see Richmond, Ritschl, 53–54. Similarly, Ritschl’s critique of materialism: it assumes that the realm of the material and mechanical applies to all (Christian Doctrine III, #28, 208–9). 180. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #28, 204; #29, 211, 212; #44, 398. 181. Ritschl, “Theology and Metaphysics,” 203, 194. 182. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #1, 2, 8; #20, 112; “Theology and Metaphysics,” 196–98. For further discussion, see Richmond, Ritschl, 56–63. 183. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 141. 184. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #1, 4; #5, 27. 185. Ritschl, “Instruction,” #89, 263. 186. In their expectation of an imminent end, Ritschl posits, Christ and the apostles were simply following the teaching of the Old Testament prophets: see Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 226–27, citing (the untranslated) Vol. 2 of Die christliche Lehre (3rd ed., 1888), II: 28. Ritschl further argues that only some New Testament books teach an apocalyptic, imminent Kingdom. This expectation soon faded, a few sectarian groups excepted (Ritschl, “Instruction,” #77, 254). For further discussion of eschatology, see Richmond, Ritschl, 260–62. 187. Hiers and Holland, “Introduction,” 5–6. 188. Ritschl, “Instruction in the Christian Religion,” #77, 254. 189. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #62, 613. 190. Mueller, Introduction, 161, 176, citing Adolph von Harnack, What Is Christianity?, trans. Thomas Bailey Saunders (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1957), 56; German original, Das Wesen des Christentums (Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1900). 191. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 281n.117. 192. Ritschl, “Instruction in the Christian Religion,” #5, 222. On the gradual development of Ritschl’s interest in the Kingdom of God, see Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 212–19. 193. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #45, 449; #6, 30; #2, 12. 194. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #35, 285; “Instruction in the Christian Religion,” #8, 223. 195. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #68, 669. Ritschl contrasts Protestant “vocation” with Catholic asceticism and monasticism (#67, 647–49, 656). 196. Ritschl, Christliche Lehre II, 33, 38, 41, discussed in Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 228. 197. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #35, 284, 286–88, 289; “Introduction,” #1, 4–7. 198. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 237. Too often Christian theology takes its standpoint in a “natural or universally rational knowledge of God which has nothing to do with the Christian knowledge of him, and is consequently indifferent to the question whether the expositor who expounds the doctrine belongs to the Christian community or not” (Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, “Introduction,” #1, 4). 199. Ritschl, “Theology and Metaphysics,” 188; a tendency of his Platonically oriented opponents, Ritschl claims. 200. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #45, 451–52, 413. 201. Ritschl, “Instruction in the Christian Religion,” #24, 231. 202. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 197, citing Ritschl’s Dogmatics Lectures of 1860 (in G.  Hök, Die elliptische theologie Albrecht Ritschls nach Ursprung und innerem Zusammenhang [Uppsala, 1942], 339n.32.)



No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 1 – 3 4

343

203. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, #34, 271; so labeled after the (anonymous) late ancient mystical writer, (­Pseudo-​­)Dionysius the Areopagite. 204. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 197, citing Ritschl’s Dogmatics Lectures of 1853, in Hök, Elliptische Theologie, 338n.32. 205. Averill, American Theology, 43. 206. Ritschl, Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche, 257–59; discussion in Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 164, 92–93. For illuminating analyses of Baur, see Bauspiess et al., Ferdinand Christian Baur. 207. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 264. 208. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 155–56, 165–66, 172, 225, citing such passages as Ritschl, Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche, 257–58, 330; and Christian Doctrine III, “Introduction,” #1. 209. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 171–72, citing Baur, Die Tübinger Schule und ihre Stellung zur Gegenwart (Tübingen: Fr. Fues, 1859), 44, and Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, “Introduction,” #1, 1. 210. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 148, citing Ritschl, “Uber geschichtliche Methode in der Geschichte des Urchristenthums,” JDT 6 (1861): 429–59, at 438. 211. Ritschl, Christian Doctrine III, “Introduction,” #2, 8; discussed in Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 271: the Christian community alone now has the privileged perspective. 212. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 292. 213. Dorrien, Making of American Liberal Theology: Imagining Progressive Religion, xiii. Hereafter, Dorrien, Making I. 214. Dorrien, Making of American Liberal Theology: Idealism, Realism, & Modernity, 1. Hereafter, Dorrien, Making II. 215. Dorrien, Making I, xviii. 216. Hutchison, “Introduction,” 2. 217. Dorrien, Making I, 335; Making II, 8. Frank Hugh Foster notes that German Liberal theology began to influence Americans only in the last decades of the nineteenth century (Foster, Modern Movement, 139). 218. Hutchison, “Liberal Protestantism,” 139. 219. See Dorrien’s discussion of “future probation,” Dorrien, Making I, 289–90, 292; 359 on Charles Briggs’s acceptance of progressive sanctification after death. 220. Dorrien, Making I, 401. Kenneth Cauthen identifies the victory of spirit over nature as the “liberal gospel” (Impact, 211). 221. Dorrien, Making I, 301, 401, 288 (discussing Newman Smyth). 222. Dorrien, Making I, 369–70, citing material in Handy, History, 131–32. 223. Dorrien, Making I, 288. Smyth, however, had studied in Germany with Isaak Dorner, and translated some of his writings as Dorner on the Future State (1883). On Smyth, see Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 178–82. Smyth had been selected as a professor at Andover Seminary, but the Seminary’s Visitors rejected him (Foster, Modern Movement, 31). 224. See the Briggs–von Hügel project in n. 121 above, and Smyth’s Passing Protestantism and Coming Catholicism. 225. Dorrien, Making I, 336, 370–71, 404–5. 226. W. A. Brown, Essence, esp. chap. 7. See discussion in Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 128–30 227. Dorrien, Making I, 370. 228. Clark, Founding the Fathers, 341, 345–46.

344

No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 4 – 3 7

229. Hutchison characterizes William Adams Brown’s ventures into activism as “patrician” (Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 240); McGiffert, although not of Brown’s social background, seems less interested, although as Union’s president, he supported Union’s ­well-​­known outreach in New York City. 230. Dorrien, Making II, 3, 151, 16–17, 156; also see Cauthen, Impact, 27–30, for the two “types.” 231. Dorrien, Making I, 323. Albion Small was hired in 1892 to form a Department of Sociology (the first in America) for the new university (Making II, 184). 232. Dorrien, Making I, 411. Chicago faculty passed from the (alleged) subjectivism of Schleiermacher and Ritschlian historicism to an “empiricist emphasis on sense data and relationships” (Making II, 217). Also see Cauthen, Impact, 162–65, on Shailer Mathews’ evolution. 233. Dorrien, Making II, 4. Chicago theologians used “the social scientific language of process, pattern, evidence, and function” (7). 234. Dorrien, Making II, 55–56, 109, 166. 235. Dorrien, Making II, 100, 166, 185–90. 236. Fenn, “Modern Liberalism,” 513–14. 237. Hollinger, “Accommodation,” 3–4. 238. Hollinger, After Cloven Tongues, xi. 239. Jordan and Labanca, Study of Religion, 291. 240. Coffin, Half Century, 29. Coffin does not identify the former student. 241. Coffin, Half Century, 77. Coffin does not identify the former student. He reports that the students’ nickname for Brown was “Jahweh” (76, 81). 242. Cited in Coffin, Half Century, 105; more in Handy, History, 144–47, citing “Inauguration of President McGiffert,” UTSB 1.5 (July 1918): 16–36. 243. Thus Gresham Machen’s Christianity and Liberalism, cited in Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 265. 244. The standard position; but see Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, chap. 7, who emphasizes Union professors’ opposition to the war (232–39). Also see Ahlstrom, “Continental Influence,” 260, who downplays the war’s impact: Liberalism in postwar America “continued to speak in the old way as if nothing much had happened. Overhead the banner of Normalcy fluttered listlessly.” 245. Hutchison, “Liberal Protestantism,” 126, 138. Here, Hutchison takes aim at Cauthen; see Cauthen, Impact, 228, for 1930 as decisive. 246. Voskuil, From Liberalism, 68–70, 215. 247. Voskuil, From Liberalism, 70–72, 85–89 (Brunner’s lectures were published in 1929 as The Theology of Crisis); Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 289–90. Krüger’s lectures were published as “Theology of Crisis”; Krüger identifies himself as a Ritschlian (230), and ends by faulting ­Neo-​ ­Orthodox thinkers’ narrow, ­pre-​­critical understanding of the Bible (251–55). 248. Ahlstrom, “Continental Influence,” 264–65. One of the first writers to chart Liberalism’s decline in America was Horton, in Realistic Theology, chap. 1. Horton declares, “The defeat of the liberals is becoming a rout” (2). “Realism” is the name early given to tendencies later grouped as ­Neo-​­Orthodox. 249. Voskuil, From Liberalism, chap. 2 and 215–17. For examples of Liberals’ s­elf-​­critique, see the editorial “Impotent Liberalism,” Christian Century 43.6 (11 Feb. 1926): 167–68, which excoriates the moral failure of Liberalism on the economic front; and Coffin, “Can Liberalism Survive?,” which also faults ­laissez-​­faire liberalism, and its failure to be true to itself. 250. Stone, “Pioneers: Preface,” vi; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 135–36.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 7 – 4 2

345

251. Still holding out in the ­mid-​­1940s: see James Harrel Cobb to Edgar Goodspeed, Chicago, 27 July 1946 (Edgar Johnson Goodspeed Papers, SI, B2, F5). 252. McGiffert [Jr.], “Future of Liberal Christianity,” 175. He never mentions Ritschlian Liberalism, with which his father was associated. 253. Pauck, “What Is Wrong with Liberalism?” 153–58. Pauck, a native German, was one of the first to present the thought of Karl Barth to English speakers; see his Karl Barth: Prophet of a New Christianity? (New York: Harper, 1931). 254. Reinhold Niebuhr, John C. Bennett, Henry P. Van Dusen, and Harry Emerson Fosdick at Riverside Church, among others; even William Adams Brown, a Ritschlian Liberal, did not overlook the seriousness of human sin.

Chapter 2 1. For McGiffert’s life, see Rockwell, “In Memoriam,” 105–6. On Sauquoit: William E. Kimball to McGiffert, Sauquoit, NY, 4 March 1921; McGiffert to Kimball, 7 March 1921 (MSP, B4). 2. Clipping from Chicago ­Times-​­Herald, May 1899, date unspecified (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1 [Scrapbook], F1). McGiffert later spoke on that school’s history: “Religious Obligations of Colleges and Universities,” Adelbert College [Western Reserve University], 9 June 1907 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F21), 1–8. 3. McGiffert, “Francis Brown.” A paper read at a meeting of Chi Alpha on 21 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F19), 3. Brown, a distinguished scholar of Hebrew Bible and c­ o-​­editor of the ­Brown-​­­Driver-​­Briggs Hebrew Lexicon, was alleged to be the first professor of Assyriology in America. The Union course bulletin for 1894–1895 has Brown teaching Syriac, Arabic, and Assyrian; in a second course on Assyrian, students read from inscriptions and syllabaries, and heard lectures on Babylonian and Assyrian literature, history of the Assyrian language, and the cuneiform signs (“Revised Course of Study in the Union Theological Seminary, New York,” 1894–1895 [UTS Records, S14 (Catalogs, Bulletins), B23, F1], 5). 4. See Clark, Founding the Fathers, 43–50, on Schaff. 5. In 1877, two Prize Fellowships were established to enable the brightest Union students to continue study in Germany. See Clark, Founding the Fathers, 16. 6. Hitchcock and Brown, Teaching of the Twelve Apostles. McGiffert’s copy of the second edition, in the Union library, is inscribed as a gift “from his teacher and friend, Philip Schaff,” 6 April 1885 (MJP, S2, SS2C, B1, F3). 7. For Union professors’ involvement with the Didache, see Clark, Founding the Fathers, 230–37. 8. Schaff, letter of introduction for McGiffert, 16 May 1885 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 9. McGiffert to Schaff, Gotha, 28 Aug. [1885]; Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 15 Sept. 1885 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 10. Schaff to McGiffert, Bad Homburg, 15 Aug. 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). McGiffert kept up with Harnack. In 1895, Harnack was invited to Union, but could not come (Harnack to McGiffert, Berlin, 20 April [?] 1895 [MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F10]). When in Germany in December 1913, McGiffert had dinner with the Harnacks (Date Book for 10 Dec. 1913 [MJP, S2, SS2F). For more on McGiffert and Harnack, see 43, 44–45, 77–81 below. 11. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 18 (?) May 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 12. Schaff, form letter inviting participation in NPNF series, New York, Oct. 1885 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23).

346

No t e s t o Pa ge s 4 2 – 4 6

13. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 23 Dec. 1885 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 14. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 13 Jan. and 22 Feb. 1886 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 15. Schaff to McGiffert, Madrid, 28 April 1886 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 16. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 13 Jan. 1886 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 17. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 22 and 23 Dec. 1885 (MJP S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 18. McGiffert to Schaff, Dresden, 20 July 1886; Schaff to McGiffert, Stuttgart, 23 Aug. 1888, reflecting on their trip (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 19. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 21 Oct. 1886 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 20. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 25 Oct. 1886 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 21. McGiffert, “Theological and Religious Intelligence,” 104–6, passim. Ritschlianism was attacked by Hegelians and by conservatives. 22. McGiffert, review of G.  Koffmaul, ed., Abriss der Kirchengeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts, in “German Theological Literature,” AR 8.45 (Sept. 1887): 334. 23. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 10 Jan. 1887; McGiffert to Schaff, Paris, 14 Sept. 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 24. McGiffert, Account Book for 1889, and 208 (MJP, S2, SS2E, F3). 25. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 18 July 1887; Schaff to McGiffert, Lake Mohonk, NY, 2 and 30 Aug. 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 26. Rockwell, “In Memoriam,” 105–6. 27. McGiffert to Schaff, Paris, 9 Oct. 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 28. McGiffert to Schaff, Rome, 29 Nov. 1887; Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 15 Dec. 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 29. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 19 Nov. 1887 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 30. Notes on McGiffert’s trip to Rome (MSP, B9, F2, 35, 36, 64, 65, 76, 77, 78, 83–86). 31. McGiffert to Schaff, Rome, 16 Jan. 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23); Notes on McGiffert’s trip to Rome (MSP, B9, F2, 21). 32. McGiffert to Schaff, Rome, 20 Feb. 1888 (MJP S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 33. McGiffert to Schaff, Marburg, 11 April 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). He had submitted the dissertation earlier but awaited the return of a key professor to Marburg. 34. McGiffert to Schaff, New York, 7 June 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 35. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 19 Aug. and 6 Oct. 1890 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 36. McGiffert to Schaff, New York, 7 June [1888] (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 37. Gertrude McGiffert also had historical interests; McGiffert said she was “devoted to all things Greek,” and he trusted her to read manuscripts sent to him (McGiffert to Henry Osborn Taylor, New York, 15 Jan. 1923 [MSP, B5, F1]). 38. McGiffert to Schaff, Cincinnati, 22 Oct., 6 and 30 Nov. 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 39. Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 12 Dec. 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 40. Notes on McGiffert’s trip to Rome (MSP, B9, F2, 33, 34). 41. McGiffert, Account Book for 1889, and 208 (MJP, S2, SS2E, F3). Elizabeth, who later attended Lake Erie College in Painesville, Ohio, in 1910 married the Rev. Dwight F. Mowery, a Unitarian minister who eventually secured a pulpit in Newport, Rhode Island. Information from correspondence in MSP, B3. In June 1918, McGiffert was helping Mowery find a position in New England (McGiffert to J. W. Platner, New York, 1 June 1918 [MSP, B5]). Correspondence in MSP, B7.5, shows Mowery as minister of Channing Memorial Church in Newport, Rhode Island. 42. McGiffert Jr. received the Prize Fellowship when he graduated from Union in 1917 (Minutes, Board of Directors, 13 March 1917 [UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 (1914–1929)], 69). 43. On festivities celebrating Charles Eliot’s ninetieth birthday (20 March 1924), see MSP,



No t e s t o Pa ge s 4 6– 4 9

347

B4. Over 150 universities, colleges, and learned societies sent their felicitations, delivered by President James Angell of Yale. The Honorary Planning Committee included President Calvin Coolidge and Chief Justice William Howard Taft, along with John D. Rockefeller, J. Pierpont Morgan, Felix Warburg, and other notables. 44. See MJP, S2, SS2E, F1. In 1925, the last year of McGiffert’s full employment, his salary at Union was $9,000 (MJP, S2, SS2E, F2). 45. McGiffert reports her graduation (McGiffert to Henry Osborn Taylor, New York, 31 May 1916 [MSP, B5, F1]). 46. McGiffert Date Book for 12 Jan. 1921 (MJP, S2, SS2F). 47. McGiffert to Schaff, Ashtabula, OH, 1 Aug. 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). Lane Seminary was absorbed by McCormick Theological Seminary in Chicago in 1932. 48. Schaff to McGiffert, Stuttgart, 23 Aug. 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 49. Schaff to McGiffert, Mohonk Lake, NY, 4 July 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). Schaff reminds McGiffert that he, Schaff, taught for twenty years at Mercersburg at a salary of $1,000 a ­year—​­half of what McGiffert is getting at Lane Seminary. Reflecting on his years at Mercersburg, Schaff later writes, “­Self-​­denial is the road to usefulness” (Schaff to McGiffert, Mohonk Lake, NY, 1 Aug. 1891 [MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23]). 50. See E. D. Morris to McGiffert, 23 July 1888; J. G. Montfort to McGiffert, Cincinnati, 18 May 1889; 1 May 1890; E. E. White to McGiffert, Cincinnati, 9 Dec. 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, FF19), 18, 28. Montfort was Recording Secretary of the Trustees at Lane Seminary. 51. Ethelbert Warfield to McGiffert, Oxford, OH, 13 July 1888; McGiffert to Warfield, New York, 18 July 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F27). Warfield was President of Miami University of Ohio. 52. Francis Brown to McGiffert, Woodstock, NY, 23 July 1888 (MJP, S1, B3, F3). 53. John Crosby Brown was a wealthy banker who befriended Union for many decades. His company merged to become Brown Brothers Harriman. His autobiographical works give a vivid picture of n ­ ineteenth-​­century New York life: A Hundred Years of Merchant Banking, and a manuscript, “Reminiscences of the Early Life of John Crosby Brown, New York City” (­New-​­York Historical Society). On dismissals, see the unhappy case of German sympathizer Thomas Hall. 54. McGiffert was made a professor at Lane in May 1890: see E. E. White [a member of the Executive Committee of the Board of Trustees of Lane Seminary] to McGiffert, Cincinnati, 9 Dec. 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F28). 55. Francis Brown to McGiffert, New York [?], 11 May 1890 (MJP S1, B3, F3). 56. On details of his life, see obituary notices (“Rev. Dr. McGiffert, Theologian, Dead,” New York Times, 26 Feb. 1933; “Dr. Coffin Extols Dr. A. C. McGiffert,” New York Times, 1 March 1933, clippings [MSP, B7, F6] and In Memoriam, 3–14; and details of his family correspondence. McGiffert’s brother, James, was an attorney in Cleveland. He also had a sister, but she seems not to have figured prominently in his life except for rescuing his infant daughter in Germany at the time of his wife’s death; he handled the details of her estate in 1926 (MSP, B7, FF4 and 5). 57. Eighteen unanimous votes: Thomas S. Hastings to McGiffert, New York, 16 May 1893 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F11). 58. See correspondence in MSP, B6, F3. 59. See Bewer’s memorial notice, “Henry Preserved Smith,” 250, 252. 60. Briggs, Authority; Defence, 24, 30. 61. See Briggs, Authority, 31–35, for these points. 62. Briggs, Authority, 53–56. 63. [Anonymous], “Briggs Must Go,” Mail and Express, 18  May  1891, clipping (Charles Briggs Papers, S29, SS1, B1, Scrapbook 1, 43).

348

No t e s t o Pa ge s 4 9 – 5 1

64. “Free from the Assembly,” New York Times, 17 Nov. 1892, clipping (Charles Briggs Papers, S29, SS1, B2, Scrapbook 5, 47). The Times reported that nineteen of the twenty Union Board of Directors present were in favor of ­Briggs—​­and added that John Crosby Brown and W.  E.  Dodge had given the Seminary $175,000, a handsome gift at a strategic time (Charles Briggs Papers, S29, SS1, B2, Scrapbook 5, 65). 65. George Park Fisher to John Crosby Brown, [New Haven], 16 Oct. 1892 (John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1). Fisher was Professor of Ecclesiastical History at Yale. 66. Handy, History, chap. 4; Schaff, “Other Heresy Trials,” 621–33; “Report of the Committee on Theological Seminaries to the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America, in Session at Washington, D.C., May 18, 1893,” 7, 21–22; clipping, “Professor Briggs Is Sustained,” [New York] Sun, 6 June 1891 (Charles Briggs Papers, S29, SS1, B1 Scrapbook 1, 19). For archival materials on the case, see the Charles Briggs Papers, esp. Boxes 37, 40–43, and material in Briggs’s ten volumes of “Scrapbooks,” which contain many newspaper clippings (Charles Briggs Papers, S29, B1 and 2); also Charles Butler to John Crosby Brown, Hartsdale, NY, 5 July 1892 (John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1). Gifts given to the Seminary remained with the Seminary, despite the General Assembly’s attempt to claim them as belonging to the Presbyterian Church (S. W. Dana to John Crosby Brown, Philadelphia, 21 Oct. 1891; Henry Day to John Crosby Brown, Morristown, NJ, 17 Oct. 1891 [John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1]). Union’s most famous professors, including Schaff and F. Brown, wrote articles and letters (Scrapbook 1). 67. Schaff, Theological Propaedeutic, Part II, 319 Note; Briggs, “­Catholic—​­The Name and the Thing,” 440–42. 68. Francis Brown to McGiffert, New York, 6 Oct. 1891 (MJP, S1, B3, F3); Schaff to McGiffert, New York, 27 April 1891 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 69. Henry Preserved Smith to McGiffert, Leipzig, 19 June 1892 (MJP, S1, B3, F3). 70. Handy, History, 91. 71. McGiffert, History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age. Hereafter: Apostolic Age. 72. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 15–43. Articles by Benjamin B. Warfield of Princeton Theological Seminary attacked the address throughout 1894 in the Presbyterian Journal and in 1895 in the Presbyterian Quarterly. McGiffert’s son calls the address “a significant illustration of the use and consequence of the historical method” (“Making of an American Scholar,” 45). According to the son (citation not given) then–Union President Thomas Hastings advised McGiffert not to publish the address, for B. B. Warfield would attack. 73. On McGiffert’s ­near-​­trial for heresy, see below, 50–54. 74. On his church membership and membership in other societies, see MSP, B6, F4. 75. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 20, 2­ 1—​­though there was a notion of a “spiritual kingdom” as well (19). 76. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 61, 376–77, 517. 77. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 398–99, 546–47. 78. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 622. 79. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 68–69n.2; 69n.1. 80. McGiffert, Apostolic Age, 540–41. 81. McGiffert to John Crosby Brown, Pelham Manor, NY, 5 Feb. 1898 (John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1). 82. J. W. Platner to McGiffert, Cambridge, MA, Sept. 14, 1897 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F20), referring to Carl Weizsäcker, Das apostolische Zeitalter der christlichen Kirche (Freiburg, Germany: J. C. B. Mohr, 1886).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 51 – 53

349

83. S. Mathews, Review of McGiffert’s Apostolic Age, The Dial (Chicago), 1 Nov. 1897, clipping (MSP, B10, item 25). 84. S. Mathews, “Professor McGiffert on the Apostolic Age,” 350. Mathews disputes points of interpretation, regarding the authorship of Acts, the last years of Paul, and authorship of the Gospel of John. 85. Eri B. Hulbert (and Shailer Mathews) to President Harper, Chicago, 25  Jan.  1900 (Office of the President [University of Chicago] Professional Schools, Divinity School, 1892– 1925 [B27, F6]). 86. Lyman Abbott in The Outlook [date not given], cited in “Professor McGiffert’s View of Jesus,” Literary Digest 16.14 (2 April 1898), 410, 411, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F2). 87. George A. Barton to McGiffert, Bryn Mawr College, 21 Aug. 1900, cited in McGiffert Jr., “ ‘Mischievous’ Book,” 367–68. 88. Harnack liked the book; he felt “joy and satisfaction” that McGiffert, by independent research, had confirmed some of Harnack’s conclusions about the composition of the New Testament (Harnack to McGiffert, 2 Oct. 1897, cited in McGiffert, Jr., “ ‘Mischievous’ Book,” 367). 89. James Orr, “Dr. McGiffert on Apostolic Christianity,” Presbyterian and Reformed Review (April 1898): 193–213, passim, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F2). 90. Williston Walker in the Hartford Seminary Record (Feb. 1898), cited in “Professor McGiffert’s View of Jesus,” Literary Digest 16.14 (April 1898): 410, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F2). 91. [Anonymous], The Living Church (Chicago), 8 Jan. 1898, clipping (MSP, B10, F56). 92. [Anonymous], “Professor McGiffert’s Book,” New York Post, 14 Feb. 1898, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F7). 93. MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, FF3 and 4 contain dozens of clippings from newspapers across the country registering views on the case. See summary in McGiffert Jr., “ ‘Mischievous’ Book,” 365–75. 94. The Pittsburgh Overture to the General Assembly of 1898, on Dr. McGiffert’s “History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age” (UTS Records, S17, B18). 95. General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A.: Official Extract from the Minutes [27 May 1898] (UTS Records, S17, B18); also in a letter from the Stated Clerk of the General Assembly, 22 Sept. 1898 (MJP S2, SS2D, B1, F5). 96. McGiffert, “To the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church in the United States of America, in Session at Minneapolis, Minn.,” New York, 15 May 1899 (UTS Records, S17, B18; also in MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F5). 97. See clippings from New York Times and New York Tribune, 21 May 1899 (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). 98. A recap of the charges: “McGiffert May Be Tried Again for Heresy,” New York Herald, 30 Oct. 1899, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). 99. McGiffert, “Statement of Professor McGiffert Made to the Committee of the Presbytery of New York,” 27 June 1899 (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). 100. Clipping from New York Times, 26 May 1899 (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). 101. McGiffert to John Crosby Brown, Pelham Manor, NY, 28  June  1899 (John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1). 102. Henrick Johnson to Francis Brown, Chicago, 4 Nov. 1899 (Francis Brown Papers, S2, Institutional Correspondence, ­BA-​­F, F12). 103. Presbytery of New York. In the Matter of The Reverend Arthur C. McGiffert, D.D. New York: Printed By the Order of the Presbytery, 1899. Dated 14 Nov. 1899 (UTS Records, S17, B18). 104. “Preamble and Resolutions,” in Presbytery of New York, 11 Dec. 1899, 2–4, passim (UTS

350

No t e s t o Pa ge s 53 – 5 5

Records, S17, B18); report in New York Herald, 19  Dec.  1899, and in New York Evening Post, 9  Jan.  1900 (“Heresy of Dr. McGiffert”), clippings (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). The Presbytery thought that the slap on the wrist from the General Assembly sufficed. 105. William Adams Brown to Dr. [Francis] Brown, New York, 13 Feb. 1900 (UTS Records, S17, B18). 106. See MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F5; and The Outlook, 3 March 1900, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1). 107. McGiffert to John Crosby Brown, New York, 7 Feb. 1900 (John Crosby Brown Papers, B1/1). 108. So reported by William Adams Brown to Dr. [Francis] Brown, New York, 15 Feb. 1900 (UTS Records, S17, B18). 109. William Adams Brown to Francis Brown, New York, 4, 13, and 28 March 1900 (UTS Records, S17, B18). He urged McGiffert to hold on; surely the General Assembly would dismiss the case. 110. “Dr. McGiffert’s Letter of Withdrawal” [from the Presbytery of New York], New York, 7 April 1900 (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1, F1). 111. The New York Herald and New York Times both reported on 20 March 1900 McGiffert’s decision to leave the Presbyterian Church: clippings (MJP, S2, SS2D, B1). McGiffert’s own letter, however, is dated 7 April. The New York Evening Post and the New York Tribune printed McGiffert’s letter of withdrawal on 10 April; clippings (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F1). 112. New York Evening Post, 10 April 1900, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F1). 113. [Henry A. Fields, ed.], “Dr. McGiffert’s Letter,” New York Evangelist, 12 April 1900, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2D, B2, F1). 114. Minutes, Board of Directors, 18 May 1915 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 209). 115. See Minutes, Board of Directors, 9 Nov. 1915 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Minutes, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 29, 31); and Francis Brown to W. M. Kingsley, 25 Sept. 1915 (Francis Brown Papers, SI, Personal Correspondence, B2 [Ham–P], F18). 116. McGiffert to Francis Brown, New York, 15 and 20 March 1916 (MSP, B4). Events included the attempt to hire Frederick F ­ oakes-​­Jackson of Cambridge (ultimately successful) and Dr. Marvin Vincent’s retirement. For the Board’s tribute to Brown, see Minutes, Board of Directors, 14 Nov. 1916 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 52–55). Marvin Vincent was a Director of Union for fourteen years, a Professor [of Sacred Literature] for ­twenty-​­nine, and a Trustee of Columbia University from 1889 to 1913; see the tribute to him upon his death at age ­eighty-​­nine in Minutes, Board of Directors, 9 Jan. 1923 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 151–52). 117. Minutes, Board of Directors, 14 Nov. 1916 and 13 Nov. 1917 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929]), 51, 81. See the many letters of congratulation to McGiffert (MSP, B6, F1). 118. Henry Sloane Coffin to McGiffert, New York, 14 Nov. 1917 (MSP, B4). Coffin succeeded McGiffert as President of Union. 119. William W. Rockwell to McGiffert, New York, 14 Nov. 1917 (MSP, B5.1). 120. Hugh Hartshorne to McGiffert, New York, 14 Nov. 1917 (MSP, B4). 121. Francis Brown to Frederick T. Gates, Esq., New York, 15 March 1912 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B3 [Q–Z], F1). 122. Minutes, Board of Directors, 12 Nov. 1912, citing a letter of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 1 [1904–1914], 212). 123. See Brown to Rockefeller, 1 Feb. 1913; and letters between Starr Murphy (Rockefeller’s



No t e s t o Pa ge s 55– 5 6

351

agent) and Brown, 27  March  1913; 29  March  1915; and between McGiffert and Murphy, 30 March and 7 April 1916 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B2 [Q–Z], F1); also see Minutes, Board of Directors, 27 March 1913 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 1 [1904–1914]), 226; Francis Brown to W. M. Kingsley, 27 March 1914 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B2 [Ham–P], F18). 124. See correspondence of Francis Brown to Rockefeller’s agents throughout 1912–1917 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B3 [Q–Z]). The Board thanks Rockefeller for extending the deadline three times (Minutes, Board of Directors, 20 April 1915 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 20–21). 125. See McGiffert’s correspondence (on Francis Brown’s behalf ) with Rockefeller’s agent, Starr J. Murphy, Esq., from 1916 to 1918 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B3 [Q–Z], F1). 126. Starr Murphy to McGiffert, 10 Jan. 1917; 12 Jan. 1918 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B3 [Q–R], F1). Problems arose over legacies. 127. See numerous letters to and from McGiffert (Francis Brown Papers, S2, B2, F9). 128. McGiffert to Willard S. Richardson, 10 Jan. 1918 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, Personal Correspondence, B3 [Q–Z], F1). 129. Another Rockefeller matching campaign arrangement: for provisions, see Minutes, Board of Directors, 11 March 1924 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 171 and unnumbered pages following). 130. The rest did not completely restore him; shortly after, McGiffert would step down from the presidency and from his professorial chair. See John S. Allen to Union Seminary class of 1885, New York, 23 April 1925 (MSP, B7.1). Allen urges classmates to give to a fund for the proposed Missionary House to be named in honor of President McGiffert (McGiffert Hall). 131. McGiffert, “Union Theological Seminary: Plan for Expansion,” Address to the Board of Directors, 27 April 1921 (MJP, S3 [General], F3, UTS Pamphlets, 6, 8, 10–12, 14). He notes (6) that during the war years Union did not try to raise funds. 132. See Minutes, Board of Directors, 11 March 1924 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914– 1929], 171 and unnumbered pages following); Union worried that if it did not buy the vacant ­half-​­block on Claremont Avenue, Columbia would claim it; and “Rev. Dr. McGiffert, Theologian, Dead,” New York Times, 26 Feb. 1933, clipping (MSP, B7.6). Some funds came, in 1925, from selling the Standard Oil stock: the original gift in 1844 of $32,000 had provided Union over the years with about $1,500,000 (Minutes, Board of Directors, 10 March 1925 [UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 (1914–1929), 181]). 133. William Adams Brown, Acting President, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 19 May 1925 (MJP, S3 [General], F3, UTS Pamphlets, 3). 134. At Columbia, events centered on Prof. J. McKeen Cattell, who had argued that free speech against the war should be protected; he eventually lost the professorship that he had held for t­wenty-​­five years. Cattell in “In Defence of Academic Freedom” wrote that he regarded a student proposing to go to the Plattsburgh (military) Training Camp as “unenlightened and unwise, but less so than a university trustee who should use his control of salary and dismissal to prevent a professor from saying so.” Cattell tried without success to enlist McGiffert in his campaign. See McGiffert to J. McKeen Cattell, G ­ arrison-​­­on-​­Hudson, 25 May 1916 (MSP, B4). 135. On Hall’s biography, see obituary in the Göttinger Tageblatt, 29 May 1936, clipping (Francis Brown Papers, S1, B1, F45). The obituary does not report his firing from Union Seminary. 136. Statement of the Board of Directors, UTS, New York, 15 May 1917 (Francis Brown

352

No t e s t o Pa ge s 57 – 59

Papers, S1, B1, F45). The directors claimed that Hall’s “attitude ­towards, and his public expression upon, the moral issues involved in the war disqualified him for the occupancy of the Chair of Christian Ethics in the Seminary” (Minutes, Board of Directors, UTS, 15 May 1917 [UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 (1914–1929)], 76). 137. Thomas Hall to William Kingsley, Chair of the Board of Directors, 3 Oct. 1919 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Minutes, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 1–14, passim); also, Thomas Hall to William Kingsley, n.d. (Francis Brown Papers, S1, B1, F45). In another exciting episode, Ambrose Vernon was ousted from his pulpit after his wife flew a German flag and employed German servants from interned ships (see correspondence of Vernon, McGiffert, and J. W. Platner in MSP, B5, F1). 138. The organization developed particularly out of a case of a Stanford professor who was fired (at the insistence of Mrs. Leland Stanford) for his views on immigrant labor and railroad monopolies (AAUP website). 139. McGiffert, “Christianity and War,” 323, 341–45. 140. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 16 May 1916 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F6, 3). 141. McGiffert to Cleveland H. Dodge, New York, 27 Dec. 1916 (Francis Brown Papers, S2, B2, F9). 142. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 15 May 1917 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F7, 1–3, passim). 143. McGiffert, “Seminary and War,” 3. He notes (5) that Union remained open during the Civil War, with reduced numbers. 144. McGiffert, “Seminary and War,” 7, 8, 10, 15–16, 17, 18. 145. McGiffert, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 14 May 1918, in UTSB 1.4 (May 1918), Alumni Number (MJP, S3 [General], B1, UTS Pamphlets, 1917–1925, Report, 4). 146. McGiffert, “If I Do This,” sermon at Harvard, 22 Sept. 1918 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F10, 8, 9, 10). 147. McGiffert, “Memorial Address,” 8 June 1919, Western Reserve University, typescript (MSP, B8, 6). 148. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 14 May 1918 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F8, 1–2, passim). 149. McGiffert, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 14 May 1918, in UTSB 1.4 (May 1918), Alumni Number (MJP, S3 [General], B1, UTS Pamphlets, 1917–1925, 9, 10, 4); at “normal charge,” he adds. 150. Minutes, Board of Directors, 12 Nov. 1918 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 102, 104). 151. McGiffert, “On the Peace Truce,” UTS, 8 Oct. 1918 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F5, 1, 2); “Memorial Address,” 8 June 1919, Western Reserve University (MSP, B8, 12–17, passim). 152. McGiffert, “Lessons of War,” talk at Union, 12 Nov. 1918 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F5, 1–5, passim). 153. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 13 May 1919 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F9, 1–3, passim). 154. McGiffert, “Ministry of Reconciliation,” 269, 270–71. 155. McGiffert, “Trip to Ellis Island”/“Immigration,” chapel talk (?), 7 Dec. 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4, most pages unnumbered). 156. McGiffert, “Experience Worketh Hope,” sermon, 1919, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F6, 1–3, passim).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 60 – 61

353

157. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 18 May 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F10, 1–3, passim). 158. McGiffert, “Teaching Church,” sermon at Harvard, April 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F31, 2–7, passim). He gave this first as a talk at Union; see n. 160. McGiffert refers to the reports of the British Interdenominational Committee, “The Army and Religion,” and of the American Committee on the War and the Religious Outlook, “Religion Among American Men.” 159. McGiffert, “Teaching Church,” a sermon at Harvard (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F31, 10–13, passim). 160. McGiffert, “Teaching Church,” Address at Prayers, UTS, 9  March  1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1). 161. McGiffert to Felix Adler, New York, 8 April 1920; Adler to McGiffert, 12 March 1920 (MSP, B3). Adler writes movingly of the impoverished German students, “mere lads” when the war began and not responsible for it, who now feel the humiliation of their country; Adler fears (prophetically) that they will resort to a “­back-​­­to-​­­the-​­wall nationalism” in their defiance of Germany’s situation. 162. Theologische Fakultät, Universität Marburg to McGiffert, Marburg, n.d. (MSP, B5, F3). 163. McGiffert, “Memorial Address,” Western Reserve University, 8 June, typescript (MSP, B8, 2). See correspondence between McGiffert and Harnack, 80–81 below. 164. Minutes, Board of Directors, 13 March 1923 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914– 1929], 155). 165. McGiffert, chapel talk on the death of Woodrow Wilson, UTS, 5 Feb. 1924 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F2, 1–6, passim). Wilson died on 4 Feb. 1924. 166. McGiffert, “Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 20 May 1924 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F14, 3–4). 167. McGiffert, “Interdenominationalism and Internationalism of Union Theological Seminary,” n.d., typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 2–4, 6, passim). 168. Francis Brown to McGiffert, New York, 24 Aug. 1903 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F4). 169. His friend and adviser Samuel Jackson wrote, “May the dear Lord smoothe the waves before your ship! May He speedily [unreadable] His gracious word of healing!” And may McGiffert return in 1905 “to continue those labors which have given you fame and endeared you to all your innumerable friends” (Samuel M. Jackson to McGiffert, New York, 9 Jan. 1904 [MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F13]). See letters of Gertrude Huntington McGiffert to William Adams Brown, S­ aint-​ ­­Pierre-​­­en-​­Port, 25  Aug.  1904; and of McGiffert to Brown, Strasbourg, 6  Nov.  [1904 ?] (UTS Records, S17, B7, F2). 170. Minutes, Board of Directors, 13 Jan. 1925 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 180); William Adams Brown, Acting President, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 19 May 1925 (MJP, S3 [General], F3, UTS Pamphlets, 6). 171. McGiffert, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 18  May  1926 (MJP, S3 [General], F3, UTS Pamphlets), 11; Minutes, Board of Directors, 8 March 1927 and 13 Nov. 1928 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Vol. 2 [1914–1929], 218, 247). 172. “Dr. Coffin Extols Dr. A. C. McGiffert,” New York Times, 1 March 1933, clipping (MSP, 7, F6). 173. Minutes, Board of Directors, 14 March 1933 (UTS Records, S2, B7 [1929–1939], 320, 321). 174. Rockwell, “In Memoriam,” 106. 175. Ambrose W. Vernon testified that McGiffert was far more knowledgeable about the history of philosophy than came out in his writings (“Scholar and Historian,” 7); he names Kant, Fichte, Schelling, Hegel, Plato, and Aristotle.

354

No t e s t o Pa ge s 62 – 6 5

176. McGiffert Date Book, 26 Dec. 1923: dinner at the Deweys (MSP, S2, SS2F). 177. One of McGiffert’s papers to the Club was “Herder’s Interpretation of Spinoza”; another was “Pragmatism of Kant.” 178. See correspondence in MSP, B6, F4. McGiffert was elected president when he was not even a member. The Nominating Committee claimed this would make no difference. McGiffert rejoined, recalling the case of Ambrose of Milan and other bishops (who were not even baptized Christians when elected bishops), and agreed (Henry F. Cope to McGiffert, Chicago, 2 April 1919; McGiffert to Cope, 6 April 1919 [MSP, B6, F4]). 179. See correspondence in MSP, B6.4; “Rev. Dr. McGiffert, Theologian, Dead,” New York Times, 26 Feb. 1933, clipping (MSP, B7, F6). In February 1918, the New Testament Circle discussed, “Was There a Roman Type of Christianity?” McGiffert spoke on “II Clement and Justin Martyr, and Roman Christianity” (MSP, B6, 4). 180. D. Heinrich Schroeder to McGiffert, New York, 3  July  1916 (MSP, B3). Schroeder helped McGiffert with his books on several occasions. He did, however, spend part of the summer of 1900 lecturing at the University of Chicago (Shailer Mathews to McGiffert, Chicago, 6 Nov. 1900 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F16). 181. Henry Sloane Coffin to Edgar Goodspeed, Santa Barbara, CA, 14 Nov.(?) 1952 (Edgar Goodspeed Papers, S1, B2, F9). 182. McGiffert, Dialogue, 35–36, 43–44; all the cults mentioned, except for two, belong to Egypt (91, 74n., 1, 4). The copy in the McGiffert Papers is inscribed “To his father, with affectionate regard of the author,” 2 April 1889 (MJP, S2, SS2C, B1, F1). 183. McGiffert, Dialogue, 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 9. 184. [Anonymous], PJ [Pittsburgh], n.d., clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F10). 185. [Anonymous], New York Examiner, n.d., clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F10). 186. [Anonymous], Christian Intelligencer, n.d., clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F10). 187. Matthew Riddle, review of Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers, Volume I, Presbyterian and Reformed Review, n.d., 511, 513, clipping (MJP, S3, F6). Walter Rauschenbusch claimed that McGiffert’s edition of Eusebius had been his “invaluable companion” over the years (Rauschenbusch to McGiffert, Rochester, NY, 3 Nov. 1917 [MSP, B5]). 188. [Anonymous review], Living Church [New York], n.d., clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F10). 189. Minutes, UTS Board of Directors, 18 May 1926 (MSP, B7.6). 190. Erdmann, History of Philosophy; McGiffert translated I: 225–542. 191. Erdmann, History of Philosophy I: 230, 236, 253, 254, 289. Erdmann rues the influence of theurgy and “magical influences” on later N ­ eo-​­Platonism (I: 246, 248). 192. Samuel M. Jackson to McGiffert, 21  Dec.  1900 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F13). Jackson, professor at NYU and secretary of ASCH, read the paper in McGiffert’s absence. 193. McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed, 3, 12–13, 108–14, 141–45, 164–68. Church historians (such as Lietzmann) would later emphasize the role of the Creed in the preparation of baptismal candidates. 194. McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed, 21–22, 155–62. 195. McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed, 35, 36. 196. [Anonymous], Glasgow Herald, [unreadable date], 1897, clipping (MJP, S2, S2C, B2, F3). 197. [Anonymous], “Critics and the Apostles’ Creed,” Literary Digest (New York), 22 Feb. 1902, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F7). 198. Samuel M. Jackson to McGiffert, New York, 14 April 1902 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F13). 199. McGiffert to Charles Reynolds Brown, New York, 26 Sept. 1922 (MSP, B1.3). Brown



No t e s t o Pa ge s 65– 6 8

355

was Dean of Yale Divinity School. See McGiffert’s Date Book for 24–26 Oct. 1922 (MJP, S2, SS2F). 200. See correspondence between McGiffert and Perkins in 1922 and 1923 (MSP, B1.1). 201. [Anonymous], Homiletic Review, n.d., clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F8). 202. J. Estlin Carpenter to McGiffert, Oxford, 5 April 1924 (MSP, B4). 203. Samuel Angus to McGiffert, Edinburgh, 20 Oct. 1924 (Francis Brown Papers, S1, B1, F1). 204. A. M. Dulles, review of McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, in Auburn Seminary Review (Auburn, NY), 10 Nov.[?] 1924, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F8). 205. H. A. Sherman (of Charles Scribner’s Sons) to McGiffert, New York, 29 Aug. 1924, noting the relatively small royalty check. McGiffert asked Sherman to send a complimentary copy to Harnack (McGiffert to Sherman, New York, 26 Jan. 1924 [MSP, B1.1]). 206. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 19, 44, 63, 132, 148, 206. 207. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought II: 217. 208. Frederick D. Kershner, review of History of Christian Thought, Vol. II, in The Christian, 20 May 1933, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F9); Frederick F ­ oakes-​­Jackson to Mrs. [Gertrude] McGiffert, Englewood, N.J., 26 March 1932 (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F9). 209. Editor, “The Bookshelf ” column, Congregationalist, 16 June 1932, clipping (MJP, S2, SS2C, B2, F9). 210. S. Mathews, “Review of McGiffert, History of Christian Thought, Vol. I,” 582. 211. S. Mathews, “Review of McGiffert, History of Christian Thought, Vol. I,” 582. 212. S. Mathews, “Literature of Latin Christianity,” 336. 213. Richards, “Review of McGiffert, A History of Christian Thought, Vol. I,” 164–66. 214. McGiffert to unknown correspondent, n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F25). 215. McGiffert to Kemper Fullerton, West Falmouth, MA, 25 June 1917 (MSP, B4): Fullerton’s manuscript on Luther advances nothing new and is too detailed for the general reader. 216. McGiffert to William Lawrence [Bishop of Massachusetts], New York, 26 Feb. 1916 (MSP, B4). McGiffert concludes, “I am sorry that my hunt has given me no richer spoils to offer you.” 217. McGiffert to Rev. William P. Taylor, n.p., 14 Dec. 1923 (MSP, B5, F1). 218. McGiffert to John Wright Buckham, n.p., 1 March 1920 (MSP, B4). 219. A particularly rending example comes from the pen of Professor J. Helder: in 1916 in the boondocks of San Antonio, his whole family ill, he has “broken down.” He admits that his is “a cry of despair”: Helder is desperate for a copy of McGiffert’s Protestant Thought Before Kant, and for offprints of articles he cannot get. McGiffert promptly had Scribner’s send a copy of that book and his Rise of Modern Religious Ideas to Helder (J. Helder to McGiffert, San Antonio, TX, 5, 19, and 30 April 1916 [MSP, B1, F1]). 220. McGiffert to Morris S. Lazaron, New York, 6 Feb. 1923, replying to Lazaron’s invitation of 1 Feb. (MSP, B2, F1). 221. See invitation (MSP, B2, F1); McGiffert Date Book for 25 Oct. 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2F). 222. McGiffert to Abram Elkins, New York, 15 March 1924 (MSP, B3). At some unspecified date, Wise (among others) invited McGiffert to a luncheon at which would be discussed “problems connected with Palestine Restoration.” There is no indication whether McGiffert attended (Julian W. Mack, Nathan Straus, and Stephen S. Wise to McGiffert, 5 Jan. [no year] [MSP B5]). 223. George F. Moore to McGiffert, Cambridge, MA, 22  April  1922 (MSP, B5). Moore thinks they will have raised $335 to send Strack. 224. McGiffert to Macmillan Company, 22 March 1923 (MSP B1, F2). Macmillan distributed the books. 225. See Samuel A. Eliot to McGiffert, Boston, 1 Feb. 1922 (MSP, B2, F2).

356

No t e s t o Pa ge s 68 – 7 3

226. McGiffert to Felix Adler of the Society for Ethical Culture, n.p., 11 May 1916 (MSP, B2, F5). 227. McGiffert to Felix Adler, New York, 8 April 1920; Adler to McGiffert, 12 March 1920 (MSP, B3). 228. McGiffert’s Date Books show him teaching at Barnard in 1923–1924 (MJP, S2, SS2F). 229. Mary L. Hussey to McGiffert, South Hadley, MA, 18 Feb. 1917; McGiffert to Hussey, New York, 24 Feb. 1917; Pres. Mary E. Woolley to McGiffert, South Hadley, MA, 15 June 1916; and McGiffert to Woolley, New York, 14 April 1916 [MSP, B2, F2]). Mount Holyoke was McGiffert’s mother’s college. 230. See McGiffert to Marion L. Burton (President of Smith College), New York, 12 June 1916 and McGiffert’s correspondence with Mary Caswell (secretary to President Ellen Pendleton of Wellesley) and with Eliza H. Kendrick (teacher of Bible at Wellesley), in 1919, 1920, and 1924 (MSP, B2, F2). 231. Bessie Lee Gambrill to McGiffert, Trenton, NJ, n.d. (MSP, B2, F2). 232. McGiffert, “Ruin a Minister,” 981. 233. McGiffert to William M. Kingsley, New York, 19 March 1918, responding to a request from James Louch, director of NYU’s Summer School (MSP, B4).

Chapter 3 1. Bowden, Church History, 138. Bowden engaged with McGiffert’s theological assumptions in his printed works, but not in his archival materials. 2. Ludlow, “Charge,” 4. 3. Ludlow, “Charge,” 8. 4. Ludlow, “Charge,” 10, 11. 5. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 18. 6. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 11 Jan. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 190). 7. McGiffert, “Christianity in the Light of Its History,” New York Philosophical Club, 18 Jan. 1912, 1–19, at 5, 8. 8. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 20–21. 9. McGiffert, “Christianity in the Light of Its History,” New York Philosophical Club, 18 Jan. 1912, 6. 10. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 21–22, 23, 24. 11. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 25–28. 12. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 29, 31, 32, 37–39. 13. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 39–40; on the change from earlier distinctions (ancient, medieval, modern), see “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” I: 13–14. 14. McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 42, 43. 15. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 8. Vernon himself wrote on Ritschl (Ambrose W. Vernon to McGiffert, East Orange, NJ, 24 Dec. 1901). When in 1902, McGiffert invited Vernon to teach a course, Vernon responded that he “vastly prefer[s] the course in German theology” (Vernon to McGiffert, East Orange, NJ, 4 Oct. 1902 [MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F26]). 16. Brown held Union’s prize fellowship for study in Europe a few years after McGiffert. Mueller, Introduction, 15; W. A. Brown, Teacher, 81–83. 17. W. A. Brown, Essence, 223–87. Brown retained his liberalism. In 1938, urging President Hutchins of the University of Chicago to take in a refugee professor from Vienna, he reports that



No t e s t o Pa ge s 7 3 – 75

357

the scholar is liberal, standing against both the “tyranny of Hitler” and the “obscurantism of Karl Barth” (Brown to Hutchins, New York, 24 Oct. 1938 [University of Chicago, Office of the President (Hutchins), General Files (S1, B69, F2)]). 18. W. A. Brown, Essence, 227, 240, 253, 233–34, 228, 257. On “value judgments,” see 73–75 below; and Ritschl, Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation III, #28, 204; #29, 211–12; #44, 398. Hereafter Christian Doctrine. 19. W. A. Brown, Essence, 263. 20. Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 132. 21. J. W. Platner to McGiffert, Andover, MA, 1 Dec. 1902 (MJP, S1, B3, F3). On Ritschlianism at Union, see McGiffert Jr., “Making of an American Scholar,” 34–35. 22. McGiffert, “Current German Thought,” AR 7.41 (May 1887): 563, 564, 565; AR 8.43 (July 1887): 81. 23. McGiffert, “Current German Thought,” AR 7.41 (May 1887): 564. 24. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 18–22, passim. See Ritschl, Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche. 25. Ritschl, however, modified Kant’s view (only phenomena can be objects of knowledge) and adapts Lotze’s: a correct theory of knowledge does not observe or explain “even the objects of sense perception” in themselves, but only as we perceive them (Christian Doctrine III, #3, 19; #6, 34). 26. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Present Theological Situation,” typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F3, 7). 27. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 3 May 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 183); “Schleiermacher and Ritschl,” General Theological Seminary, NY, 11 Feb. 1924 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1); Rise, 141. 28. McGiffert, [identifiable as] “Church History 4,” April 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F1, N, 129, 131, 133); “Theological Reconstruction,” 40, 41. 29. McGiffert, “Progress of Theological Thought,” 330–32, passim. 30. McGiffert, Rise, 139, 140, 141 (citing Ritschl’s Christliche Lehre, 3rd ed., III: 189ff.); “Schleiermacher and Ritschl” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1). 31. McGiffert, “Emancipation of ­Religion—​­A Historical Sketch,” New York Philosophical Club, 14 Jan. 1915, 12. 32. McGiffert, “Schleiermacher and Ritschl” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1); Rise, 141. 33. McGiffert, Rise, 141, 163. Emphasis added. 34. McGiffert, “Christianity in the Light of Its History,” New York Philosophical Club, 18 Jan. 1912, 14: Jesus differed from the Social Gospelers; he wished to relieve misery, not “­re-​ ­arrange the social fabric.” 35. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 22. 36. Recall Alfred Loisy’s famous pronouncement, “Jesus foretold the Kingdom and it was the Church that came” (Gospel and the Church, 166). 37. McGiffert, “Christians: Salt of the Earth,” sermon, 1902–1906 (MJP, S2, SS2B. B1, F4, 21); “Evolution of Christianity,” Barnard Lectures 1923–1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 10). 38. McGiffert, Rise, 141. 39. McGiffert, “Progress of Theological Thought,” 330. 40. McGiffert, “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 5–6. Ritschl’s Christocentrism, Henry P. Van Dusen commented, offered “a principle of limitless fecundity” for the following generation, i.e., McGiffert’s (“Farther Background,” 186).

358

No t e s t o Pa ge s 7 5– 8 0

41. McGiffert, Rise, 142. 42. McGiffert, “Current German Thought,” AR 8.43 (July 1887): 82. Here, Ritschl influenced Harnack’s conception of the “Hellenization of Christianity.” 43. McGiffert, “Present Tendencies in Theological Thought,” 1921 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1, 5). 44. McGiffert, “Pragmatism of Kant,” New York Philosophical Club, 16 Dec. 1909, 1–12, at 1–2, 4–5; similarly, McGiffert, Rise, 81, 129–33, 134. 45. McGiffert, “Emancipation of Religion,” New York Philosophical Club, 14 Jan. 1915, 2. McGiffert admits that Kant’s postulate of the Summum Bonum, in which virtue is rewarded, is an “embarrassing situation” for this aspect of Kant’s philosophy (3). 46. McGiffert, Rise, 133. 47. McGiffert, chapel talk on I Cor. 13 (MJP S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 3–4); “Christian Temper,” 202. 48. McGiffert, [unlabeled, but identifiable as] “Church History 4,” April 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F1, N, 151). 49. McGiffert, “Pragmatism of Kant,” New York Philosophical Club, 16 Dec. 1909, 2, 7, 9, 11, 12, 1. 50. McGiffert, [unlabeled, but identifiable as] “Church History 4,” April 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F1, N, 151). 51. McGiffert, “Schleiermacher and Ritschl” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1). 52. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity,” typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chaps. 9, 10). 53. McGiffert, “Imagination in Religion,” 1 March 1921, Version 1 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4). 54. Harnack, Christianity and History, 45–47. 55. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 282, 283, 284. David W. Lotz, by contrast, emphasizes that Harnack’s book “exemplified Ritschl’s distinctive mode of doing theology out of historical inquiry, which involved the identification of an original ‘essence’ of the Christian religion in whose light one could then distinguish between authentic and inauthentic developments in theology and spirituality” (“Ritschl in His ­Nineteenth-​­Century Setting,” 25). 56. Zachhuber, Theology as Science, 284, ­285—​­in contrast to Troeltsch, who endorsed another aspect of Ritschl’s teaching in his promotion of “a renewal of a truly historical theology under the conditions of early t­ wentieth-​­century historicism.” 57. McGiffert, “Historical Study,” 165. 58. Wacker, Augustus H. Strong, 153–54, citing changes in McGiffert’s position from 1892 to 1916. See also Bowden, Church History, chap. 6, esp. 150–51, 160–61. 59. McGiffert, “German Theological Literature,” AR 8.47 (Nov. 1887): 548–50. 60. McGiffert, “German Theological Literature,” AR 8.47 (Nov. 1887): 549, 550. 61. McGiffert, Review of Pfleiderer, Urchristentum, 200–203. 62. McGiffert, Review of Harnack, History of Dogma, 361–63. 63. McGiffert, “Church History 3” [early Oct. 1916] (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 1, 2). Seeberg, however, was the second conservative appointee: Adolf Schlatter had preceded him in that role (Rumscheidt, “Introduction,” 17). 64. William Allison to McGiffert, Colgate University, 13 Oct. 1921; McGiffert sent in his review 23 May 1922 (MSP, B1, F1). I have not been able to learn what manual this was. 65. McGiffert, “Church History 3” (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 3). 66. Harnack, “Future of Church History,” 2–3. 67. McGiffert to Adolf von Harnack, New York, 8 Jan. 1915 (MSP, B4). 68. Adolf von Harnack to McGiffert, ­Berlin-​­Grunewald, 1 Feb. 1915 (MSP, B4). 69. Adolf von Harnack to McGiffert, ­Berlin-​­Grunewald, 30 Sept. 1922 (MSP, B4).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 8 1 – 8 4

359

70. McGiffert to Adolf von Harnack, New York, 6 Nov. 1922 (MSP, B4). George F. Moore of Harvard wrote that the editors will accept the “Sic et Non” article (George F. Moore to McGiffert, Cambridge, MA, 4 Nov. 1922 [MSP, B5]). Moore adds that the HTR pays foreign authors (but not Americans) one dollar per page for their contributions. 71. Harnack, “Sect of the Nicolaitans,” 413–22. 72. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 9, 8. 73. McGiffert, Date Book, 26 Dec. 1923: dinner at the Deweys (MJP, S2, SS2F). For a brief introduction to Dewey’s religious and philosophical background, see Kuklick, “John Dewey.” 74. McGiffert, “Current German Thought,” AR 7.41 (May 1887): 564, 565. 75. McGiffert, “Progress of Theological Thought,” 330–32, passim. 76. McGiffert, “Present Tendencies in Theological Thought” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1, 5). 77. At the New York Philosophical Club, 31  Jan.  1907, James and Santayana discussed Pragmatism. 78. McGiffert, “Changing Human Nature,” chapel talk, 12 April 1921 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4). 79. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity,” Barnard Lectures 1923–1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 7). 80. McGiffert, Martin Luther and His Work, 12th Paper, 92. I cite the version published in Century Magazine. McGiffert, Martin Luther: The Man and His Work, expanded and revised these essays. 81. McGiffert, Martin Luther, 2nd Paper, 371; 9th Paper, 574, 576. McGiffert concedes that if the movement had allied “with radicalism and uproar,” it would have been quickly extinguished. 82. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity,” Barnard Lectures 1923–1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 7). 83. McGiffert, untitled lecture notes for “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F10, chap. 6: 12, 1, 3, 4, 8; chap. 3: 3). 84. McGiffert, “Theological Reconstruction,” 36–37. 85. McGiffert, Martin Luther, 3rd Paper, 521. 86. On Ritschl and the “unfinished Reformation,” see Lotz, “Ritschl in His N ­ ineteenth-​ ­Century Setting,” 14–19. 87. McGiffert, Rise, 11, 12–13, 19–20, 14. 88. McGiffert, Protestant Thought, xiii, 186, 251, 254. McGiffert dedicated the book to Harnack. 89. McGiffert, Rise, 7, 8, 9. 90. McGiffert, Protestant Thought, xiii, 186. 91. McGiffert, Rise, 65, 67, 70, 72. 92. McGiffert, “Theological Reconstruction,” 37–38. 93. McGiffert, Rise, 76. 94. McGiffert, “Ruin a Minister,” 981. 95. McGiffert, “Theological Reconstruction,” 31–32. 96. McGiffert, “Science and Religion,” a talk at morning prayers, 18 March 1924, version 1 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4, 1). 97. McGiffert, “Kingdom of God,” 302–3. Today, scholars question what “speaking for himself ” could mean. 98. McGiffert, “History and Theology,” 20, 22. 99. McGiffert, “Theological Reconstruction,” 42–47, passim. 100. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 1, 15, 10, 11).

360

No t e s t o Pa ge s 8 4 – 8 8

101. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 15). Elsewhere, McGiffert writes that even the essence changes. That there is an “eternal gospel” beneath the husks of human construal reflects Harnack’s “kernel and husk” argument in What Is Christianity? (1900). See McGiffert, “Place of Christian Theological Curriculum or Its Relations to Other Disciplines,” 1910 and thereafter (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F25); and “Present Tendencies in Theological Thought” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1, 1–2). 102. McGiffert, “Kingdom of God,” 299–300. 103. McGiffert, “Emancipation of Religion,” New York Philosophical Club, 14 Jan. 1915, 13, 14, 17. 104. McGiffert, “Kingdom of God,” 301. 105. McGiffert, “Theological Education,” 13; “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 729. 106. McGiffert, “That They Without Us,” sermon, 1921, centennial of the Ashtabula, Ohio (Presbyterian?) Church (MJP, SII, SS2B, B1, F17, 3); “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 732. 107. McGiffert, “Historical Study of Christianity,” 168, 169, 170; “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 731. 108. McGiffert, “Theological Reconstruction,” 35–41, passim. 109. McGiffert, “Christ an Element,” 108, 111; “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation” (MJP S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 1). 110. McGiffert, “Christ an Element,” 112. 111. McGiffert, “Kingdom of God,” 305. 112. McGiffert, “What Makes a Christian?” 148; “Christian Theism,” 174. 113. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Present Theological Situation,” typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F3, 1, 3); “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 1). Regarding transcendence and immanence, see “Christian as Prophet,” sermon, 1894, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F2, 32). McGiffert traces the revived interest in God’s immanence to Spinoza, as explicated by Herder, who argued that Spinozan “immanence” did not entail pantheism (“God of Spinoza,” 706, 718, 722, 726). 114. McGiffert, “Task of the School of Theology in the Present Day World.” Given at the installation of Dean Beebe in Boston University School of Theology, 27 Oct. 1920, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 7). 115. McGiffert, “Historical Study,” 171. McGiffert believed that through Hegel’s influence, the doctrine of the Incarnation had come back into prominence, especially among Anglicans (Rise, 98–99). 116. McGiffert, “Task of the School of Theology,” Boston University School of Theology, 27 Oct. 1920, typescript (MJP S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 7). 117. McGiffert, “Faith Everywhere in Life,” chapel talk (?), n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F5). McGiffert adds that science too walks by faith. Emphasis in original. 118. McGiffert, “Preaching God,” chapel talk (?), 30 Oct. 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F5). 119. McGiffert, “Place of the Sacraments in Protestantism,” 223, 228, 230. 120. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 8. 121. McGiffert, “Personal Religion and Social Ethics,” 248, 249; Augustine’s views on institutional hierarchy drowned out the personal religious tone of the Confessions. 122. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 5). 123. McGiffert, “Catholicism,” 37, 38, 39, 40, citing Newman’s Apologia (Everyman edition, 215). 124. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 12 Jan. 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F 4, N2, 166–69). 125. Tyrrell, Christianity at the ­Cross-​­Roads. Tyrrell’s preface is dated June 29, 1909; he died on July 15.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 8 8 – 93

361

126. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Jan. 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 158, 159). 127. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Jan. 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 160, 161). 128. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Jan. 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 162, 163). 129. Charles Briggs to McGiffert, Vevey (Switzerland), 17  Nov.  1909 (MJP, S1, B3, F3). Briggs was a friend of von Hügel and in correspondence with P. Sabatier, who supplied him with news about European Modernists. 130. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 24–46. McGiffert planned to present this paper to the New York Philosophical Club in December 1909, but discovered that his only copy was at the printer (McGiffert, “Pragmatism of Kant,” New York Philosophical Club, 16 Dec. 1909). 131. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 25, 26, 29, 30. 132. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 40, 41. 133. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 31, 32, 45; Tyrrell, Medievalism. 134. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 34, 35, 36. 135. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 37, 38, 39, 42, 43. 136. McGiffert, “Modernism and Catholicism,” 44, 46. 137. McGiffert, “Doing of God’s Will,” sermon, 1902, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F5, 20); “Address to the Graduating Class,” Lane Theological Seminary, 4 May 1893 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F20, 6); “Ethic of Position, the substance of an informal address delivered in 1921” (MJP S2, SS2B, B2, F18, 1–2, passim); also given as a talk on 14 Jan. 1921 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 1–3). 138. McGiffert, “Unsearchable Riches of Christ,” 142; “Place of Christian Theological Curriculum or Its Relations to Other Disciplines,” 1910 and thereafter (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F25). 139. McGiffert, “Present Tendencies in Theological Thought” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1, 4); “Doing of God’s Will,” sermon, 1902, n. p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F5, 31, 32). 140. McGiffert, “Under Authority,” talk at morning prayers, 23 Oct. 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4, 1–2). 141. McGiffert, “Schleiermacher and Ritschl” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1); Rise, 141. 142. McGiffert, “Greatness Through Service” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F9, 23). McGiffert cites the (probably apocryphal) dying words of Julian the Apostate. 143. McGiffert, “Dilemma of the Church, the substance of an address delivered in 1918,” typescript (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F16, 1). 144. McGiffert, “Dilemma of the Church,” typescript (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F16, 1–3, passim). 145. McGiffert, “Teaching Church,” address at prayers, 9 March 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1); “Task of the School of Theology,” Boston University School of Theology, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 4–5). 146. McGiffert, “Worship,” chapel talk, 13 April 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4). 147. McGiffert, talk at morning chapel, 4 March 1922 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3). 148. Committee of the William A. Sunday Campaign to A. McLiffert [sic], 2 Dec. 1916 (MSP, B2, F5). 149. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 17 May 1921 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F11, 2). 150. McGiffert, “Reconciliation: Reconciling Personal Salvation with Social Gospel,” chapel talk (?), 26 Oct. 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F4, 1–4, passim). 151. McGiffert, “Ethic of Position” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F18, 1–2, passim); “Address to the Graduating Class,” Lane Theological Seminary, 4 May 1893 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F20, 2). 152. McGiffert, “Schleiermacher and Ritschl” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1); McGiffert, Rise, 141.

362

No t e s t o Pa ge s 9 3 – 9 8

153. McGiffert, “Prayer,” informal talk, UTS, 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F26, 286, 287). 154. McGiffert, “Address to the Graduating Class,” Lane Theological Seminary, 4 May 1893 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F20, 4–5, passim). 155. McGiffert, “Scholar and the Spiritual Force” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 7). Like most Protestants, McGiffert claimed that Jesus was no ascetic (“Religion and a Better ­World-​ ­Society,” 286). He considers monasticism “the apotheosis of individualistic ethics” (“Personal Religion and Social Ethics,” 247, 248; “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 723–24). Monasticism made social and public life seem unworthy; hence social and political ethics are “the weakest part of Christianity” (“Ethic of Position” [1921] [MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F18]). Monasticism promoted a double standard of ethics (“Church History 1,” 18 Jan. 1916 [MJP, S1, B1A, F1, N, 9]). 156. McGiffert, “Man Shall Not Live by Bread Alone,” sermon, New Rochelle, NY, 7 Dec. 1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 10–11). 157. McGiffert, untitled talk, morning prayers, 6 Feb. 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F2, 1–4, passim). 158. McGiffert, “Prayer,” informal talk, UTS, 1923 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F26, 287). 159. Francis Peabody to McGiffert, Cambridge, MA, 11 Dec. 1923; McGiffert to Peabody, New York, 15 Dec. 1923 (MSP, B5). 160. McGiffert, “Christianity in the Light of Its History,” New York Philosophical Club, 18 Jan. 1912, 1–19, at 14. 161. Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 165n.38; describing the Social Gospel as “applied liberalism” (146). 162. McGiffert, “Prolegomena,” 46–51, passim. 163. McGiffert, “Prolegomena,” 50, 51. 164. McGiffert, “Historical Study,” 150–51. 165. McGiffert, “Prolegomena,” 57–72. 166. McGiffert, “Historical Study of Christianity,” 150, 155. 167. McGiffert, “Scope and Limitations of the Historical Method” [address, Lane Theological Seminary in the 1890s] (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F29, 1–7, passim). 168. McGiffert, “History and Theology,” 3–6, passim, 10, 14, 19. 169. McGiffert, “Changing Conception of History” (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F2, 1–2, new 2–3); “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 729. 170. Samuel M. Jackson to McGiffert, New York, 30 Oct. 1898 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F13). 171. McGiffert, “Progress of Theological Thought,” 327–28; “Christianity in Light of Its History,” 730; McGiffert, “Theological Education,” 9. 172. McGiffert, “Memorial Address,” Western Reserve University, 8 June 1919, typescript (MSP, B8, 18); chapel talk on the death of Woodrow Wilson, UTS, 5 Feb. 1924 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F2, 10–16, passim). 173. McGiffert, Sermon, “Bed is shorter than that a man can stretch himself on it,” baccalaureate sermon, Western Reserve University, 8 June 1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 1, 3–4, 8, 12). In 1924, the U.S. Congress passed ­anti-​­immigration legislation that targeted the Japanese. 174. McGiffert, “Bed is shorter” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F3, 13–14). 175. McGiffert, “Farewell Address to the Graduating Class,” UTS, 20 May 1924 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F14, 1–3, passim). 176. McGiffert, “Humanizing of History” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F21, 1–3, 4–5). 177. McGiffert, “Humanizing of History” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F21, 5–8, passim). 178. McGiffert, “Humanizing of History” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F21, 8–14, passim).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 9 8 – 10 3

363

179. McGiffert, “Historical Study,” 159, 161, 160, 162, 165. 180. McGiffert, “Historical Study,” 164; “Church History 3” [early Oct. 1916] (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 1). 181. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 1–3, 6. Soon, McGiffert would stress that the Old Roman Symbol was primarily a statement against Marcionite heresy. 182. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 7–9, 12, 10–11. 183. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 13, 14. 184. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 17–20, passim. 185. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 16 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 180, 181). 186. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 5. 187. McGiffert, Review of Catholic Encyclopedia, Vol. I, 788–89. McGiffert comments that it is “absurd” to expect Catholics to see matters the same way as ­non-​­Catholics do. 188. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 16 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 180, 181).

Chapter 4 1. The phrase is Bowden’s, Church History, 137. 2. McGiffert, “Religious Obligations of Colleges and Universities” (MJP S2, SS2B, B2, F27, 30–46, passim). 3. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 9 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 89); notes taken by McGiffert’s son, Arthur Cushman McGiffert Jr. 4. Julius A. Bewer to McGiffert, Basle, 9 Nov. 1899 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F2). 5. Coffin, Half Century, 37–39. 6. McGiffert, “On the Teaching of Greek and Latin,” typescript (MJP, S2B, B2, 1–11), an undated address to the Philadelphia Society for the Promotion of Liberal Studies. 7. McGiffert, “On the Teaching of Greek and Latin” (MJP, S2B, B2, 2, 4, 5). 8. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 12 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 23); “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 131); notes taken by McGiffert’s son, Arthur Cushman McGiffert, Jr. 9. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 4. 10. [Anonymous; unidentified former Union student], “Dr. McGiffert’s Personal Influence,” 345–46. 11. Minutes, UTS Board of Directors, 14 March 1933 (MSP, B7, F6). 12. Vernon, “Scholar and Historian,” 3, 4. 13. Coffin, Half Century, 37. 14. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 5 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 3). 15. McGiffert, “Church History  3” [early October 1916] (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 1); 22 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 133). 16. “Revised Course of Study in the Union Theological Seminary, New York,” 1894–1895, 1895–1896 (UTS Records, S14 [Catalogs, Bulletins], B23, F1; for 1894–1895, 3–4; for 1895–1896, 4–5). 17. “Revised Course of Study in the Union Theological Seminary, New York,” 1897–1898 (UTS Records, S14 [Catalogs, Bulletins], B23, F1, 9). Notes from the course on the English Reformation [Church History 26], taken by his son, dated spring term 1916. 18. Charles Briggs to McGiffert, New York, 10 Dec. 1903 (MJP, S1, B3, F3). 19. McGiffert, “New England Theology” [1908–1909?] (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F4, 10, 11); “Church History 4,” 2 March 1917 (MJP, S1, B1A, F5, N, 135, 137, 139, 141).

364

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 0 3 – 1 0 8

20. The notes extant from this course are from 1916: McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 9 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 29). 21. McGiffert, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 14 May 1918, UTSB 1.4 (May 1918), Alumni Number (MJP, S3 [General], B1, UTS Pamphlets, 1917–1925, 14–15). 22. McGiffert usually taught this course; see course notes, McGiffert, “English Church History” [=“Church History 26”], early 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F7, 13). 23. McGiffert, “Annual Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors,” 20 May 1924 (MJP, S3 [General], F3, UTS Pamphlets, 16). Columbia appointed him “Associate in Religious Instruction” for the course at Barnard. The final examination covered the entire history of Christianity (Secretary of Columbia to McGiffert, New York, 10 and 12 March 1924; exam dated Jan. 1923; correspondence of McGiffert with Chaplain Raymond Knox at Columbia on the appropriate length of the exam, 6 Jan. 1923 (MSP, B1, F2). 24. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 5 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 3). 25. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 5 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 1) 26. One such book McGiffert reviewed and praised while studying in Germany in 1887– 1888: the tenth edition of Johann H. Kurtz’s Lehrbuch der Kirchengeschichte für Studierende. Kurtz, McGiffert wrote, does not cordon off the New Testament from church history. The English translation of an earlier edition does not do Kurtz’s work justice; apparently the latest edition was not available in English (Review of Johann H. Kurtz, Lehrbuch, 221). 27. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 5 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 3, 5). 28. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 5 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 6). 29. “Required Reading in Church History I,” paper folded into McGiffert, “Church History 1” (MJP, S1, B1A). In 1905–1906, McGiffert got an assistant in Church History, William Rockwell: see Minutes of the Board of Directors, 14 Nov. 1905 (UTS Records, S2, B6, Book 1, 1904–1914, 43), and Report of the Faculty to the Board of Directors, May 1903 (Francis Brown Papers, S3–UTS Correspondence, B1, Reports and Resolutions Regarding Faculty, F2, 1). 30. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” fall term, 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 5, 2, 3). 31. McGiffert, “Study of Early Church History,” 1, 2. 32. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 42. 33. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity,” Barnard Lectures 1923–1924, typescript (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 3). 34. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 42, 43, 44. 35. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 19 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 45, 43); “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 3). 36. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 47. 37. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 19 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 45, 47). 38. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 71). 39. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 41, 37). 40. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 48; “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 3). 41. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 28; “Church History 1,” 12 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 25). 42. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 12 and 14 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 27, 29). 43. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 4 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 89, 91). 44. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 38–39, 30; “Christian Missions” [taught in 1918, 1920, 1924] (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4, new 22, 24). Notes for this course are untitled and sometimes unpaged.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 0 8 – 112

365

45. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 4 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 77). 46. McGiffert, “Primitive Christianity,” 26. 47. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 4 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 81). 48. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 41. 49. McGiffert, “Ethic of Position” (1921) (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F18, citing Soliloquies I.7). For Harnack on “God and the soul,” see his Christianity and History, 40. 50. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 12 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 89, 91, 93, 95). 51. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 73). 52. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 28; “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4). 53. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 75); History of Christian Thought, I: 122. 54. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4; new 22, 24). 55. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4); “Influence of Christianity,” 33. 56. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4); “Influence of Christianity,” 36, 37. 57. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 31, 32; “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4). 58. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 12 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 25, 27). 59. McGiffert, “Influence of Christianity,” 34, 35; “Primitive Christianity,” 27; “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4). 60. McGiffert, “Poverty the Condition of Entrance into the Kingdom of God,” sermon, 10 May 1889 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F14, 17, 27–28, [12]). 61. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4); “Church History 1,” 18 Jan. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F1, N, 12). 62. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 11 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 93, 95). 63. McGiffert, “Living Christ,” 134, 135. 64. McGiffert, “Kingdom of God,” chapel talk (?), 23 March 1920 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B3, F5); “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 6). 65. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4; new 22, 24). 66. McGiffert, “Experience Worketh Hope,” sermon, 1919, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F6, 14, 13). 67. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 4); “Influence of Christianity,” 46. 68. McGiffert, “Credo Quia Absurdum,” 240. 69. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 32. 70. McGiffert, “Primitive Christianity,” 18, 21; “Church History  1,” 12 and 14  Oct.  1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 31). McGiffert cites Franz Cumont and other history of religion scholars. 71. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 35); “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 3; 14). 72. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4; new 21). 73. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 39). 74. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 2; 9, 10). 75. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 26. 76. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 4 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 79, 85). 77. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4; 17).

366

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 1 2 – 1 17

78. McGiffert, “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F10, chap. 2; 11, 12). 79. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 68, 70, 95, 83. 80. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 28 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 69, 73, 71). 81. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 120; “Church History 3,” 20 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 73). 82. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 131. McGiffert alludes to Matthew Tindal’s book of 1730. 83. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 20 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 73, 66, 67, 69, 71, 75). 84. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 28 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 71, 73). 85. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 26 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 65). McGiffert admires Origen’s willingness to quote Celsus even when he could not refute his charges. 86. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 26 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 65, 67). 87. Although McGiffert briefly rehearses the history of the recensions (“Christianity of Ignatius,” 470), interest in this topic has faded. For ­nineteenth-​­century debates on the topic, see Clark, Founding the Fathers, 11, 84, 87, 110, 111, 207–8, 218, 220, 223–28. 88. McGiffert, “Christianity of Ignatius,” 476–79, passim; “Church History 3,” 25 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 81, 83, 85); History of Christian Thought I: 42. 89. McGiffert, “Christianity of Ignatius,” 472, 473. 90. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 19, 21, 26 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 51, 57, 59, 61, 63). 91. McGiffert, “Christianity of Ignatius,” 480, 481, 482. 92. McGiffert, “Church History  3,” 25  Oct.  1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 87); History of Christian Thought I: 44. 93. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 27 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 97). McGiffert is dismayed by how little interest Harnack takes in Irenaeus’ theology. 94. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 132; “Primitive Christianity,” 29–30. 95. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 1 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 109, 111, 113); “Christianity of Ignatius,” 480, 481, 482. 96. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 148. 97. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 27 Oct. and 1 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 97, 99, 109). 98. McGiffert, “Primitive Christianity,” 29–30; History of Christian Thought I: 132. 99. McGiffert, “Mysticism in the Early Church,” 425. 100. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 148. 101. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 27 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 101, 103, 105). 102. McGiffert, “Mysticism in the Early Church,” 425, 427. 103. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 1 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 111, citing Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 5.2 and 4.18; Ignatius, Rom. 4). 104. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 147. 105. Coffin, Half Century, 39, who does not identify the student. 106. McGiffert, untitled lecture notes for “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 7; 4; chap. 8; 1, 3, 5). 107. As a student in Europe, McGiffert noted in his “German Theological Literature” column the Greek text of the P ­ seudo-​­Origenistic dialogue of “Adimantius” with the Gnostics, edited by Theodor Zahn (ZKG 9.2–3, 193–239) (AR 8.47 [Nov. 1887]: 558). 108. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 100–101. 109. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 25 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 89); yet when



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 1 7 – 12 2

367

speaking to his introductory class, McGiffert describes Gnosticism as a form of philosophy: “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 149). 110. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 27 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 91, 93, 95, 97). 111. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 149). 112. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 9 and 16 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 35, 39, 43). 113. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 107. 114. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 25 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 89); presumably referring to Wilhelm Bousset’s Hauptprobleme der Gnosis (1907), Eugène de Faye’s Gnostiques et Gnosticisme (1913), and Adolf Hilgenfeld’s Die Ketzergeschichte des Urchristentums (1884). McGiffert Jr. misspells names and titles. 115. See McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed, esp. 13, 107, 114–15, 121–24, 145, 170–72, 174. 116. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 25 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1), 89, 91; “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 149). 117. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 187, 153, 154, 66. 118. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 153, 155); Apostles’ Creed, 9, 13–14, 18, 108–15, 141–43. 119. McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed, 17, 30, 122–25, 164–68. 120. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 63, 64, 65. 121. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 9 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 157, 159). 122. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 1). 123. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 168. 124. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 166. 125. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 9 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 159, 161, 165). Gradually the Montanist movement degenerated, just as later, Puritanism did (163). 126. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 169, 173. 127. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 9 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 165). 128. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 9 and 11 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 161, 163, 165, 166). 129. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 153, 154, 155. 130. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 151, 153). 131. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 163, 164; “Church History 1,” 9 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 157). 132. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 2). 133. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 155, citing Against Heresies, III.2; IV.27); “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 2); History of Christian Thought I: 160, 161, 162. 134. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 7 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 155); History of Christian Thought I: 160, 161. 135. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 19 and 28 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 49, 28, 75). 136. McGiffert, “Catholicism,” 33, 35. 137. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 19 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 48). 138. McGiffert, “Validity of N ­ on-​­Episcopal Ordination,” 14–19, passim; “Church History 1,” 30 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 133). 139. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 30 Nov. and 2 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 137, 139, 141, 143).

368

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 2 3 – 1 2 9 140. McGiffert, “Validity of N ­ on-​­Episcopal Ordination,” 20–25, passim. 141. McGiffert, “Ministry of Reconciliation,” 257. 142. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 4 Nov. and 19 Oct. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 75, 46). 143. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 167, 169, 171). 144. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 and 16 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 171, 173, 175,

177). 145. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 14 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 175, 177). 146. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 16 Dec. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 177); History of Christian Thought II: 34, 37, 31. 147. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 129, 131). 148. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 137, 133). 149. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 186, 200, 180, 187, 189, 192; “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP S1, B1A, F3, N1, 139). 150. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 135, 137, 139); this view reminds McGiffert of “the essential Christ” held by some modern Anglicans. 151. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 206; “Church History 3,” 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 137, 139); “Christian Theism,” 164. 152. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 10 and 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 161, 141, 143). 153. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 213, 209. 154. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 230, 214. McGiffert presumably thinks of Schleiermacher’s Glaubenslehre, which begins rather with humans’ religious consciousness. 155. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 10 and 8 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 163, 147, 149, 145 [this despite Origen’s considering the Father and Son homoouios]); History of Christian Thought I: 223, 221: the whole topic of salvation was confused regarding the work of the Holy Spirit. 156. McGiffert, “Democracy and Religion,” a paper to the New York Philosophical Club, 13 March 1919, 1–13, at 2. 157. McGiffert, “Church History  3,” 8  Nov.  1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 153, 156). In March 1917, McGiffert Jr. writes another note to a friend (as his father started to discuss Romanticism): “I’m glad you’ve found someone who is your equal intellectually!” (“Church History 4,” 21 March 1917 [MJP, S1, B1A, F6, N2, 62]). Young McGiffert succeeded on the marital front, marrying the granddaughter of Charles Eliot, famed President of Harvard. 158. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 and 10 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 159, 161, 163). 159. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 231. 160. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 213; “Church History 3,” 11 Oct. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 41). 161. McGiffert, “Primitive Christianity,” 21, 22. 162. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 9 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 29). 163. McGiffert, “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 5. 164. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 147,149); History of Christian Thought I: 220–21. 165. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 46, 44, 48, 52, 88, 108, 98–99, 111, 114–15, 192 (“The real God of the theologians, as well as of the rank and file, was the Lord Jesus Christ”); “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 9 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 31, 33). 166. McGiffert, “Lordship of Jesus,” 115, 116. 167. McGiffert, untitled notes for “Christian Missions” (MJP, S2, SS2C, B3, F9, chap. 4; 18); God of the Early Christians, 117, 187.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 2 9 – 133

369

168. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 119; “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 25 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 59, 61, 63, 65). 169. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 25 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 67, 69); “Christian Theism,” 165. 170. McGiffert, “Church History  3,” 20  Oct.  1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 66, 67, 69); “Greatness Through Service,” sermon, 1891, n.p. (MJP S1, SS2B, B1, F9, 19, 21). 171. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 115; God of the Early Christians, 122, 144–45. 172. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians, 194–95. 173. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 3 and 8 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 137, 145, 147); “Christian Theism,” 164; God of the Early Christians, 140; “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 71). 174. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 245; “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 25 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 69); “Church History 3,” 10 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 167, 169, 175). 175. McGiffert, “Living Christ,” 140. 176. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 111, 271–72, 221, 275; “Church History 3,” 8 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 149). See below on Stoic metaphysics. 177. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 15 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 183). 178. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 10 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 179). 179. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 15 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 181, 183, 185, 187, 189); History of Christian Thought I: 247. 180. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 15 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 189–97, passim). 181. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 1). See Hort, Two Dissertations, Part II: 73–84. 182. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 111, 220–21, 271–72; “Church History 3,” 8 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 149). 183. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 and 23 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 1, 15 [noting again that while the deity of Christ has always been dear to Christians, the humanity was not always so roundly affirmed]); History of Christian Thought I: 275. 184. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 196, 198, 1­ 99—​­but the Cappadocians do not teach “three gods”). 185. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 3 May 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 191). McGiffert discusses what “Father” meant in the Synoptics, in God of the Early Christians, 13–16. 186. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 73). McGiffert traced the revived interest in God’s immanence to Herder’s interpretation of Spinoza; he argued that Spinozan “immanence” did not mean “pantheism” (“God of Spinoza,” 706, 718, 722, 726). 187. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 199). 188. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 75). 189. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 29 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 41). 190. McGiffert, “Christian Theism,” 164. 191. In his administrative role at Union and as an important Protestant spokesman, McGiffert sometimes fielded questions and complaints from conservatives. In 1917, a disturbed correspondent in California wrote to McGiffert, dismayed that seemingly no one in America believed in the Augustinian theory of predestination anymore. McGiffert replied that, never fear, there

370

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 3 3 – 1 3 6

was at least one such: Professor Benjamin B. Warfield of Princeton Theological Seminary. McGiffert directs the inquirer to the eight volumes of Augustine’s writings in the Nicene and ­Post-​ ­Nicene Fathers series (Ben H. Irwin to McGiffert, Hanford, CA, 31 Jan. 1917; McGiffert to Irwin, n.p., 15 Feb. 1917 [MSP, B5.2]). 192. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 81). 193. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 8 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 85). 194. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 79). 195. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 29 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 39). 196. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 8). 197. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Present Theological Situation,” Andover Theological Seminary, 1900(?) (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F3), 1, 3; “Christian as Prophet,” sermon, 1894, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F2, 32). 198. McGiffert, “Power of Faith,” sermon, 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F15); “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 3 May 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 185). 199. McGiffert, “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 3–5, 7–9, passim. 200. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 7); “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 5–6. 201. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 3 May 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 189). 202. McGiffert, “Christian Theism,” 166; McGiffert, “Lordship of Jesus,” 120. 203. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 232. 204. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 25 Feb. 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 69); History of Christian Thought I: 239, 240. 205. McGiffert, “Christ an Element in Christian Theology,” 107. 206. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 3). 207. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 110. 208. McGiffert, “Miraculous Elements in the Life of Jesus,” a paper read at “Theta,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2A, B2, F24, 27–28). 209. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 242. 210. McGiffert, Rise, 206, 207. 211. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 15 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 185, 187). 212. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 7). 213. McGiffert, Rise, 207; History of Christian Thought I: 288. 214. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 17 and 23 Nov., 15 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 7, 11, 105). 215. McGiffert, “Development of the Christian Idea of God,” 1 March 1916 (MJP, S1, B2, N10, 79). 216. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 6 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 57, 59); History of Christian Thought II: 104. 217. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 23 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 11, 13, 15). 218. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 289. 219. McGiffert, “Inspiration,” sermon, 1892, n.p. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F12, 5); Rise, 206.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 3 6– 144

371

220. McGiffert, History of Christian Thought I: 290; McGiffert, Rise, 207; Schleiermacher’s doctrine of the person and work of Christ stands as a good illustration (207–8). 221. McGiffert, “Christian Ministry and the Existing Theological Situation,” n.d. (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F4, 1). 222. McGiffert, “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 12, 13, 16. 223. McGiffert, “Problem of Christian Creeds,” 17, 19, 20, 22. 224. McGiffert explains in the Preface that he gave lectures on this topic at the Harvard University Summer School of Theology in 1899, later at the University of Chicago, and then to the American Historical Association in January 1900. In the meantime, he added the Critical Notes (Apostles’ Creed, v). 225. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 1 Nov. 1916 (MJP S1, B1A, F3, N1, 115, 117). 226. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 1 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 117); Apostles’ Creed, esp. 12, 174. 227. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 1 and 3 Nov. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F3, N1, 119, 121, 123, 125, 127); Apostles’ Creed, esp. 120–21. Westminster Confession: many of McGiffert’s students were Presbyterians (as he himself formerly was). 228. McGiffert, “Christ’s Creed,” sermon, East Orange, NJ, 1888 (MJP, S2, SS2B, B1, F1, 1–2, 14–15, 19, 38). 229. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 18 and 23 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 119, 121). 230. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 6 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 55). 231. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 11 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 107, 109, 103, 105); Apostles’ Creed, 175, 178–79, 180, 182. 232. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 18 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 113, 111); “Church History 3,” 12 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 83). 233. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 18 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 115, 117). 234. McGiffert, “Church History 1,” 18 and 23 Nov. 1915 (MJP, S1, B1A, F2, N, 119 [alluding to Hebrews 9:12], 121). 235. McGiffert, “Evolution of Christianity” (MJP, S2, SS2B, B2, F35, chap. 5). 236. McGiffert, “Church History 3,” 8 and 6 Dec. 1916 (MJP, S1, B1A, F4, N2, 69, 65).

Chapter 5 Second and third versions of archival texts are in the same box and folder as the first listed version. 1. LaPiana, “Memoirs,” 1. “Memoirs” is sometimes referred to as “Autobiography.” LaPiana himself is responsible for the confused state of the archive, on which see below. 2. In addition to the “Memoirs,” see Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 117–43. Williams’s essay is based on colleagues’ recollections of conversations with LaPiana, as well as on LaPiana’s autobiographical notes. For a shorter retrospective, see Williams, “Century of Church History,” 93–95. Now also see Williams, Divinings 2: 215–16, 220–24, 297–99. 3. LaPiana, Foreword, “Memoirs,” 23 Feb. 1968 (B1, F2). 4. Angelina LaPiana wrote Dante’s American Pilgrimage. 5. Nancy H. Greer to “Miss LaPiana,” n.d., in LaPiana, “Memoirs” (B1, F1); also see Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 120. 6. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3, 2–3).

372

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 4 4 – 1 4 9

7. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 117–18, 119. Three of his brothers were educated at the Albanian ­Greek-​­rite seminary school at the monastery of Grottaferrata outside Rome; this establishment would later publish LaPiana’s doctoral dissertation, Le Rappresentazioni sacre nella letteratura bizantina (Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 120, 128). 8. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3, 4–6, 9, 10; another version, 1). 9. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 118, 120; LaPiana, “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3; another version, 14). 10. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3, 4–6; another version, 1). 11. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 121. 12. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation” (B1, F4; another version, 2–3); “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3, 9, 10). 13. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Childhood” (B1, F3, 7, 9); “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 21 Feb. 1968 (B1, F4). 14. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 22 Feb. 1968 (B1, F4; another version, 11). 15. LaPiana, “Pius XI” (B12, F17, II: 10). LaPiana definitely thought this of Pius XI. 16. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 22 Feb. 1968 (B1, F4). 17. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 22 Feb. 1968 (B1, F4). 18. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 26 Dec. 1967 (B1, F4; another version, 1–2). Also see Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 121–22. 19. LaPiana, “Doctrinal Background of Moral Theology,” 385. 20. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” another version (B1, F4, 4, 10–11; third version, transcribed 8 May 1968). 21. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 7–8; Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 93n. 22. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 123. 23. The address was printed in the HDSB (1947). Buonaiuti died in 1946. 24. LaPiana, “­Modernism-​­Origin” (B1, F5, 4); Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 122. 25. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Modernism” (B1, F5, 1–5); “­Modernism-​­Origin” (B1, F5, 5); Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 126; LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 3 Jan. 1968 (B1, F4). 26. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 3 Jan. 1968 (B1, F4); “Memoirs: Modernism” (B1, F5, 1–5); “­Modernism-​­Origin” (B1, F5, 5); Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 126. 27. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 8 May 1968 (B1, F4). 28. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 126. 29. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 127. 30. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation” (B1, F4, 5–6; another version, transcribed 10 Jan. 1969; third version, transcribed 8 May 1968). 31. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation” (B1, F4, 5–6; another version, transcribed 10 Jan. 1969); Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 126–27. Williams does not report whether LaPiana told him the story directly or it derives from some other source. 32. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco,” transcribed 12 Jan. 1968 (B1, F6, 1–3). 33. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America” (B1, F7, 1); “Byzantine Theater,” 171–211. 34. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Education and Vocation,” transcribed 3 Jan. 1968 (B1, F4); “Memoirs: San Rocco” (B1, F6; second version, transcribed 9 May 1968, 2). 35. The text I cite gives 1914, but in another, the date given is 1913. The latter seems correct,



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 4 9 – 15 1

373

because LaPiana writes that he was no longer in Italy when the war (World War I) broke out: see LaPiana, “Wars” (B1, F8, 2). Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” confirms the 1913 date (129). 36. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America” (B1, F7, 2–3). For more on LaPiana’s Milwaukee days, see Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 129–30. 37. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America,” transcribed 14 May 1968 (B1, F7). 38. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America,” second version (B1, F7; also in B25, F17). 39. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America,” third version, transcribed 7 Nov. 1967 (B1, F7). 40. LaPiana, “Italian Immigrants in America. The Italians in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. General Survey,” 1915, 96 pp. (B11, F17, 1–4 passim, 5, 7–8). Workers were paid between $1.50 and $2.00 an hour, but since most did not have full work all year, they made only about $300–400 annually. Married women stayed at home with children, for the most part; some girls before (early) marriage, and widows, worked in factories. 41. LaPiana, “Italian Immigrants in America” (B11, F17, 10–31, passim: poor, unhygienic housing, lack of money for adequate family support, prevalence of disease). 42. LaPiana, “Italian Immigrants in America” (B11, F17, 39–41, 91, 55–57). 43. For his rebuff, see Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 129–30. 44. LaPiana, “Memoirs: San Rocco to America,” transcribed 14–15  May  1968 (B1, F7; a second version, transcribed 7 Nov. 1967). Also see Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 130. 45. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Harvard,” transcribed 18 Nov. 1965 (B1, F8, 1). 46. Moore, Origine e sviluppo della religione. 47. LaPiana, “Review of Catholic Modernism,” 351–75. He also was likely the translator of Buonaiuti’s essay in the same issue. 48. LaPiana, trans., Buonaiuti, “Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea of Original Sin.” A few years later he translated Buonaiuti’s “Methodius of Olympus.” 49. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the S­ econd-​­Century,” 201–77; background for this essay in LaPiana, Il Problema della chiesa latina in Roma (Rome, 1922); Successione episcopale in Roma e gli albori del Primato (Rome, 1922); “La primitiva communità cristiana di Roma e l’Epistola ai Romani,” RR 1 (Rome) (May–July 1925); “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire,” 183–403; parts were earlier published in Italian in RR 2 (Nov. 1926): 485–547, and 3 (Jan. 1927): 36–75. 50. LaPiana, “Wars” (B1, F8, 4–5). 51. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 132. 52. LaPiana, “Education and Vocation” (B1, F4). Among the books LaPiana owned that he lists in his “Memoirs” under “Library” are ­sixty-​­six volumes of the Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, nineteen volumes of LeClerq’s Histoire des Conciles; ­twenty-​­nine volumes of the Dictionnaire d’Archéologie Chrétienne et de Liturgie; t­hirty-​­eight volumes of the Enciclopedia Italiana; thirteen volumes of Hasting’s Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics; many volumes of Harvard Historical Studies and Harvard Press Historical Monographs; and many others (LaPiana, “Memoirs: Library” [B2, F4]). 53. LaPiana, “Wars” (B1, F8, 4–5). 54. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Harvard Divinity School,” “Divinity School” (B1, F8, 5; second version, 2; third version, transcribed 11 Nov. 1967, 3). Although LaPiana knew that some earlier American bishops had supported ecclesiastical liberalization, he seems here to mean theological liberalism. 55. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Harvard Divinity ­School—​­1948” (B1, F8, 4).

374

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 51 – 1 5 4

56. Emerton and Morison, “History,” 175–76, state that LaPiana’s courses in the History Department on the medieval church were “provided by special foundations” (unspecified). 57. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Historical Studies in America” (B1, F8, 1–4, passim). 58. LaPiana, “­Memoirs—​­Lectures” (B2, F2, 1). 59. These were related to two Italian works he published in the same year, Il Problema della chiesa latina in Roma (Rome, 1922); Successione episcopale in Roma e gli albori del Primato (Rome, 1922). The Lowell Institute, founded in 1836 with an endowment from Boston businessman John Lowell, Jr., established a series of free public lectures and educational programs. LaPiana gave two sets of lectures for the Institute, the second on Augustine. 60. This period is detailed in Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 134. 61. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Visiting in Italy” (B1, F8, 1, 6); “Memoirs: Hora Ruit” (B2, F4, 4). 62. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Lectures” (B2, F2, 4, 5); “Memoirs: Publications” (B2, F1, 1). 63. LaPiana, “Memoirs: On Women,” transcribed 8 Feb. 1969 (B1, F8, 2). 64. See LaPiana, “Deacons. Minor Offices. Virgins. Widows: IV” (B16, F10). He suggests that women’s leadership roles among Montanist schismatics and some Gnostic groups probably provoked the Great Church’s strong reaction against women’s roles in church government. 65. Information from Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 135. The chair was given by Harvard Divinity School librarian Robert S. Morison in honor of his father. 66. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Dumbarton Oaks” (B1, F9, 3); also see Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 137. 67. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Visiting in Italy” (B1, F8, 5–6, 1–3). 68. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Visiting in Italy” (B1, F8, 1–6); “Memoirs: ­1948—​­Harvard Divinity School” (B1, F8, 1); “Wars” (B1, F8, 5). 69. LaPiana, “Academic Freedom in Italy: The Vatican and the Buonaiuti Case” (B3, F1, 1). 70. LaPiana, “Academic Freedom in Italy: The Vatican and the Buonaiuti Case” (B3, F1, 2, 3, 5, 8). 71. The higher administration of Harvard encouraged Divinity School Dean Sperry to ease the aging LaPiana into retirement: see Williams, Divinings 2: 297. 72. The address was printed in HDSB (1947). 73. LaPiana, “Memoirs” (B4, F10, 36). The Community Church, founded in 1920, billed itself as a free community (i.e., nondenominational) promoting peace and justice. 74. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 135. 75. LaPiana, “Don Sturzo, Salvemini, and LaPiana” (B6, F2, 1). 76. LaPiana, “Introduction” (1932) to Fascism (B9, F7, 3). LaPiana planned in 1932 and 1933 to write a book on Fascism. 77. Salvemini and LaPiana, What to Do with Italy? The book is dedicated to “Maestro Arturo Toscanini, who in the darkest hours of Fascist crimes, Italy’s shame, and world madness, uncompromisingly clung to the ideals of Mazzini and Garibaldi and with undying faith anticipated the dawn of the Second Italian Risorgimento.” 78. LaPiana, “Don Sturzo, La Piana and Salvemini on the Church and Democracy” (B8, F9, 2–3). 79. LaPiana, “Lectures Delivered at Union Theological Seminary, New York, 1940” (B15, F11, 24). 80. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: College Lectures,” 22  Nov.  1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 5). 81. LaPiana, unidentified class lecture, 7 Oct. 1940 (B16, F10, 3). La Piana reports that the Fascist government gave the Vatican two billion lire (“Concordats: After the Concordat” [B7, F4,



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 54 – 15 8

375

I: 15]). Elsewhere, he reports one billion lire (“Don Sturzo, La Piana and Salvemini” [B8, F9, 5]). In another place, he reports 3,225,000 lire annually in compensation for losses from the Papal Estates (“History of Concordats: Chapter III: Church and State in I­taly—​­From Regalism to ­Liberalism—​­The Law of Guarantees” [B9, F14, 39]). Elsewhere, he reports that Mussolini saved from bankruptcy the Bank of Rome (to which Catholic Italian institutions, Vatican prelates, and in part the Holy See has entrusted their money), at the expense of about one and a half billion lire that was saddled on Italian taxpayers (“History of Fascism in Italy. Chapter IV: Fascism at the Helm” [B10, F4, 139]). 82. LaPiana, “Concordats: Other Articles” (B7, F3, 33). 83. LaPiana, “Fascism and the Vatican” (B9, F8, 23). 84. LaPiana, “History of Fascism in Italy. Chapter I: The Crisis of Italian Democracy (1919– 1920)” (B10, F1, 32). 85. LaPiana, “Fascism and the Vatican” (B9, F8, 22–23). 86. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 135. 87. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Hora Ruit” (B2, F4, 5). 88. LaPiana, “Lectures delivered at Union Theological Seminary, New York” (1940?) (B15, F11, 17–18). 89. LaPiana, “Church of Rome in Modern International Politics” (B6, F3, 2). 90. LaPiana, “Concordats: Other Articles” (B7, F3, 9–12, 15–16). 91. LaPiana, “The Concordats of the Holy See in History and Law,” I: The Concordat (B6, F4, 10–11). LaPiana calls the first article of the Concordat the “Magna Carta” of the Catholic Church in Italy; it gives to the Church the free exercise of spiritual power, of cult, and of jurisdiction. He adds that the first article of the Italian Constitution reads that the “Catholic religion is the sole religion of the State.” 92. LaPiana, “Concordats: Duties of the Catholic State ­towards the Church. Confessionalism and Its Implications” (B6, F6, 14). 93. LaPiana, “Concordats: Other Articles” (B7, F3, 65); “Concordats: Roma Sacra” (B6, F7, 6–7, 8); “Concordats: After the Concordat” (B7, F4, I: 10–11, 12). 94. LaPiana, “Church and State in Fascist Italy” (1943?) (B6, F2, 19); by Article 43 of the Concordat. 95. LaPiana, “Christian Churches Under the Dictatorial Regimes” (B5, F3, 4–5); “Church and State in Fascist Italy” (1943?) (B6, F2, 2). 96. LaPiana, “History of Concordats: Chapter III: Church and State in ­Italy—​­From Regalism to ­Liberalism—​­The Law of Guarantees” (B9, F14, 26–27). 97. LaPiana, “Concordats: Other Articles” (B7, F3, 53, 56–57). 98. LaPiana, “International Policy of the Vatican,” Address at Community Church of Boston, 15 Oct. 1944 (B11, F4, 15–16, 17). 99. LaPiana, “Christian Churches Under the Dictatorial Regimes” (B5, F3, 6). 100. LaPiana, “History of Fascism in Italy. Chapter IV: Fascism at the Helm” (B10, F4, 125). 101. LaPiana, “Totalitarian Church,” in LaPiana and Swomley, Catholic Power, 118–19, 120–22. The lectures, as is evident, were published much later. 102. LaPiana, “Totalitarian Church,” in LaPiana and Swomley, Catholic Power, 124–26, and citing (143) the November 1948 statement of U.S. Bishops, who quote the Northwest Ordinance of 1787: “religion morality and knowledge being necessary to good citizenship and the happiness of mankind, schools and the means of education shall forever be encouraged.” 103. LaPiana, “Totalitarian Church,” in LaPiana and Swomley, Catholic Power, 127–28, 132, 53. 104. LaPiana, “Churches and Politics” (?) (B6, F4, 3, 4).

376

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 58 – 1 6 4 105. Williams “Professor George LaPiana,” 135–36. 106. LaPiana, “Unitarian and Catholic Controversies” (B1, F11, 1). 107. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 136, reporting a reminiscence of John Marshall. 108. Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 140–43, 117.

Chapter 6 1. LaPiana, “­Memoirs—​­Modernism” (B1, F5, 16); “Ancient and Modern Christian Apologetics,” 25–26. Alec Vidler, historian of Modernism, observes that philosophy was not the focus of Italian Modernism, but “criticism” (Modernist Movement, 197). 2. LaPiana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent to the Present Day, February–May 1917: Modernism” (B17, F6, 424, 422, 425–26). 3. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 114, citing LaPiana’s “Review of Italian Modernism,” 369–70, and passim. LaPiana notes that Italian Modernists, mostly young priests, lacked authoritative leaders such as Tyrrell and Loisy. When theological teaching was forbidden in national universities, Catholic laymen were deprived of an opportunity to learn about Liberal Catholicism. 4. LaPiana, “­Modernism-​­Origin” (B1, F5, 3); “Modernism in Italy” (B1, F5, 1); “Modernism” (B1, F5, 3), transcribed 29  Jan.  1967; “Review of Italian Modernism,” 367, 370–71; “Roman Church and Modern Italian Democracy,” 166. 5. LaPiana, “Review of Italian Modernism,” 351, 352–55, 371, 374–75. 6. LaPiana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 426–28). 7. LaPiana, “From Leo XIII to Benedict XV,” 176, 181; not coincidentally, the dogma of papal infallibility (1870) was pronounced in the very era in which the Church lost its temporal power. 8. LaPiana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 429). 9. LaPiana, “Review of Italian Modernism,” 365, 366; “­Modernism-​­Origin” (B1, F5, 1–2). 10. LaPiana, “Review of Italian Modernism,” 359, 358; “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 416); “From Leo XIII to Benedict XV,” 243. 11. LaPiana, “Review of Italian Modernism,” 361–63; “Doctrinal Background,” 382, 383. 12. LaPiana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 419). 13. LaPiana reports to his class the story that Pius X, reading a Modernist pamphlet in which Jerome and Newman were quoted, exclaimed impatiently, “The greatest mistakes of Rome have been to canonize Jerome and to give a cardinal’s hat to Newman” (LaPiana, “Alexandria,” class lecture, “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–1923 [B19, F1], 11). 14. LaPIana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 419); “From Leo XIII to Benedict XV,” 243, 273–74. 15. LaPiana, “Roman Catholic Church from the Council of Trent” (B17, F6, 422, 420, 423–24, citing Il Santo, 293). 16. LaPiana, “From Leo XIII to Benedict XV,” 248, 283–84; “Doctrinal Background,” 419. 17. LaPiana, “Plan for a ‘School of Religion’ in Rome, Italy” (B30, F22, 1–5 passim, 7). Unfortunately, page 6, which presumably discussed financial matters, is missing. 18. LaPiana, “Unitarian and Catholic Controversies” (B1, F11, 4). 19. LaPiana, “Americanism; Modernism” (B1, F5); for more on “Americanism,” see “Tendencies in America” (B1, F5).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 65– 167

377

20. For more on labor unions and Catholics, see LaPiana, “Tendencies in America” (B1, F5, 2–4). 21. LaPiana, “Tendencies in America” (B1, F5, 3, 4). 22. LaPiana, “Americanism; Modernism” (B1, F5). 23. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 7–8; Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 81–83, 93n., 112, 179. 24. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 11. Il Programma was soon translated into English: [Buonaiuti], Programme of Modernism. 25. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 12–14. 26. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 26. 27. Reardon, Roman Catholic Modernism, 62; Buonaiuti, “Pilgrim of Rome,” 71 (“within hours”). Buonaiuti was already under attack in the Jesuits’ Civiltà Cattolica (Ranchetti, Catholic Modernists, 166). 28. Jemolo, Church and State, 116, notes that some opposed Buonaiuti’s appointment to this post because they claimed that as a Catholic, he would not have freedom of speculation and scholarship. 29. Vidler, Modernist Movement, 222; Morghen, “Modernismo,” 8–9; LaPiana gives 1923 as the date (“Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 13). 30. Lowrie, “Appreciation of Ernesto Buonaiuti,” 1–3; Morghen, “Evaluation of Buonaiuti’s Work,” 174–76; LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 12, 14; “Academic Freedom in Italy” (B3, F1, 3, 5). Three successive Ministers of Education, bowing to the Pope, refused to reinstate Buonaiuti to his chair of History of Religion at Rome (Jemolo, Church and State, 279–80). 31. LaPiana, “Modernism in Italy” (B1, F5, 7) and “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 15; Morghen, “Modernismo,” 18, on denying Buonaiuti’s reinstatement, and Benedetto Croce’s role in this refusal; 14, on Croce’s alignment with the Jesuits and his accusation that Modernists were “retarding” intellectual life. 32. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 18. 33. Buonaiuti, Pellegrino di Roma (Bari: Casa Editrice Laterza, 1945). Partial English translation in Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 43–74. Buonaiuti traces his association with Modernists George Tyrrell and Baron Friedrich von Hügel in Britain (43, 53). 34. Buonaiuti, “Pilgrim of Rome,” 54, 55, 61. He notes that Socialist leaders applauded Pascendi, thinking to show the Church’s anachronistic conspiracy with capitalism. Buonaiuti describes Marx’s doctrine as “a monstrous amalgam of Hegelian philosophy, which is the quintessence of the Teutonic spirit, and of Jewish Messianism conceived in the grossest and most deformed materialism” (61–62). He faults Croce for promoting German philosophy, adding that Croce subscribed to Pascendi and championed the Jesuits (62, 63). Buonaiuti describes Karl Marx as “a Jew in the country of Luther,” who failed to recognize that the ideals of justice and brotherhood must transcend human material society. Human solidarity will be built not through economic struggles, but through the Gospel ethic and the Christian doctrine of salvation (“Antecedents of Modernism,” 85–86, 88). Christianity was not meant to be a panacea for social ills: it alleviated them through “supernatural hope” (“Christianity: Perfect Religion,” 124). 35. LaPiana, “Modernism in Italy” (B1, B5, 5, 6); “Modernism” (B1, F5, 5, transcribed 29 Jan. 1967). 36. Buonaiuti, “Last Will” (18 March 1946), trans. in LaPiana, unidentified pages (B1, F5, 2–3, transcribed 18 Jan. 1968). Tyrrell, in defiance, had had those symbols put on his gravestone.

378

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 67 – 1 7 0

37. Buonaiuti, “Antecedents of Modernism,” 86. 38. Grasso, Cristianesimo, 17–22. 39. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 89, 16–17, 19. 40. Pittenger, “Ernesto Buonaiuti,” 28; Buonaiuti, “Antecedents of Modernism,” 82. 41. Morghen, “Evaluation of Buonaiuti’s Work,” 174; Buonaiuti, “Pilgrim of Rome,” 68. 42. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 14. 43. Buonaiuti, “Pilgrim of Rome,” 47–51, 73. Buonaiuti, writing on Paul’s “mystical interpretation” of the bread and wine in I Cor. 11, adds that when assemblies of the faithful (= the church) gather in dignity, “the bread and wine consumed likewise become the body and blood of the Lord” (“Church, the Body of Christ,” 139, emphasis added]). The Scholastic formula regarding transubstantiation, dependent upon Aristotelian philosophy, did not express the heart of the Eucharist (“Pilgrim of Rome,” 47–48). He finds the “mystical approach” to baptism and the Lord’s Supper in the Didache (Storia del Cristianesimo I: 63–64). 44. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 78. 45. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo III: 663. Grasso, a conservative commentator, faults him for accepting views of German rationalists on the authorship and dating of the Gospels and other New Testament books (Grasso, Cristianesimo, 101–2). 46. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 84–85. 47. Buonaiuti, “Christ and St. Paul,” 121; “Symbols and Rites: 2,” 180–81. 48. Grasso, Cristianesimo, 308. 49. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 45. Buonaiuti adapted Otto’s “portentous,” “tremendous,” and “fascinating” elements to describe, respectively, the soteriological, ethical/anthropological, and eschatological dimensions of Christianity. He claimed that Thomism had substantially attenuated all the elements that Otto described as the fascinans and tremens parts of religion (Storia del Cristianesimo II: 521); and Grasso, Cristianesimo, 119, 132, 177, 133. 50. Nelson, “Personal Note,” 186. 51. Chiappetti, “Gli Scritti,” 111, 112, 113, citing Buonaiuti, “Gli Studi di storia dei primi secoli della chiesa,” Il Rinnovamento 6 (1907): 701–19, at 702, 717. 52. Buonaiuti, “Balance Sheet,” 94. Buonaiuti faulted Harnack for erasing early Christian millenarianism in the process of Hellenization (Storia del Cristianesimo I: 82). 53. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo III: 546. 54. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 81. In later life, Buonaiuti linked Jesus and Paul more closely in their zeal for the coming Kingdom (Buonaiuti, “Christ and St. Paul,” 132, 123, 134). 55. Buonaiuti knew New Testament scholarship in German, French, English, as well as Italian (Pincherle, “Buonaiuti storico,” 44). 56. Buonaiuti, Gnosticismo, 260–63, 264. 57. Morghen, “Modernismo,” 17, 21. 58. Buonaiuti, Essenza del Cristianesimo, 96. His claim seems to echo Harnack’s “kernel and husk.” 59. Chiappetti, “Gli Scritti,” 111. 60. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 117. 61. Buonaiuti, Gnostic Fragments, 1, 14. 62. Buonaiuti, Gnostic Fragments, 2, 9, 22, 28, 10, 29, 25, 89. 63. Buonaiuti, “Symbols and Rites: 3,” 200; Gnostic Fragments, 23–25. 64. Morghen, “Modernismo,” 11. 65. Buonaiuti, “Christ and St. Paul,” 179. 66. LaPiana, “Modernism” (B1, F5, 5, transcribed 29 Jan. 1967).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 7 0 – 17 4

379

67. [Buonaiuti], Lettere di un prete modernista, 128–29, 276–77, discussed in Grasso, Cristianesimo, 36, 312. 68. Buonaiuti, “Christianity: Perfect Religion,” 120–21. 69. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 20–21. 70. Buonaiuti, “Church of Rome Today,” 141, 142, 144. 71. [Buonaiuti], Programme, 102–4. Buonaiuti recalls Augustine’s words on the restless human heart that seeks the divine (Confessions I.1.1), and cites the writings of Clement of Alexandria, Tertullian, and Origen to argue this point. 72. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 75–76, 95–99. 73. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 180, 182–83, 194–212, passim. 74. Buonaiuti, Modernisme catholique, 47. 75. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 156. 76. Grasso, Cristianesimo, 164; Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 406, 416. 77. Buonaiuti, San Girolamo, 37, 56. 78. Buonaiuti, “Ethics and Eschatology,” 255–66, passim. 79. LaPiana, unidentified pages (B1, F5, 2, transcribed 18 Jan. 1968). 80. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 24–25. 81. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 363–70. 82. Buonaiuti, “Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea,” 164–69, 171, 170. 83. Buonaiuti, “Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea,” 174–75; Storia del Cristianesimo I: 370; II: 242. 84. Buonaiuti, “Religion in the Life of the Spirit,” 110. 85. For a short summary, Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo II: 356–60. 86. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo II: 452–59. 87. Grasso, Cristianesimo, 176, citing Buonaiuti, Chiesa romana, 96–97. 88. LaPiana, “Joachim of Flora,” 257–82. 89. LaPiana, “Joachim of Flora,” 274, 275, 276. At the time LaPiana wrote, Buonaiuti had published only the first volume of a projected ­three-​­volume set on Joachim’s unpublished treatises. Volume I is the Tractatus super Quattuor Evangelia (Fonti per la Storia d’Italia, vol.  67 [Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano, 1930]), with a ­seventy-​­page introduction on problems surrounding the life and teachings of Joachim and scholarship thereon. Buonaiuti, however, had published several articles on Joachim in Richerche Religiose. 90. LaPiana, “Joachim of Flora,” 275–76, 273. 91. Buonaiuti, “Symbols and Rites: 2,” 186; “Symbols and Rites: 3,” 199. 92. Buonaiuti, “Symbols and Rites: 2,” 183. 93. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 6. Much of this address is also in a manuscript in the Andover–Harvard Library archives: “Modernism in Italy: Ernesto Buonaiuti” (B1, F5, 1–8). 94. LaPiana, “Modernism in Italy” (B1, F5, 2, 4); Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 122–23. 95. LaPiana, “Modernism” (B1, F5, 3–4, transcribed 29  Jan.  1967). See Chiappetti, “Gli Scritti,” 109, 110, discussing Buonaiuti’s essay, written under the pseudonym “Paolo Baldini,” “La Religiosità secondo il pragmatismo,” Il Rinnovamento 2.1 (1907?): 43–67. 96. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 6, 22–23. 97. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 9, 19–20. Also see Buonaiuti, “Balance Sheet,” 93: the need is for “mystically assimilating the elemental Christian message.” 98. LaPiana, “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision,” 19–21.

380

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 7 5– 1 8 3

99. LaPiana, “Modernism in Italy” (B1, F5, 8). 100. LaPiana, “Academic Freedom in Italy” (B3, F1, 8). 101. LaPiana, Review of [“Chicago School” historian] Donald Wayne Riddle, Early Christian Life, 64–67. LaPiana particularly faults the author’s assumption of originality. 102. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Harvard Divinity School” (B1, F8, 4); on Emerton, see Clark, Founding the Fathers, 53–54. Lake retired in 1932. 103. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Return from Italy” (B1, F8, 1–2). The target is probably Emerton. 104. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 1). 105. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 2). 106. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 2–3, 4, 5). 107. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 6–7, 9). 108. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 8, 9). 109. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 10–11). 110. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 11). 111. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 11, 12). 112. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 12–13). 113. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 13–15). 114. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 16–19). 115. LaPiana, unidentified page (B16, F10); LaPiana, unidentified notes (B20, F1). 116. LaPiana, unidentified page (B16, F10). 117. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Lectures” (B2, F2, 6); “Theology of History,” 168. A reviewer calls LaPiana’s essay “easily the most brilliant lecture of the lot” (Paul A. Palmer, review of The Interpretation of History, in Kenyon Review 5.3 [Summer 1943]: 472). 118. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 1–2). 119. LaPiana, “Theology of History,” 166–67. 120. LaPiana, “XI,” 30 Oct. 1940 (B20, F3). 121. LaPiana, “Apocryphal Literature in Christian History” (B3, F5, 1–2, 12). 122. LaPiana, “Apocryphal Literature in Christian History” (B3, F5, 2, 3). 123. LaPiana, “Church History 1,” 28 Sept. 1940 (B16, F9); unidentified lecture on historical method (B18, F8). 124. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 5); unidentified course, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7, 2). 125. LaPiana, “Tradition as a Factor of the Ecclesiastical Organization in the Ancient Christian Church” (B14, F8, 5); “Church History 1,” 28 Sept. 1940 (B16, F9, 1); unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 5–6). 126. LaPiana, unidentified lecture (B20, F1); unidentified class lecture II, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7); untitled page (B16, F10). 127. LaPiana, unidentified course, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7, 2); untitled page (B16, F10). 128. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 4–5); unidentified class lecture, 10 Oct. 1932 (B23, F3, 1–2). 129. LaPiana, untitled page (B16, F10); “Democratic Ideals in the History of the Church”: The Southworth Lectures at Andover Seminary (B8, F2, 4). 130. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 5); unidentified course, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7, 2); unidentified lecture on historical method (B18, F8). 131. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 5–6). 132. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on historical method (B20, F2, 5); unidentified lecture on historical method (B18, F8).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 8 3 – 19 0

381

133. LaPiana, unidentified pages on Harnack (B6, F1, 1–2). LaPiana himself occasionally refers to an “essence” of Christianity or of other religions. 134. LaPiana, unidentified course on the social history of Christianity (B17, F7, 6, with other notes from the same course, 27 Sept. 1939, 1). 135. LaPiana, unidentified course on the social history of Christianity, 27 Sept. 1939 (B17, F7, 2–3, 1; another version, 6). 136. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures: Christianity at the Beginning of the Fifth Century, and St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo. I: A ­Turning-​­Point in the History of Christianity” (B5, F9, 2). Hereafter, “Augustine.” 137. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 17). 138. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): V: The World and Its History” (B5, F13, 5, 1–2). 139. LaPiana, “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (“First Great Conflict Between East and West”) (B7, F9, 10–11, 19, 20–21); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 6). 140. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XI,” 3 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 1, 3, 4). 141. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XXXVI,” 11 April 1938 (B23, F8, 5); “Social History of the Church: XIII,” 15 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 7, 11–12); “Emancipation of Slaves” (B18, F3). 142. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XI,” 3 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 6). 143. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XI,” 3 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 8, 9, 17); “Social History of the Church: XXXVI,” 11 April 1938 (B23, F8, 2, 3). 144. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XXXVI,” 11 April 1938 (B23, F8, 7, 8, 9). 145. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: College Lectures: XX,” 15 Dec. 1937 (B23, F6, 4). 146. LaPiana, “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 4). 147. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: College Lectures: XX,” 15 Dec. 1937 (B23, F6, 1, 2). 148. LaPiana, “XXI,” 7 Feb. 1938 (B23, F6, 2–4, passim). 149. LaPiana, “Christological Problem,” XXIV, 16 Dec. 1940 (B20, F4). 150. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures: Beginnings of the Latin Church in Rome. V: Progressive and Conservative Parties in the Roman Christian Community” (B3, F12, 15). Hereafter, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church).” 151. LaPiana, unidentified course on early Christianity, 23 Oct. 1940 (B22, F8, 6); “Roman Church,” 204. 152. LaPiana, “IX,” 27 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 15–16). 153. LaPiana, “XXIV: Christological Problem,” 16 Dec. 1940 (B20, F4, 2–3). 154. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism and Christianity” (B5, F12, 31); “St. Augustine,” Nov. 2 [no year] (B19, F6). 155. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): VI: Fifteen Centuries of Augustinianism” (B5, F14, 12). 156. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church): V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 32). 157. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy of a Christian Bishop” (B5, F11, 28–29). 158. LaPiana, unidentified course on early Christianity, 23 Oct. 1940 (B22, F8, 3). 159. LaPiana, “Theology of History,” 177. 160. LaPiana, unidentified lecture (B20, F1, 1–2). See Case’s similar emphasis on “environment.” 161. LaPiana, “X,” 1 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 13, 15–16); “Origins,” 9 Oct. 1940 (B23, F3, 1). Case also promoted the “genetic approach.”

382

No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 9 0 – 1 95

162. LaPiana, “Origins,” 9 Oct. 1940 (B23, F3, 1–4, passim); unidentified course on the social history of early Christianity, 29 Sept. 1939 [1937?] (B17, F7, 1–3). 163. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups in Rome,” 334–36; course on the history of ecclesiastical institutions from Christian beginnings to the late Middle Ages (B16, F1, 1d). 164. LaPiana, “Expansion and Propagation of Christianity” (B16, F10, 44); unidentified course on the social history of early Christianity, 1 Oct. 1945 (B17, F7, 1–11, passim). LaPiana describes Christianity as “totalitarian,” i.e., “affecting the whole life” (“Christianity and the Roman Government” [B23, F5]). 165. LaPiana, unidentified course on the social history of early Christianity, 29 Sept. 1939 [1937?] (B17, F7, 1–3). 166. LaPiana, “Christian Rome” (B5, F7, 2, 3); “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church): I: Background of Early Roman Christianity” (B3, F8, 2). 167. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism and Christianity” (B5, F12, 18). 168. LaPiana, “Tombs of Peter and Paul,” 75, 80; how the meaning of “refrigerium” changed (83–84). 169. LaPiana, “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1939 (B23, F5, 16–17). 170. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XVI,” 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 11). 171. LaPiana, “Christian Historiography,” 8 Nov. 1938 (B18, F9, 6–7); “X,” 1 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 4–5). 172. LaPiana, “Sacraments” (B20, F1, 53).

Chapter 7 1. LaPiana, unidentified course on early Christianity, 23 Oct. 1940 (B22, F8, 1). 2. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Hora Ruit” (B2, F4, 3). 3. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Lectures” (B2, F2, 2). His last two lectures at Union dealt with moral theology in modernity. The Columbia talks were based on his doctoral dissertation, Rappresentazioni sacre nella letteratura bizantina (3). McGiffert’s letter of invitation to LaPiana, dated 26 April 1917, is in George LaPiana Correspondence (B35, F1). 4. Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 132. 5. LaPiana, reading lists for courses on “Social History of the Church” (B17, F7). 6. LaPiana, “­Mid-​­year Exam Paper” for “Social History of the Church,” undated (B17, F7). 7. LaPiana, “Seminary in Monasticism,” Church History 20, 1931–1932 (B19, F5, 87, and other unnumbered pages). 8. LaPiana, “Greek and Eastern Churches” (B19, F1), notes from 1922–1923; similar to a course on ­East-​­West church relations in the Byzantine period (“Memoirs: Return from Italy” [B1, F8], 1–2). 9. LaPiana, unidentified course on saints and legends (B17, F7). Books to be read include: H. Delehaye, Legendes hagiographique (1903?); volumes of A. Dufourcq; H. Achelis, Die Martyrologien, ihre Geschichte und ihr Wert (1900); H. Quentin, Les martyrologes historiques du Moyen Age (1908); H. Günther, Legenden Studien (1906) and Die Christliche Legende des Abendlandes (1910). 10. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Return from Italy” (B1, F8, 1–2). 11. LaPiana, unidentified course, 7 Oct. 1940 (B16, F10, 1–2). 12. LaPiana, “Democratic Ideals in the History of the Church”: The Southworth Lectures at Andover Seminary, 4 April 1923 (B8, F2, 8). Hereafter, “Democratic Ideals.”



No t e s t o Pa ge s 1 9 5– 2 0 0

383

13. LaPiana, “X: The Ecclesia Catholica” (B16, F11). 14. LaPiana, unidentified course on the social history of Christianity (B17, F7, 10); unidentified class, Lecture II, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7, 2–3). 15. LaPiana, “Christianity and the Roman Government” (B23, F5, 8). 16. LaPiana, unidentified course on the social history of early Christianity, 4 Oct. 1937 (B17, F7, 3); “Social History of the Church: VII,” 20 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 6). 17. LaPiana, unidentified course on early Christianity, 23 Oct. 1940 (B22, F8, 1–2, 3). 18. LaPiana, “IX,” 27 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, a); “Origins of the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy” (B16, F10); lecture, “Tradition as a Factor of the Ecclesiastical Organization in the Ancient Christian Church” (B14, F8, 21). 19. LaPiana, “XIII,” 6 Nov. 1940 (B16, F1); “Pontifical Elections to the Beginning of the VIth Century” (B18, F2). 20. LaPiana, “Christianity and the Roman Government” (B23, F5, 8); unidentified notes (B16, F10, 6). 21. LaPiana, “XVI: Arian Controversy” (B20, F1); “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–1923 (B19, F1, 12). 22. This the competing cults did not possess: LaPiana, “Foreign Groups in Rome,” 334–36. Parts of this essay were earlier published in Italian in RR 2 (Nov. 1926): 485–547, and 3 (Jan. 1927): 36–75. See Williams, “Professor George La Piana,” 133. 23. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 11). 24. LaPiana, “Church History 1” (B16, F9); “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 18–19). 25. LaPiana, “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–23 (B19, F1). 26. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 235. The power to “control” tradition, LaPiana argued, had characterized the Roman papacy throughout its history, expressed openly in the 1870 decree on papal infallibility. 27. LaPiana, “XII: Church and the Empire after Constantine” (B20, F1, 104–5). 28. LaPiana, “X,” 1 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 17). 29. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on early Christianity (B20, F1, 11–15, passim); “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 3, 5–8, passim). 30. LaPiana, “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 5, 7, 8, 12, 16–17, 18, 22). 31. LaPiana, “Will Democracy Last?” (B15, F9, 2). 32. LaPiana, unidentified course, 7 Oct. 1940 (B16, F10, 3, 1–2). 33. See, e.g., LaPiana, “Rise of the Roman Bishop,” 28 Oct. [no year] (B19, F6, 1–5). 34. LaPiana, “Rise of the Roman Bishop” (B16, F10). 35. LaPiana, unidentified class lecture, 7 Oct. 1940 (B16, F10, 6–7); “Institutional Development in Early Christianity” (B20, F1, 2, 5, 6); unidentified lecture on early Christianity (B20, F1, 16). 36. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 3–4); “VII: Monarchical Episcopate and the Roman See” (B18, F8, 57–58). 37. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on early Christianity (B20, F1, 16); “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 7); “Lowell Lectures: The Beginnings of the Latin Church in Rome. II: Rise of the Roman Bishop” (B16, F10). Hereafter, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church).” 38. LaPiana, “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 16–17); “XVI: Arian Controversy” (B20, F1). 39. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 18). 40. LaPiana, “Origins of the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy” (B16, F10). 41. LaPiana, “Church History 1,” 27 Nov. 1944 (B16, F9); “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 12). 42. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 18).

384

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 0 0 – 2 05

43. LaPiana, unidentified notes (B16, F10, 4). 44. LaPiana, “VII: Monarchical Episcopate and the Roman See” (B18, F8, 59); unidentified lecture (B16, F9, 30–31). 45. LaPiana, “Tradition as a Factor” (B14, F8, 21). 46. Buonaiuti, Storia del Cristianesimo I: 98. 47. LaPiana, “Tradition as a Factor” (B14, F8, 21, 22–23, 24). 48. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 22). 49. LaPiana, “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–1923 (B19, F1, 2). 50. LaPiana, unidentified note fragments (B16, F10, 3–4). Marcion’s violent a­ nti-​­Judaism was “a forerunner of certain theories which have flourished and are flourishing in our civilized times in the country of Rosenberg, of Goebbels and Hitler.” LaPiana, however, warns students against associating Marcion with these ­low-​­level “gentlemen”: despite his ­anti-​­Jewish dualism, Marcion was a holy man (LaPiana, “XI,” 30 Oct. 1940 [B20, F3, 4]). 51. LaPiana, “XVI: Arian Controversy” (B20, F1); “XXIV: Christological Problem,” 16 Dec. 1940 (B20, F4, 3); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 5). 52. LaPiana, “XVII: Failure of the Patriarchal System” (B20, F1); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 10–11). LaPiana believes that Arians were rightly defeated: if their attempt to reduce Christianity to a “rational philosophy” had triumphed, Christianity would have forfeited “any element of transcendent mystery in the Trinity” (“Lowell Lectures: Christianity at the Beginning of the Fifth Century, and St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo: III: The Philosophy of a Christian Bishop” [B5, F11, 10].) Hereafter, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine).” 53. LaPiana, “XVI: Arian Controversy” (B20, F1). 54. LaPiana, unidentified course notes (B20, F2, 119). 55. LaPiana, unidentified course notes (B20, F1; “Church History 1” (B16, F9); “Democratic Ideals” (B8, F2, 11). 56. LaPiana, “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–23 (B19, F1); “Rise of the Papacy” (B16, F11). 57. LaPiana, “XVII: Failure of the Patriarchal System” (B20, F1); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 10–11). 58. LaPiana, “VII: Monarchical Episcopate and the Roman See” (B18, F8, 60); unidentified notes (B20, F1). 59. LaPiana, “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (B7, F9, 10). 60. These works in Italian as listed by LaPiana in “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 203n.3: Il Problema della chiesa latina in Roma (Rome, 1922); Successione episcopale in Roma e gli albori del Primato (Rome, 1922); also noted, “La primitiva communità cristiana di Roma e l’Epistola ai Romani,” RR 1 (May–July 1925). 61. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). I: The Background of Early Roman Christianity” (B3, F8, 1). 62. See n. 60 above. 63. This period is detailed in Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 134. 64. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Visiting in Italy” (B1, F8, 1, 6). 65. LaPiana, “Founding of the Roman Church” (B8, F13, 1). He apparently accepted the Acts narrative that Paul spent two years in Rome while awaiting his trial (2). 66. LaPiana, “Founding of the Roman Church” (B8, F13, 3). From Jerusalem: inferred from Acts 2:10–11 (Roman Jews were present in Jerusalem at Pentecost). 67. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). I: Background” (B3, F8, 2), and “II: Jewish Community in Rome” (B3, F9, 1–7, passim); “Founding of the Roman Church” (B8, F13, 8).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 0 5– 210

385

68. LaPiana, “Founding of the Roman Church” (B8, F13, 4–5). 69. LaPiana, “Tombs of Peter and Paul,” 61, 79–86. 70. LaPiana, “Founding of the Roman Church” (B8, F13, 5). 71. LaPiana, “Cephas and Peter in the Epistle to the Galatians,” 193. LaPiana gently “corrects” the opinion of his colleague Kirsopp Lake, who had wondered why Christian tradition had lost sight of early evidence that Peter and Cephas were two different people. 72. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 62–63). Elsewhere LaPiana rejects the claims that Peter was early in Rome or founded the Christian community there; rather, he reached Rome only in the last years of his life and was put to death there, probably during the reign of Nero (“Expansion and Propagation of Christianity” [B16, F10, 50]). 73. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 64–65, 3–4). 74. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 64–65); “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). III: Dawn of the Roman Primacy” (B3, F10, 13, 14, 22). 75. LaPiana, “Roman Primacy” (B16, F11, 4–5). 76. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 5–6); unidentified notes (B16, F11). 77. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). III: Dawn of the Roman Primacy” (B3, F10, 13, 14, 22). 78. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 5–7, passim); unidentified notes (B16, F11). 79. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on Roman church (B16, F9, 3–4, 5–7, passim); unidentified notes (B16, F11, 68). 80. On the writing of these, see Williams, “Professor George LaPiana,” 133. 81. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). I: Background” (B3, F8, 10, 14). 82. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Publications” (B2, F1, 3). 83. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). II: Jewish Community” (B3, F9, 8–9, 10–13, 20–22). 84. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 1, 2). 85. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). I: Background” (B3, F8, 9). 86. See above, 149. 87. E.g., LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 201–2, 204, 205n.34, 225–26, 273–74. 88. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 201–2, 204. LaPiana compares the Roman insulae to American tenement houses (209–11). 89. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 397. 90. On the latter point, LaPiana mentions that several hundred professional associations existed in this period, with surprising specialization of groups (“Foreign Groups,” 270). The Christian group is one among many. 91. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 354. 92. LaPiana, course on the history of ecclesiastical institutions (B16, F1, 1d); “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 208; cf. 221; “Individualism” is also a characteristic of Montanism, which Victor opposed (245–46). LaPiana’s critique of religious “individuality” resonates with Catholic Modernists’ critique of Liberal Protestantism. Moreover, LaPiana notes (202n.2), against Protestant biblical critics, a simple appeal to the Bible (“a small body of authoritative literature”) would not have secured the desired unity, both because those books were “open to the most divergent interpretations” and because there was needed an “instrument,” an organization, that could fix the interpretation of those books and secure unity of doctrinal development, i.e., a church.

386

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 1 0 – 2 13

93. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 339, 340, 348, 400–401. 94. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 400–401. 95. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 185, 275–76, 320. The cult of Magna Mater, however, did become Romanized under Claudius and the Julian dynasty (296–300). 96. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 328–29, 323–24. The syncretism that resulted from the mixing of foreign groups undermined the nationalism of the old religions (223). Throughout, LaPiana underscores how this syncretism contributed to a universalism that provided the groundwork for Christianity’s eventual triumph. 97. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 183, 339–40. 98. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 241n.1, 345, 393. The universalism and cosmopolitanism of the cult of Sol Invictus was one reason for its being favored (318, 319). 99. LaPiana, “Foreign Groups,” 401, 396, 403; “Christian Rome” (B5, F7, 1–29, esp. 12–29). 100. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). IV: African Colony in Rome and the Latinization of the Church” (B3, F11, 15–16). 101. LaPiana, “Roman Church,” 203, 276, 201; “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). IV: African Colony” (B3, F11, 21). 102. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). IV: African Colony” (B3, F11, 17–18, 21); “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 254–74. 103. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 207. 104. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 204. In “Foreign Groups,” LaPiana also stressed the importance of assuring proper burial rites, especially for l­ower-​ ­class inhabitants of Rome; hence, the importance of the control of cemeteries for Roman Christianity’s development. Elsewhere, LaPiana tells students that if Christianity had remained ­Aramaic-​­speaking, it would have died out in a few years “in a corner of Palestine”; “it became an independent religion when it began to speak Greek, and very soon it learned to speak Latin in order to conquer the West” (“XXIII,” 14 Feb. 1938 [B23, F6, 3]). 105. Victor’s election in 186 or 189 implies that by then there was a strong enough L ­ atin-​ ­speaking group in the church at Rome to tip the balance away from the ­Greek-​­speaking contingent (LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 221–22, 230). LaPiana appears to favor a bishopric from 189 to 199, for he writes of a ten years’ episcopate (253). He details the relations between Rome and North Africa in this period (223–30). 106. LaPiana, “Recent Tendencies,” 273–74. 107. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 237, 275, 252, 221, 277 (Rome avoided both the “colorless theology of Cyprian” and “fanatical” Donatism). 108. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). IV: African Colony” (B3, F11, 22–23). 109. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 214–18, citing Eusebius, HE V.24.14. 110. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 214–15, citing a report by Eusebius, HE V.24.14. LaPiana stresses that it was Polycarp who interfered with Roman practice, not Anicetus with that of Asia Minor (219). 111. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 218, citing a passage from Ps.-​­Tertullian, Adversus omnes haereses (CSEL 27, 225, ed. Kroymann, 1906; appended to Tertullian’s De praescriptione). 112. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 220; an innovation (235). LaPiana, counting the dissident groups claiming to be Christian, concludes that there might have been in Rome some ten bishops, or heads of independent groups, each claiming to represent the true tradition (250).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 1 3 – 2 18

387

113. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 232–33: both Polycrates of Ephesus and other Asia Minor bishops, and Asiatics of the Roman group. 114. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). IV: African Colony” (B3, F11, 15–16, 22, 19–20). 115. LaPiana, “Roman Church at the End of the Second Century,” 235, 277, 203. The papacy’s freedom to control tradition was expressed openly in the 1870 decree on papal infallibility. 116. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties in the Roman Christian Community” (B3, F12, 5, 7); “VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 2–3). 117. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 8–9, 7, 33–34, 15). The chair was unearthed by workmen in Rome in 1551. 118. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 35). 119. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 16, 17, 20, 27–29); Hippolytus charged that the women were aborting fetuses conceived with such men. LaPiana notes that Septimius Severus issued stronger laws against abortion and adultery, as well as allowing soldiers on duty to have their wives with them in military camp (30–31). 120. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 22); “VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 3). 121. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). V: Progressive and Conservative Parties” (B3, F12, 23, 32, 36). 122. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 5; “provincialism,” also 20). 123. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 6–7, 8, 13). 124. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 8bis, 9, 10, 13–14); support for Novatian also represented “a reaction against the absolutism of bishops.” LaPiana proposes that Cyprian himself later introduced phrases into De unitate ecclesiae suggesting that Peter’s authority was transferred to the Roman bishopric in particular. 125. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 15, 16). 126. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 19, 20). 127. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church). VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 18, 21). 128. LaPiana, “History of the Concordats. Chapter 1: Church and State in the Ancient Period” (B12, F9, 15, 16); “XXIII,” 14 Feb. 1938 (B23, F6, 8). 129. LaPiana, “History of the Concordats. Chapter 1: Church and State” (B12, F9, 21); “XVIII,” 6 Dec. 1937 (B23, F6, 3). 130. LaPiana attributes this ruling to the Council of Nicaea (325) (presumably Canon 4), but it better fits Canon 3 of the Council of Sardica (343). 131. LaPiana, “XVII: Failure of the Patriarchal System” (B20, F1); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 10–11). 132. LaPiana, unidentified notes (B23, F5); “Christianity and the Roman Government,” 26 Oct. 1926 [?1936?] (B23, F3, 72, 73; on 58, LaPiana discusses the P ­ liny-​­Trajan correspondence); “Social History of the Church: XIII” (B23, F5, 1–2). 133. LaPiana, unidentified class lecture (B23, F5, 2–3); “Social History of the Church: VI,” 18 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 8). 134. LaPiana, “Two Tendencies in Early Christian Theology” (B23, F4, 2, 3); “IX,” 27 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, b, 15–16). 135. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VI,” 18 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 6, 9–11); “XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 4).

388

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 1 9 – 2 24

136. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 5, 6). LaPiana adds that to ­twentieth-​­century rulers in Germany, Italy, and other countries, Soviet Russia was “what the barbarians breaking down the frontiers were to the Roman emperors.” 137. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Social History of the Church,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 3); “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1939 (B23, F5, 1). 138. LaPiana, “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1939 (B23, F5, 3–4). 139. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Social History of the Church,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 3, 1); course on early Christianity, 4 Dec. 1940 (B23, F5, Lecture XXI, 2). 140. LaPiana, “XXI,” 4 Dec. 1940 (B23, F5, 2). In 1940, the Supreme Court (in Minersville School District vs. Gobitis) ruled that Jehovah’s Witnesses schoolchildren could be forced to salute the flag, a ruling overturned in 1943. 141. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 7–8); “Foreign Groups,” 340. 142. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 1–2, 8). LaPiana compares the Great Persecution with events and movements in early ­twentieth-​­century Europe. 143. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XVI,” 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 16); unidentified lecture notes on ancient Christianity (B24, F1, 6). 144. LaPiana, “Christianity and the Roman Government” (B23, F5, 8). 145. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 11). 146. LaPiana, “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1939 (B23, F5, 13–15). 147. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Social History of the Church,” 22 and 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 1, 5, 7, 8; Lecture XVI, 10). 148. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Social History of the Church,” 22 and 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 9, 1; Lecture XVI, 1). LaPiana reads the Latin text of the 313 Edict from Lactantius, On the Death of the Persecutors, 48, and the Greek text from Eusebius, HE X.5 149. LaPiana, “XII: Church and the Empire after Constantine” (B20, F1, 107, 108). 150. LaPiana, “XXI,” 4 Dec. 1940 (B23, F5, Lecture XXI, 3). My emphasis. 151. LaPiana, “XIV,” 17 Nov. 1939 (B23, F5, 16–17, 19); “Social History of the Church: XVI,” 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 11): Constantine’s victories encouraged him to believe that he was “the darling of the heavenly powers who govern the universe.” 152. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XVI,” 29 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 11–12, 13, 14). 153. LaPiana, class notes on early Christianity (B16, F1, 107). 154. LaPiana, “XVI: Arian Controversy” (B20, F1); “XVII,” 30 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 8). 155. LaPiana, “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (B7, F9, 3, 4). 156. LaPiana, “IX,” 27 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 2–4). 157. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Social History of the Church,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, Lecture XV, 2); “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (B7, F9, 46–47). 158. LaPiana, “Christianity and the Roman Government” (B23, F5, 2, 3); “Social History of the Church: XV,” 22 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 10, 11); “Lecture XII: The Church and the Empire after Constantine” (B20, F1, 104, 105). 159. LaPiana, Foreword to “Memoirs, dated 23 Feb. 1968” (B1, F1); “Memoirs: Education and Vocation” (B1, F4, 5–6). 160. LaPiana, “X,” 1 Nov. 1937 (B23, 4, 13, 15–16). 161. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VII,” 20 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 3, 4, 5). 162. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VII,” 20 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 6, 7); “Asceticism and Mysticism” (B19, F5, 18). 163. LaPiana, “Monachism” (B22, F8, 5); “Asceticism and Mysticism” (B19, F5, 17).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 2 4 – 22 8

389

164. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: Continuation XXVII: Monachism” (B23, F3, 135, 136). 165. LaPiana, “Deacons. Minor Offices. Virgins. Widows: IV” (B16, F10, 41); “College Lecture Notes: Ancient Church” (B16, F10, 40). 166. LaPiana, “Asceticism and Mysticism” (B19, F5, 17); “Social History of the Church: XXVI: Monasticism,” 3  Feb.  1941 (B23, F3, 4). LaPiana was perhaps inspired by Buonaiuti’s emphasis on “mystical” currents in early Christianity. 167. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 1–2). 168. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VII,” 20 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 1, 2, 3). 169. LaPiana, “College Lecture Notes: Ancient Church” (B16, F10, 40). 170. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 1–7, passim). LaPiana interprets Paul’s “flesh” to mean bodily impulses, especially sexual desire, that lead humans astray. 171. LaPiana, “XXI,” 7 Feb. 1938 (B23, F6, 11). 172. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 8, 9). 173. LaPiana, “Marriage” (B23, F2, 67, 68); “Social History of the Church: XII,” 8 Nov. 1937 (B23, F5, 3); “Asceticism and Mysticism” (B19, F5, 24–25). 174. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25  Oct.  1937 (B23, F4, 1); “College Lecture Notes: Ancient Church” (B16, F10, 40–41, citing Ignatius [Smyr. 13.1], Polycarp [Ep. to Phil. 5.3], and Hermas [Simil. 9.40–41]); “Deacons. Minor Offices. Virgins. Widows: IV” (B16, F10, 41). 175. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: VIII,” 25 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 10); “College Lecture Notes: Ancient Church” (B16, F10, 40–41, passim). 176. LaPiana, “Deacons. Minor Offices. Virgins. Widows: IV” (B16, F10, 41). 177. LaPiana, “Deacons. Minor Offices. Virgins. Widows: IV” (B16, F10, 42); “College Lecture Notes: Ancient Church” (B16, F10, 42). 178. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XXVI: Monasticism,” 3 Feb. 1941 (B23, F3, 2, 3). 179. LaPiana, “Monachism” (B22, F8, 2, 3). 180. LaPiana, “Monachism” (B22, F8, 3, 5); unidentified notes on western monasticism (B22, F8). 181. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XI,” 3 Nov. 1937 (B23, F4, 12); “Western Monasticism: Benedictine Rule” (B22, F8, a, b, c–d); “Social History of the Church: Continuation XXVII: Monachism” (B23, F3, 139). 182. LaPiana, “Asceticism and Mysticism” (B19, F5, 19–20). 183. LaPiana, “Monachism” (B22, F8, 5). 184. LaPiana, “Social History of the Church: XXIX: Monastic Life,” 9 March 1938 (B23, F3, 1). 185. LaPiana, unidentified course notes (B20, F1, 6–7); “Social History of the Church: Continuation XXVII: Monachism” (B23, F3, 137, 139); “Social History of the Church: XXIX: Monastic Life,” 9 March 1938 (B23, F3, 2). 186. LaPiana, unidentified notes on western monasticism (B22, F8). 187. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Lectures” (B2, F2, 4–5). LaPiana mistakenly dates the lectures to 1931. 188. LaPiana, “Memoirs: Lectures” (B2, F2, 4, 5); “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): I: ­Turning-​ ­Point” (B5, F9, 17, 18, 14, 13). 189. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): I: ­Turning-​­Point” (B5, F9, 2, 11); “III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 8–9, 6).

390

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 2 8 – 2 37

190. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): II: Conversion” (B5, F10, 16–20). 191. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): I: ­Turning-​­Point” (B5, F9, 5, 6, 7). 192. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): I: ­Turning-​­Point” (B5, F9, 7–8, 10). 193. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): I: ­Turning-​­Point” (B5, F9, 21, 24, 22–23, 25). 194. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 12–13, 14); “II: Conversion” (B5, F10, 5, 7, 7bis, 5bis). 195. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): II: Conversion” (B5, F10, 17–20, 21, 23). 196. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): II: Conversion” (B5, F10, 28, 29). 197. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 16, 19, 21). 198. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 24). 199. Buonaiuti, “Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea,” 159–75; “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea,” 117–27. 200. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism and Christianity” (B5, F12, 7, 10); hereafter, “Manicheism.” 201. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 11, 12, 1, 8–9); unidentified lecture on original sin (B18, F3, 3); “Augustine’s Doctrine of Grace” (B18, F4, 3–4). 202. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 6, 4, 10). 203. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 8–9); “Augustine’s Doctrine of Grace” (B18, F4, 3–4). 204. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 13, 14, 15). 205. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 24–28 passim, 31–32). 206. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Latin Church): VI: Rome and Carthage” (B3, F13, 1). 207. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 31–32, 27–28). 208. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): III: Philosophy” (B5, F11, 33–38, passim). 209. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): VI: Fifteen Centuries of Augustinianism” (B5, F14, 25). 210. LaPiana, “IX,” 27 Oct. 1937 (B23, F4, 2–3); “XVIII,” 6 Dec. 1937 (B23, F6, 5). 211. LaPiana, “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (B7, F9, 46–47). 212. LaPiana, “Greek and Eastern Churches,” 1922–1923 (B19, F1, 9–10). 213. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 25, 26). In his class lectures, LaPiana mentions Pelagius’ commentary on the Pauline epistles, published by Alexander Souter (“XXI,” 24 Feb. 1941 [B18, F4]). 214. LaPiana, “XXI,” 24 Feb. 1941 (B18, F4, 1–2, 4–5, 6–7). 215. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on original sin (B18, F3); “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 22, 23); “East and West in the Early Christian Centuries” (B7, F9, 3–5). 216. LaPiana, “Augustine: Existence of Original Sin” (B18, F3, 4, 5–6). 217. LaPiana, “St. Augustine,” 2 Nov. [no year] (B19, F6). 218. Buonaiuti, “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea,” 118, 127. See Bruckner, Julian von Eclanum. 219. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 27). 220. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 27, 16–17). 221. LaPiana, “Augustine’s Doctrine of Grace” (B18, F4, 3); unidentified lecture on original sin (B18, F3, 1–2). 222. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 18, 19). 223. LaPiana, unidentified lecture on original sin (B18, FF3 and 4); “Lowell Lectures



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 3 7 – 244

391

(Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 30, 29): since baptism does not remove concupiscence, Augustine separated the notion of guilt from the parents’ sexual act per se. 224. LaPiana, “Sacraments: Baptism” (B20, F1). 225. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 27). 226. LaPiana, “Augustine: Existence of Original Sin” (B18, F3, 7, 8, 9). 227. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 27, 28). 228. Buonaiuti, “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea,” 118–23. 229. LaPiana, “Augustine: Existence of Original Sin” (B18, F3, 7). 230. LaPiana, “St. Augustine,” Nov. 2 [no year] (B19, F6). 231. LaPiana, “Sacraments: Baptism” (B20, F1). 232. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine): IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 20–21, 30). 233. LaPiana, “Sacraments” (B20, F1, 54). 234. LaPiana, “Sacraments” (B20, F1, 54). 235. LaPiana, “Lowell Lectures (Augustine) IV: Manicheism” (B5, F12, 31).

Chapter 8 1. T. W. Goodspeed, with C. T. B and E. J. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 26. 2. T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 5–6, 39. 3. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 29–43, 66. 4. Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 326. 5. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 107, 178; E. J. Goodspeed, As I Remember, 55. 6. So reported by student Frank Knight Sanders, cited in T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 75. 7. See, for example, Harper’s essay “Our Intellectual Difficulties,” 101–12. 8. Storr, Harper’s University, ll. Strong had secured money from Rockefeller for the Baptist Seminary in Rochester, of which he was President. Strong unwisely told Rockefeller that if he “did not do more for God than any man who had ever lived, he could never stand in God’s judgment” (Strong, Autobiography, 238–39, 247–51). For more details, including citations from Strong’s letters to Rockefeller, see Ryan, Studies in Early Graduate Education, 92–102. 9. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 81–104; Arnold, Near the Edge, 8–9. The story of Rockefeller’s continued generous donations is told in T. W. Goodspeed, Story; by 1910, Rockefeller had given just under $35 million (= $875 million in 2015 currency) (179, 182). 10. Cherry, Hurrying, 13. 11. For details and citation from correspondence, see Reuben, Making, 98–99, 85. 12. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 111, 115. The facilities should not be overestimated: Shailer Mathews reports that when he arrived at the University in 1894, a o­ ne-​­story temporary building housed the University Press, the library, and the gym (S. Mathews, New Faith, 53)—​­and this despite Harper’s exuberance over the role of university libraries (Harper, “Trend of University and College Education,” 457–58). 13. Wind, Bible; Cherry, Hurrying, 1. 14. Marsden, Soul, 239. 15. Arnold, God Before You, 28. Rockefeller Chapel was built in 1928. 16. Cherry, Hurrying, 8. 17. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 134. 18. T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 6, 10, 26, claiming (12) that it was through the auspices of the

392

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 4 4 – 2 45

Baptist Education Society that Rockefeller became interested in placing the university in Chicago. See also Storr, Harper’s University, 22–23; E. J. Goodspeed, As I Remember, 78–79. 19. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 109, 135, 154. 20. Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 325; Cherry, Hurrying, 1; T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 179, 182. For Rockefeller’s donations, see University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], Appointments and Budgets (S2, B333, F12). Students wrote a song for Rockefeller: “John D. Rockefeller, Wonderful man is he / Gives all his spare change to the U. of C. / He keeps the ball a rolling / In our Great Varsity / He pays Dr. Harper / To Help us Grow Sharper / To the Glory of U. of C!” (cited in Thelin, History, 160–61). 21. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 122. 22. E. J. Goodspeed, As I Remember, 78–79. 23. T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 32, 150–151. On founding events, see Thelin, History, 118–22. 24. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 127; on Clark, Thelin, History, 112; on salaries, Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 326. 25. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 116, 118, 124, 126, 127 (professors would receive $7,000 [124]; Harper negotiated $6,000 for himself as President plus $4,000 extra for his service as head of the Semitics Department [108]). On the professors recruited, see T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 81–85; E. J. Goodspeed, As I Remember, 83–84. Harper wrote “Pay of American College Professors” based on data from 124 colleges. His conclusion: American professors are underpaid. “The average should be not $1,400, but $2,000. The ‘most highly paid’ professors should receive not $4,000, but $7,000” (109). On the seven hundred students: [E. J. Goodspeed], “University in 1921,” 7. At Columbia in 1904, the maximum professorial salary was still $5,000; three years later, only eight faculty were receiving $7,000 or more: see Veysey, Emergence, 390n.19, citing letters from Nicholas Murray Butler (President of Columbia) to D. S. Jordan (President of Stanford), 7 Sept. 1904; and to B. I. Wheeler, 27 May 1907. Moreover, John Dewey refused to move to the University of Chicago for $4,000, telling Harper that that amount would not be adequate for how “we should want to live” (Veysey, Emergence, 391, citing Dewey to W. R. Harper, 15 Feb. 1894). 26. Cherry, Hurrying, 190–91; Marsden, Soul, 251–52. Small founded the American Journal of Sociology in 1896. 27. Faulkner, “American Christianity,” 134. This volume was a Festschrift for James Harvey Robinson; the titles of his former students’ essays suggest the enormous range of his influence and expertise. For S. Mathews’s report on “Christian Sociology,” see his “Theology as Group Belief,” 167. 28. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 135. In its third year of operation, Chicago had 534 graduate students (compared with fewer than 100 at Johns Hopkins, and 80 at Clark); by 1899, Chicago had over 1,000 (Ryan, Studies, 124). 29. T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 60–61, 205. 30. Cited by McGiffert Jr., No Ivory Tower, 134–35. 31. S. Mathews, New Faith, 55. Writing in 1914 or 1915, Mathews conceded that when standards were raised, the number of degrees that were awarded declined (“Comparative College Statistics” [Shailer Mathews Papers [B2, F3], 4). Enrollment dropped at the Divinity School from 1933 onward (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], Appointments and Budgets [S2, B177, F10], Table 8). Could this be in part an effect of the Depression? 32. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 141–42; T. W. Goodspeed, Story, 142–43; Ryan, Studies, 130. George Marsden reports that Rockefeller wanted a journal under Baptist ­auspices—​­but Harper published the American Journal of Theology under the name of the University, not even mentioning the Divinity School (Marsden, Soul, 245).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 4 5– 2 47

393

33. Cherry, Hurrying, 10. By 1890, 68 percent of the city was composed of immigrants (Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 325). For a grim portrayal of the immigrants’ situation, Upton Sinclair’s Jungle (1906) remains a classic. Eric Larsen’s Devil in the White City (2004) vividly describes the difficulties of making Chicago ready for the 1893 Columbian Exposition. Shailer Mathews proudly notes that attendance at the Hall of Religion was surpassed only by that at the Hall of Science (New Faith, 140). 34. Wind, Bible, 84–85. 35. Meland, Realities, 249. 36. Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 334. 37. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 68–70, 142–143; Story, 166–167; [E. J. Goodspeed], “University of Chicago in 1921,” 5. In 1895, Harper sent Shailer Mathews to southern states to publicize this new opportunity (Mathews, New Faith, 79); Mathews defended Chicago’s “outreach” emphasis as helping to shape public opinion, even though he himself was always ready “to bow down at the shrine of the footnote” (61, 75, 94). 38. Mathews, “Comparative College Statistics” (Shailer Mathews Papers [B2, F3], 1–2). W. H. McNeill, Hutchins’ University, 13–14. McNeill stresses that the undergraduate population remained largely local into the 1920s and 1930s (6–7, 52). 39. Mathews, “Comparative College Statistics,” 2–3. 40. William Rainey Harper to Rev. C. D. Edwards, 11 Feb. 1905 (William Rainey Harper Papers, Personal Papers [B7, F19]), cited in Wind, Bible, 178. 41. Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 340. 42. T. W. Goodspeed, William Rainey Harper, 201–2, 214; Story, 173–74. 43. Herrick, Chimes (1926)—​­written when Harper was long dead. 44. All discussed in Wind, Bible, 149–59; on Harper’s “messianic vision,” 172, 169. 45. James, “The Ph. D. Octopus.” 46. Harry Pratt Judson, “Preface,” to E. J. Goodspeed, “University of Chicago in 1921,” 3. 47. Harper, “Trend of University,” 459–60; “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 66, 51. The next issue of the Journal printed prominent educators’ responses to Harper (inter alia, Augustus H. Strong, Charles Eliot, Charles Cuthbert Hall): “Modifications of the Theological Curriculum,” AJT 3.2 (April 1899): 324–43. 48. The Divinity School and Graduate School were established first (Wind, Bible, 113). Rockefeller’s first gift of one million dollars to the University was made on the condition that the Baptist Theological Union would become its Divinity School: see “Historical Statement” in “Circular of Information,” Official Publications of the University of Chicago 9.1 (Feb. 1909): 6. 49. Storr, Harper’s University, 75n.+; Arnold, Near the Edge, viii, 1, 2, 6; Cherry, Hurrying, 5. 50. Arnold, Near the Edge, 12–13. Hengstenberg’s library was bought by the old University of Chicago in 1869. 51. Storr, Harper’s University, 149; Shepard, God’s People, 109, citing the Decennial Report. By 1919, the number of Ph.D.s had grown to n ­ inety-​­three. 52. “Statistics of Attendance at 58 Graduate Theological Schools in the United States, 1880– 1908” (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files [S1, B69, F1, 1, 3, 5], counting three quarters’ enrollment at Chicago; Harvard comes in with a meager t­ hirty-​­one students). 53. [E. J. Goodspeed], “University in 1921,” 8; S. Mathews, New Faith, 270; McGiffert Jr., No Ivory Tower, 164–65, 169. The 1921 report detailed the large expansion already undertaken and appealed for funds for future development ([E. J. Goodspeed], “University in 1921,” 9–32, listing projects for which funds were needed). In 1929, Shailer Mathews assured Frederic Woodward

394

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 4 7 – 2 5 0

(Acting President of the Faculty Exchange) that the Divinity School’s connection with Chicago Theological Seminary made it the chief place where advanced research was being done (17 Oct. 1929 [University of Chicago, Office of the President (Hutchins), General Files, S1, B69, F1]). 54. Wind, Bible, 90; requiring Hebrew of all students was counterproductive (94). Harper on curriculum revision: “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 45–66; “Theological Seminary,” 229–33. 55. Harper, “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 54–55, 65. 56. S. Mathews, New Faith, 259. 57. “Circular of Information,” Official Publications of the University of Chicago, 9.1 (Feb. 1909): 6. 58. Wind, Bible, 103, 117. 59. Storr, Harper’s University, 161–62, citing a letter from Clarence R. Williams, a student at Chicago in 1900–1901. 60. Shepard, God’s People, 50–51, 94–96. Almost no Ph.D.s, however, were granted by this program (63); students interested in Religionswissenschaft majored in other fields (104). Also see Sweet, “University of Chicago Revisited,” 66n.64. 61. Harper, “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 49. 62. Harper, “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 52–53. He regrets that students at large universities have better science t­ raining—​­but they tend not to go into the ministry. 63. Harper, “Shall the Theological Curriculum,” 64. 64. Ernest DeWitt Burton, “The New World and Education,” commencement address given at Union College of Iowa, Des Moines, 29 May 1916 (Ernest Burton DeWitt Papers, B17, S2). 65. Stone, “Pioneers in Religious Inquiry: Preface,” I: iv–v. 66. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 4, 13. 67. Wilhelm Pauck to William J. Hynes, 2 April 1971, cited in Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 14. 68. Meland, Realities, 109–11. Meland claims that the intellectual world of Mathews and Case was shaped by Darwinian thought, from which they derived notions of modernism, environmentalism, and functionalism (111–12). 69. Stone, “Pioneers in Religious Inquiry: Preface,” I: vi; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 135–36. 70. Dean, History, 47. 71. McNeill, Hutchins’ University, 162. 72. James Harrel Cobb to Edgar Goodspeed, Chicago, 27 July 1946 (Edgar Johnson Goodspeed Papers, SI, B2, F5). 73. Augustus H. Strong to Clarence Barbour, 13 Jan. 1915. American Baptist Historical Society, cited in Wacker, Augustus H. Strong, 104. 74. S. Mathews, New Faith, 265. 75. “The Field and Work of the New Testament Department” (Edgar Johnson Goodspeed Papers, SII, B31, F14). 76. Course listings from Official Publications of the University of Chicago, 2 (Graduate School), (15 May 1902). The Edgar Goodspeed Papers (SII, BB30–36) contain his notes on early Christian writers and writings. For Goodspeed’s examinations, reserve lists, and class materials, see SVII, B51, F3–6. By 1909, Goodpseed is listed as teaching “Writings of Justin Martyr” (“Circular of Information,” Official Publications of the University of Chicago 9.1 [Feb. 1909]: 37). Goodspeed taught patristic Greek for t­hirty-​­nine years: see E. J. Goodspeed, “Patristics and New Testament Study” (Edgar Johnson Goodspeed Papers, SII, B33, F16); he lacerates writers’ ignorance of patristics.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 50 – 2 5 2

395

77. Course listings from Official Publications of the University of Chicago, 5 (Divinity School), (March 1905): 37, 39. 78. In an alternative version, “Professor of New Testament History” (S. Mathews, “Function of the Divinity School,” 255). Throughout, he stresses that the School’s approach has been to look for “genetic connections” through use of the “­socio-​­historical method.” For the original address, see University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files, S1, B69, F1. 79. S. Mathews, New Faith, 69; Wurster, “Modernism,” 317; Averill, American Theology, 116–17. Mathews was appointed in New Testament, although his work in Berlin was on the French Revolution: see his son’s memoir, R. E. Mathews, “Shailer Mathews,” 8. Mathews’s French Revolution, written in six months and highly successful, went through several editions. On Foster, see Hutchison, Modernist Impulse, 215–19. 80. Course listings from Official Publications of the University of Chicago, 12 (Divinity School), (1912): 42. 81. S. Mathews, notes for “Theology of the Latin Church” (Shailer Mathews Papers, B2, F5). 82. S. Mathews, notes for “Theology of the Greek Church” and “Examination, Dec. 21” (Shailer Mathews Papers, B2, F6). 83. Information from University of Chicago Library Finding Guide, “Shailer Mathews,” and from Mathews, New Faith, 49–51, 261. Wurster, “Modernism” of Shailer Mathews, 220–21, cites evidence that the promise of the Deanship to Mathews was part of Harper’s strategy to keep him from decamping for the University of Rochester; Mathews did not assume the Deanship until several years after the “retention package” was offered in 1899–1900. 84. Averill repeatedly cites Mathews as exemplifying liberal theology and notes its evolution (American Theology, chap. 3 passim, 103–6). 85. Schubert, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 33. 86. S. Mathews, “Review of McGiffert, History of Christian Thought, Vol. I,” 582. 87. Richardson, “Church History,” 5. 88. Details of Case’s life in Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 135–44; reprinted in Jennings, Bibliography and Biography, 27–39. Most later accounts derive from Jennings’s, with additions from Case’s own reminiscences in “Education in Liberalism,” I: 107–25, and “Living in the Garden of Eden,” 323–26. Jennings, a graduate student at the University of Chicago Divinity School, wrote his dissertation on Case (“Shirley Jackson Case: A Study in Methodology” [September 1964]); he began teaching Bible and religion in 1949, at Marshall College, Huntington, West Virginia. See Willoughby’s Introduction to Jennings, Bibliography and Biography, v. “Free Baptists” were reputedly more liberal than some other Baptist groups. Details of Case’s life also on a curriculum vitae Shailer Mathews prepared (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files, S1, B69, F1). 89. Case, “Living in the Garden of Eden,” 323–24, 325, 326. 90. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” 119. 91. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” 108; Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 135–36. Acadia University later awarded Case an honorary degree; Yale had already honored him in 1917 (Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 138, 141). 92. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 136. Also see Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 17. 93. Correspondence between Case and President George C. Chase of Bates College, Lewiston, ME, 5, 9, 13, 16, and 19  Feb.  1906 (Shirley Jackson Case Papers, B74, F6). By 1930 at Chicago, Case was making $7,500 (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], Administrative Records [S2, B333, FF10–11], Budget Requests).

396

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 52 – 2 5 5

94. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 136–37. The essays: “Paul’s Historical Relation to the First Disciples” and “Authority for the Sacraments.” Also see Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 17–18. 95. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 21; S. Mathews, New Faith, 265. Burton was President of the University from 1923 to 1925. 96. McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 21. 97. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” 109–11 passim (echoing John 20:13), 119. 98. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 23, 98, citing Wilhelm Pauck to William J. Hynes, 2 April 1971 and 21 Sept. 1975. 99. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 23. Case, Historicity of Jesus. Case also lectured on the topic in Lansing, MI, in Feb. 1912; see his notes, “The ­Hat-​­­Jesus-​­gelebt Problem” (B60, F7). He also reviewed books on the controversy, including Drews’s Christ Myth, in 1911 (“Recent Books on the Question of Jesus’ Existence”). 100. Ernest DeWitt Burton to Harry Pratt Judson, 9 Sept. 1912. Judson replied two days later that it was not usual to promote from Assistant to Associate in four years, but the proposed promotion could be an item for next year’s budget (Ernest DeWitt Burton Papers, B83, F9). 101. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 137. 102. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 26. Mathews was also active in editing two journals for popular consumption, Christendom and World Today (Wurster, “Modernism,” chap. 4). 103. Meland, “Time of R ­ eckoning—​­An Editorial,” 2. This issue of the Journal was dedicated to the memory of Case. 104. Case, Evolution. 105. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 137. Case, Book of Revelation; Millennial Hope. 106. Case, “Premillennial Menace.” This essay nearly calls Premillennial fundamentalists Nazi sympathizers. For Shailer Mathews’s attack on Premillennialism, see Wurster, “Modernism,” 328–57. 107. Some Chicago associates deemed his attacks on this point “mere ­name-​­calling”: see Schubert, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 44. 108. “Circular of Information,” University of Chicago Official Publications 17.2 (Feb. 1917): 14; Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 138; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 22–23, 26. 109. Case, Social Origins. 110. Sweet spearheaded the effort to gather and publish documents on American religious history. Case emphasized the need to gather them right away, adding: “One can easily imagine how much more complete and valuable” Migne’s collections and the Monumenta Germaniae Historica would have been if material had been gathered a few years after events, not centuries later (Case to Mathews, 19 Feb. 1929 [University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files [S1, B69, F1]). 111. Case to ­Vice-​­President Frederic Woodward, 26 Jan. 1931 (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], Appointments and Budgets [S2, B333, F12]). McGiffert had retired by then. 112. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 138–39, 141; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 29–30. 113. Case to President Ernest D. Burton, 22 Oct. 1923; similar emphases in Shailer Mathews to President Burton, 26 Dec. 1923 (Office of the President, University of Chicago, Professional Schools, Divinity School, Biblical Greek, 1892–1925 [B7, F8]). 114. Loetscher, ed., Papers of the American Society of Church History, 2nd ser., VIII: xxxii, xlvi, lx. 115. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 140; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 33. The first issue of Church History appeared in 1932, some years after Case’s presidency.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 55– 25 9

397

116. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 142; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 22. 117. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 29; Case, Report of the Church History Deputation. Mathews assured President Hutchins that this was “something more than a bibliography in the field of Church History”: Mathews to Hutchins, 10  April  1931 (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files [S1, B69, F1]). 118. Case, Report of the Church History Deputation, 3. Case describes the project, asks for a leave with full pay, and stresses the importance of the trip to Chicago’s scholarly prestige; see letters from, to, and about Case dating from Jan. to Aug. 1931, in University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], Appointments and Budgets [S2, B177, F12]). 119. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 29; Case, Report of the Church History Deputation. 120. Case, Bibliographical Guide, 42–43, 46, 52–53. 121. Case, Bibliographical Guide, 224–25, including L. ­Lévy-​­Bruhl’s How Natives Think, R. H. Lowie’s Primitive Religion, and G. F. Moore’s ­two-​­volume History of Religions. 122. Case, Report of the Church History Deputation, 3–4, 8. 123. Case, Report of the Church History Deputation, 74, 75, 78–82. 124. A letter issuing from the President’s Office is not flattering: Case’s appointment as Dean was “an emergency and Economy measure”; under his leadership, the number of Baptist students declined and “interior friction developed.” In 1938, the writer alleges, the prestige of the Divinity School is lower than it was in 1928 (Jerome M. Stifler to Dr. Frank W. Padelford [of the Northern Baptist Convention], 28 Oct. 1938 [University of Chicago, Office of the President (Hutchins), General Files [S1, B69, F4]). 125. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 141–43; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 22; Willoughby, “Shirley Jackson Case, 1872–1947,” 4. 126. Frank W. Padelford to C. T. B. Goodspeed, Newton Centre, MA, 8 March 1938 (University of Chicago, Office of the President [Hutchins], General Files [S1, B69, F4]). Padelford was Executive Secretary of the Board of Education of the Northern Baptist Convention. 127. Case, “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum.” 128. Case, “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum,” 73, 74, 70, 71. 129. Case, “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum,” 74. Case suggests that they might be kept as “museum exhibits,” but students should not be required to spend time gazing at them. 130. Case, “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum,” 75–78. 131. [Case], “Florida School of Religion: Announcement, 1941–1942” (Florida Southern College Papers, B49, F3, 2–7). 132. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 58, notes that the title is somewhat of a misnomer, as Case usually rejected philosophy, and the book, in any event, is more “a history of historiography.” William Dean comments that in this book, Case was “shooting at the rear guard of n ­ eo-​­orthodox theology” (Dean, History, 50). 133. Willoughby, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 5 (Shirley Jackson Case Papers, B54, F8). 134. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 143–44; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 34. Case had had a leg amputated in spring 1945, but returned to teaching that fall. 135. Through the good auspices of Gerianne Schaad, Archivist at Florida Southern College, and ­then-​­student Meredith Kaffee, I gained access to Case’s archival materials. 136. On Case’s destruction of files, see letter of Charles Thrift to William J. Hynes, 2 March 1970, cited in Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 25. 137. Jennings, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 137. 138. McNeill, Spinka, and Willoughby, eds., Environmental Factors. 139. These essays are in JR 29.1 (Jan. 1949): Meland, “Time of Reckoning” (1–4); McCown,

398

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 59 – 2 64

“Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution” (15–29); Schubert, “Shirley Jackson Case” (30–46). This issue of JR also reprinted Case’s essay “The Historical Study of Religion” from JR 1.1 (Jan. 1921): 5–14. 140. Wacker, Augustus H. Strong, 155. 141. S. Mathews, “Theology as Group Belief,” 179–80. In this scheme, doctrines were “social patterns,” and theology was “transcendentalized political practices” (182, 183).

Chapter 9 1. Case, Origins, 232, 234. Case ascribes early Christians’ emphasis on “religious living” (not doctrine) to their “Jewish ancestry” (Christianity in a Changing World, 85). 2. Case, Christian Philosophy, 168, 187; notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 12). 3. Case, Evolution, 24–25, 27; similarly, “Whither Historicism,” 71. 4. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 61; notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 10). 5. Case, notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 11, 12). 6. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 586–87 (address at the University of Chicago Divinity School, 2 Oct. 1924). 7. Case, “­Darrow-​­Case Debate: ‘Has Religion Ceased to Function?,’ ” 30 Jan. 1921 (Chicago: Maclaskey & Maclaskey Shorthand Reporters, 1921) (B54, F2, 14, 15, 25). Darrow argues that Christianity has discarded Jesus’ teachings and allied itself with capitalistic and commercial interests. 8. Case, “Study of Early Christianity,” 243; Evolution, 47. 9. Case, Social Origins, 30. 10. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 562; notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 10); Christianity in a Changing World, 39. 11. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 586. 12. Case, notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 16). 13. Case, “Recent Books on Early Christianity,” 124, critiquing the first volume of Félix d’Alviella, L’Evolution du dogme catholique (Paris: Nourry, 1912). 14. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 200, 76, 79, 80, 107; “Religious Meaning,” 586. 15. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 43, citing Case, Evolution, 24. Hynes adds that Case never clarified what religious “needs” were and their hierarchical arrangement. 16. Case, “Historical Study of Christian Doctrine,” 147. 17. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 587, 590; Social Origins, 252. 18. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions,” V.14 (B51–52, F2); II.3 (B51– 52, F1). 19. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 354. 20. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 193, 117. 21. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 193. 22. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 62–63, 69; Christian Philosophy, 159–60. 23. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 12). Case claims that Catholic Modernism sprang from n ­ ineteenth-​­century historical methods applied to the study of the Bible and the church. Even Catholic Modernism, however, harbors a notion of a static “essence” (“Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 558).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 64 – 268

399

24. Shailer Mathews to Dr. Gehr, 17  Jan.  1923 (Shailer Mathews Papers, B36, F6). Yet Mathews declares himself an “unrepentant liberal” (“Unrepentant Liberalism,” 305); here, in 1938, Mathews is more concerned to distinguish “liberals” from ­Neo-​­Orthodox. Mathews thought that liberalism was reductionistic in paring down Christianity to “essentials”; modernism, by contrast, sought “to adapt the fullness of inherited orthodoxy to a new cultural situation” (Lindsey, “Shailer Mathews,” 4.) 25. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 15). Emphasis in original. 26. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 15). Emphasis in original. 27. Case, “Jesus of Liberal Theology,” Lansing, MI, 12 Feb. 1912 (B60, F 7, 4). 28. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 15). Emphasis in original. 29. Case, “Inferiority Complex in American Theology” (B52, F7). Case’s reference to America’s present pessimism suggests that these (undated) words may have been penned either during the Depression or in the aftermath of World War I. 30. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 546. 31. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 3–4). 32. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 546–48. 33. Christianity’s “development” had been a central point of controversy for ­nineteenth-​ ­century professors; see Clark, Founding the Fathers, 168–201. 34. Case, notes for “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 12A, 10, 16); Evolution, 22 (on Troeltsch and the “Absolute,” 14). 35. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 549–52; Evolution, 11–13. 36. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 534. 37. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 4). 38. Case, “ABC of a Modern Theologian,” 1908–1909 (B57, F13). 39. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” I: 109. 40. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 98. 41. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 297. 42. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 3–4); Highways, 27. 43. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 554, 556; notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 3–4). 44. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 3–4). 45. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 297–99, citing Ritschl, Christian Doctrine of Justification III, #1, 3. 46. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 4–5). 47. Case, Evolution, 16–18; “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 556. 48. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 65; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 96, 97. 49. Case, Evolution, 23. 50. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 300; “Life of Jesus,” 37. 51. Case, Evolution, 19. Case valued some of Harnack’s historical scholarship: for example, he translated Harnack’s essay, “Sect of the Nicolaitans”; see above, 80–81. 52. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 557. 53. Case, “Life of Jesus,” 34–35, 34n.9; Jesus Through the Centuries, 304–5, 307. 54. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 8–9). 55. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 37.

400

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 68 – 2 7 3

56. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 65; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 96, 97. 57. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 331, 340. 58. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 9–10 [emphasis in original], 12); Christianity in a Changing World, 148, 151. 59. Case, “Problem of Christianity’s Essence,” 559–60; “Whither Historicism,” 65–66; Evolution, 23. 60. Case, “The Jesus of Liberal Theology,” Lansing, MI, 12 Feb. 1912 (B60, F 7, 9 [Christians today should not discount what early Christians did believe]); “Religious Meaning,” 583; “Education in Liberalism,” 112. 61. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” 110–11, echoing John 20:13. 62. Case, “Ethics of Jesus,” 396. 63. Case, “Education in Liberalism,” 111, 116. 64. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 583–84 (echoing Matt. 8:22/Lk. 9:60); “Whither Historicism,” 67. 65. Case, “Ethics of Jesus,” 399; “Religious Meaning,” 591. 66. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 140. 67. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 14); “Religious Meaning,” 588. 68. Marsden, Fundamentalism, 145–48. 69. Case, Millennial Hope, v, 214–19 passim, 226. 70. Case, Millennial Hope, 235–41 passim. The United States declared war on Germany in April 1917 and on the ­Austro-​­Hungarian Empire in December 1917. 71. Case, “Premillennial Menace,” 16–23. 72. Case, “Premillennial Menace,” 16, echoing the phrase in Woodrow Wilson’s speech to Congress on 2 April 1917. 73. Case, “Premillennial Menace,” 23, 17, 19, 21. Premillennialists (cleverly) responded that the criticism being taught at the University of Chicago undeniably emanated from “German sources” (Marsden, Fundamentalism, 148, citing the Premillennialist publication The King’s Business 9 [April 1918]: 277). 74. Case, “Premillennial Menace,” 21, 22. Marsden (Fundamentalism, 147) suggests that Case got the IWW connection from a Liberty Loan speaker’s letter that was reproduced in Biblical World (May 1918). 75. Marsden, Fundamentalism, 147, citing the Chicago Daily News of 21 Jan. 1918, as that was cited in The King’s Business 9 (April 1918): 276. 76. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 366. 77. Case, “Premillennial Menace,” 23. 78. Marsden, Fundamentalism, 149, 152–53. 79. Case, Evolution, 104–5, 109–11. 80. Case, Origins, v–vi, 137, 232; “Study of Early Christianity,” 263; “Rise of Christian Messianism,” 331. 81. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 158–59; Christian Philosophy, 96, and discussion in McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 21, 28; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 67–69. 82. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 23). 83. Case, Christian Philosophy, 171, 96; “Whither Historicism,” 66. Discussion in McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 21, 28; Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 67–69. 84. Case, Christian Philosophy, chap. 4. 85. Case, Highways, 25, 66–67; Makers, 186; Christianity in a Changing World, 98–99.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 7 3 – 2 7 9

401

86. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 20–21); notes on “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 59). 87. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 16, 19, 23). 88. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 17–18); Highways, 182–83; Christianity in a Changing World, 119; Case, Christian Philosophy, 101, 118–19. Case’s colleague, Paul Schubert, alleged that Case’s charges of N ­ eo-​­Orthodox “supernaturalism” were “mere ­name-​­calling” (“Shirley Jackson Case,” 43–44). 89. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 66; “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 41). 90. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 22); Christian Philosophy, 98–99, 123. 91. Case, “Ethics of Jesus,” 397, 398. 92. Case, “Rival Efforts to Modernize Jesus,” 84–85 (on Rudolf Bultmann, Jesus and the Word ). 93. Case, Christian Philosophy, 93, 98. 94. Case, notes on “Phases of ­Twentieth-​­Century Religious Thought” (B51, F6, 23); notes on “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 52); Christian Philosophy, 180, 182, 177. 95. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 159, 119; Highways, 192. Shailer Mathews also preferred the term “Modernism”; see his Faith of Modernism. 96. Robinson, “New History,” 3–7, 8–9. Essays in this volume were first published between 1900 and 1911. 97. Robinson, “New History,” 15; “ ‘Fall of Rome,’ ” 155. 98. Robinson, “New Allies,” 75. 99. Robinson, “New History,” 10–14; “History of History,” 64. 100. Case, Christian Philosophy, chap. 5; also faulting “political history” (129–30). 101. Robinson, “New History,” 17–18, 22, 24; “History of History,” 52, 62. 102. Robinson, “New History,” 25. Robinson urged historians to utilize social science (“History of History,” 49–51; “New Allies,” 83–100). 103. Robinson, “History of History,” 63. 104. Robinson, “Spirit of Conservatism,” 265. 105. Robinson, “Spirit of Conservatism,” 253. Emphasis in original. 106. Robinson, “History of History,” 52, 43–44, 55, 61; “New Allies,” 75. 107. See Whelan, “James Harvey Robinson,” 191–202. 108. See Goodspeed’s obituary notice in Biblical World 25.3 (March 1905): 169–72: nearing death (at age ­forty-​­five), he wished that he could devote himself fully to comparative religions (171). 109. Kitagawa, “History of Religions,” 3–4. Kitagawa notes Goodspeed’s book of 1902, History of the Babylonians and Assyrians. 110. Kitagawa, “History of Religions,” 5, 11, 13. 111. Case, Evolution, 191–94. 112. Case discusses these works in Evolution, 108–11. 113. Case, “New Religionsgeschichtliche Studies,” 440–45. 114. Case, Evolution, 109–12. 115. Case, “New Religionsgeschichtliche Studies,” 443–45. 116. Case, “Bousset’s ­Jüdisch-​­Christlicher Schulbetrieb,” 599–600. In 1921, this journal merged with Biblical World to become the Journal of Religion. In 1925, Case reviewed several books pertaining to Hermetic and Gnostic literature (“Pagan and Christian Otherworldliness,” 640–45).

402

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 7 9 – 2 83

117. Case, Bibliographical Guide, 224–25, citing Haydon, “­Twenty-​­Five Years of the History of Religions,” 17–40. Haydon notes Western scholars’ difficulty in abandoning the view that religion dealt with the supernatural (38–39). 118. Salvatorelli, “From Locke to Reitzenstein,” 325–27. Since Salvatorelli wrote exclusively in Italian and the essay was published in HTR, LaPiana probably served as translator. 119. Salvatorelli, “From Locke to Reitzenstein,” 328–31, 354–56; the author claims (335) that still in the fourth edition of his Dogmengeschichte, Harnack continued to denigrate the contributions of the History of Religions School. On the impact of “Oriental” material on the study of Gnosticism, see Colpe, Religionsgeschichtliche Schule. 120. Clemen, Religionsgeschichtliche Methode. More information on Clemen from Encyclopaedia Iranica. 121. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 90 and n.12. 122. Clemen, Primitive Christianity. 123. Clemen, Primitive Christianity, v. Clemen critiqued extravagant claims made for (e.g.) Indian religion’s influence on New Testament teachings and concepts. 124. Clemen, Einfluss der Mysterienreligionen. 125. Dewey, however, decamped from Chicago for Columbia in 1904, before Case joined the faculty. 126. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 119, 120, 128. 127. Dewey, “Evolutionary Method,” I: 107–24; II: 353–71. 128. Dewey, “Evolutionary Method,” I: 109. Dewey sometimes uses “genetic” to designate ­age-​­specific stages of historical comprehension and investigation. On Dewey and history, see Fallace, “John Dewey,” 20–35; Hutt, John Dewey. 129. Dewey, “Evolutionary Method,” I: 113. 130. Dewey, “Evolutionary Method,” I: 114, 115, 116 131. Dewey, “Evolutionary Method,” II: 356, 357, 358, 361, 363. 132. Case, “Historical Study of Christian Doctrine,” 148; “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6), 6. Case subtitled his most important book (Evolution of Early Christianity) A Genetic Study of F ­ irst-​­Century Christianity in Relation to Its Religious Environment. 133. Quirk, Bergson, 45. See James, “Bergson and His Critique,” 223–73. 134. Ardoin, Gontarski, and Mattison, “Introduction: ‘About the Year 1910,’ ” 2. 135. Quirk, Bergson, 53, 56. 136. [Anonymous], “Bergson’s Reception in America,” 226. 137. Macintosh, “Bergson,” 34. 138. Kelly, “Reading of Two Sources,” 70–88; and Colebrook, “Bergson,” 305–7. 139. See above, 248; and Meland, Realities, 109–11. 140. Stone, “Pioneers in Religious Inquiry: Preface,” vi; also see Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 135–36. For the School’s later influence in other subfields, see Dean, History Making History, chap. 3, esp. 64–73. 141. Case, Christian Philosophy, 205, 203. 142. Case, Highways, 177. 143. Case, Highways, 177. 144. Case, Christian Philosophy, 213; McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 28. 145. Case, Highways, 179. 146. Case, Christian Philosophy, 88–89. 147. Case, Christian Philosophy, 167.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 8 3 – 2 88

403

148. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 577–78, 579, 588; Christian Philosophy, 159–60, 213; McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 28. 149. Case, “Outline History of Christian Thought,” Christian Theology 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 1–3, 10–11, 12). 150. Case, “Outline History of Christian Theology,” Christian Theology 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 4–7). Jay D. Green argues that Case had his own “metaphysics” and f­ aith-​­based approach, albeit ones sharply different from traditional Christianity’s (“Creed for Modernism,” 38–49). 151. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 19–21, 22–22A). 152. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 24). 153. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History  306, 1937 (B52, F6, 25). Emphasis in original. 154. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 26). 155. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 27, 28). 156. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 29); “Historical Study,” 148. 157. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 32). 158. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 33); “Historical Study,” 149. 159. Case, “Religious Meaning,” 582. 160. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 13n.1, 295. 161. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 34); “Historical Study,” 149–50. 162. Case, “Historical Study,” 150. 163. Case, “Historical Study,” 150–51. 164. Case, “Historical Study,” 151, 152; also see McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 21–22. 165. See, e.g., Harnack’s essay, “Present State of Research,” 182–94, celebrating work that illuminates early Christianity’s setting; Ritschl’s Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche strongly influenced Harnack’s view of Gentile Christianity (189–90). 166. Hynes, Shirley Jackson Case, 79–84, 86, 128, 119. Case’s emphasis on Jesus’ “personal religion” is most marked in early essays such as “Religion of Jesus,” 234–52. 167. Case, “Historical Method,” 121–33 (Case’s inaugural address at the Cobb Divinity School of Bates College on June 26, 1907; for his notes plus a print version by the press of the Lewiston [Maine] Journal, see B50, F24). 168. Case, “Historical Method,” 121, 123, 127–29, 131. 169. Schubert, “Shirley Jackson Case,” 41–42, 35. 170. Case, “Historical Method,” 122–25, 126, 129, 133: God has been patiently waiting for humans to cast off their sluggardly ways. 171. Hynes defines the era in which the s­ ocio-​­historical method reigned at the University of Chicago Divinity School as extending from 1914 to 1938 (Shirley Jackson Case, 13). 172. Case, “Historical Study,” 1–17; reprint version 5–14. I cite from the 1949 reprint. The Journal of Religion was created by a merger of American Journal of Theology and Biblical World. 173. Case, “Historical Study,” 8. Case’s concern to discount the importance of individuals is also noted by Knox, “Few Memories,” 26. Nevertheless, Case elsewhere emphasizes the role of “forceful personalities” in history (“Education in Liberalism,” 110: persons are seen as “forceful” to the degree they are intimately connected to “the immediate world of reality” of their specific environment).

404

No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 8 9 – 2 9 6

174. Case, “Historical Study,” 5, 6, 12, 7, 8. 175. Case, Evolution, 44; “Historical Study,” 12, 9. 176. Case, “Historical Study,” 10, 9. 177. Case, Evolution, 42 and n.1. Case nevertheless praises McGiffert’s books in Highways, 193, 194, and Bibliographical Guide, 41, 52. 178. McCown, “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution,” 23. 179. Case, “Historical Study,” 10 and 10n.1; “Life of Jesus,” 41. 180. Case, Christian Philosophy, 63. 181. Case, “Historical Study,” 12–14; “Religious Meaning,” 589. 182. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 1, 2, alluding to Robinson, “New History,” 18–20); “Historical Approach to Christianity,” 1921? 1924? (B55, F1). 183. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 5, 9). 184. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 3, 4, 15, 16, 5, 14). 185. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 6). 186. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 6, 5); reading notes on Charles V. Langlois and Charles Seignobos, Introduction to the Study of History, trans. G. G. Berry (London: Duckworth; New York, Holt, 1912 [French original, 1898]) (B52, F7). 187. Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6, 7, 8).

Chapter 10 1. Case as Dean of the Divinity School urged President Hutchins to leave the last three weeks of the semester free from classes, for “consecutive reading and thinking.” Chicago, he wrote, should “get away from the all too prevalent habit of supposing that the communication and acquisition of atomistic data constitute real education” (Case to Hutchins, 2 Feb. 1934 [University of Chicago, Office of the President (Hutchins), General Files, S1, B69, F2]). 2. By 1923, Mathews had taken the title “Professor of Historical and Comparative Theology” in the Systematic Theology wing: see “Circular of Information,” University of Chicago Official Publications, 23.4 (Feb. 1923), 58–59. 3. This division was more commonly used; see “Circular of Information,” University of Chicago Official Publications, 17.2 (Feb. 1917), 25–27, 53, 65; 17.4 (April 1917); 23.4 (Feb. 1923), 54. 4. The following discussion is based on course materials in Case, “Christian Life in the Roman Empire,” Church History 422 (B51, F6). 5. Case, “Christian Life in the Roman Empire,” Church History 422 (B51, F6, n.p. and 4). 6. The following discussion is based on course materials in Case, “Organization of the Christian Society,” Church History 414, 1920 and ff. (B53, F1). 7. Case, “Early Christianity and the Roman State,” 1917 and ff. (B51, F8, 1, 3, 12). 8. All the above in Case, “Early Christianity and the Roman State,” 1917 (B51, F8). 9. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions” (B51, F1 and 2). 10. Case, “Christianity and ­Greco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 2–3, 10); cf. “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions,” 1915 and ff. (B51–52, F1, I.1); Summer 1916 (B51–52, F1, 13, 1A). 11. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions” (B51–52, F2, V.1). 12. Case, “Christianity and G ­ reco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 5–6). 13. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions,” Summer 1916 (B51–52, F1, I.2, I.2A); “Christianity and G ­ reco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 1).



No t e s t o Pa ge s 2 9 6– 3 0 3

405

14. Case, “Christianity and G ­ reco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 4–5). 15. Case, “Christianity and ­Greco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19); “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions,” 1915 (B51–52, F1, I.6). 16. Case, “Christianity and the G ­ reco-​­Roman Philosophies” (B51, F7; more notes in B50, F20). 17. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.1). 18. In 1916, Case adds readings from A. W. Benn, Greek Philosophers (2nd ed., 1914): “probably the best book to read” (Case, “Early Christianity and Philosophies,” 1916 [B53, F8]). 19. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.4, and n.p.). 20. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.2–I.5 passim). 21. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.4, I.5, “Outline,” n.p). 22. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.6, and n.p.); “Readings in Original Sources,” 1919, XII (B53, F8). 23. Case, “Monuments of Early Christianity,” Church History 412 (B52, F9, esp. 1–3). 24. Case, “Outline History of Christian Thought,” Christian Thought 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 2, 3, 7). 25. Case, “Outline History of Christian Thought,” Christian Thought 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 8). 26. Case, “Historical Study of Christianity,” Divinity 302 (B50, F23). 27. Case, “Divinity Education,” Divinity 301 (B52, F2). 28. “Circular of Information,” University of Chicago Official Publications, 23.4 (Feb. 1923), 65; 25.1 (Feb. 1925), 50; notes for Case, “Historical Method,” Church History 306, 1937 (B52, F6). 29. The following discussion is based on Case, “Ancient Church,” Church History 2, 1918– 1922 (B58, F10). 30. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4). 31. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 45–49, 25–26). Case emphasizes that religion for Jesus was not primarily a set of beliefs, but “of helpful emotions, noble impulses, high aspirations, purity of conscience, consecrated service to others, communion with God, and holy living in close contact with the actual conditions by which the men of his day were surrounded” (26). He also emphasizes the “attractiveness of Jesus’ personality” (29). It was Jesus’ followers who added apocalyptic Messianic touches (30, 32). 32. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 3–4). 33. Case, “Student’s Note Book,” 19 July 1917 (B55, F1). 34. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity,” spring 1929; notes for this course taken by Harold F. Pearson (B51, F9). 35. Case, “Early Christianity and the Roman State,” 1917 and ff. (B51, F8). 36. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 1). 37. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 1–4, passim). 38. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 3, 4, 10–11); “Popular Competitors,” 57–58. 39. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 8–15), passim. 40. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 14, 15, 17– 19, passim); Origins, 170. 41. Case, Evolution, 128, 166. 42. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 20). 43. Case, “Roman Imperialism and Christianity” (B51, F9, 30); Origins, 193. 44. Case, Evolution, 196–97, 213–17; “Acceptance of Christianity,” 46–52.

406

No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 0 3 – 3 10

45. Case, “Popular Competitors,” 68; “Acceptance of Christianity,” 52. 46. Case, “Acceptance of Christianity,” 52, 54, 55. 47. Case, Evolution, 237, 236, 227–28, 230; “Early Christian Soteriology,” 278. 48. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions” (B51–2, F2, IV.5). 49. Case, Evolution, 353. 50. Case, Social Origins, 163–64, 173, 168; Evolution, 103. 51. Case, “Acceptance of Christianity,” 56, 60, 61, citing the 313 edict from Eusebius, HE VIII. 17. 52. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 59, 134. 53. Case, Social Origins, 236, 230; Makers, 115. 54. Case, Social Triumph, 199. 55. Case, “Outline History of Christian Thought,” Christian Thought 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 9, 10). 56. Case, Christian Philosophy, 34. 57. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 115, alluding to the (probably apocryphal) dying words of Julian the Apostate. 58. Case, Origins, 144; “Study of Early Christianity,” 323. 59. Case, Makers, 145, 146. 60. Case, “Acceptance of Christianity,” 64. 61. Case, Highways, 62 (Case’s Lowell Institute Lectures, Boston, 27 April–1 May 1936). 62. Case, Christian Philosophy, 44; “Acceptance of Christianity,” 64; Case, Highways, chap. 3. 63. Emerton, “Religious Environment of Early Christianity,” 181–208; Case, Evolution, 76–77, 287, 192n.1. Emerton emphasizes the emperor cult and religious syncretism, and the cults of Mithra and Isis. Emerton was still Professor of Early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School when Case began at Chicago; soon, Emerton was succeeded by George LaPiana. On Emerton, see Clark, Founding the Fathers, 53–54, and passim under different topics. 64. Case, “Pagan Antecedents,” RM 3.2 (Jan. 1943): 109, listing a panoply of Greek and “oriental” cults. 65. Case, “Popular Competitors,” 60–61, 72, 73, 66. 66. Case, Evolution, 36, 33, 339–40, 30. For Harnack’s critique of the Tübingen School’s portrait of Jewish streams in Christianity, see his “Present State of Research,” 182–84. 67. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 51, 52); “Pagan Antecedents,” 130. 68. Case, Evolution, 44–45; “Study of Early Christianity,” 297. 69. Case, Social Origins, 248, 249; “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 60). 70. Case, Origins, 86, 94, 95, 119–20, 13. 71. Case, Origins, 220. 72. Case, “Popular Competitors,” 71; Origins, 233–34. 73. Case, “Christianity and G ­ reco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 6–7). 74. Case, “Christianity and ­Greco-​­Roman Religions,” 1925 (B50, F19, 8–9); “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions,” Summer 1916 (B51–2, F1, I.4). 75. Case, Evolution, 108–12, 191–92. 76. Case, Bibliographical Guide, 42–43, 45–47, 52–53; “Study of Early Christianity,” 320; Makers, 175, 177. 77. Case, “Intellectual Development of Augustine,” 469, reviewing Prosper Alfaric, L’Evolution intellectuelle de Saint Augustin. 78. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions” (B51–2, F2, IV.4); “Popular Competitors,” 64, 65.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 1 0 – 315

407

79. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 79–80); Origins, 170–71; Case, Evolution, 334, 354, 349; Jesus Through the Centuries, 104. 80. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Religions” (B51–52, F2, 4). 81. Case, “Pagan Antecedents,” 111–17 (Attis, 115). 82. Case, Evolution, 38. 83. Case, “Review of Charles Norris Cochrane, Christianity and Classical Culture,” 290. Case also faults Cochrane for o­ ver-​­centering on political thought and overemphasizing Christianity’s independence from ­Greco-​­Roman culture. 84. Case, Evolution, 121, 186, 189, 39. 85. Case, Evolution, chap. 9; “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, 13; XI, “Oriental Speculations”). 86. Case, “Study of Early Christianity,” 306–7; Jesus Through the Centuries, 168. 87. Case, Evolution, 326–27; Highways, 18, 19; “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, XI, “Oriental Speculations”). 88. Case, Highways, 19–21; “Study of Early Christianity,” 312, 314. 89. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, XI, “Oriental Speculations”); “Study of Early Christianity,” 312–14; Highways, 19–22; “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 71). 90. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 126–27, 138. 91. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, XI, “Oriental Speculations”). 92. Case, “New Interpretation of Gnosticism,” 325–26, reviewing Hans Jonas, Gnosis und spätantiker Geist. 93. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies” (B53, F8, XIV, Christianity); Christianity in a Changing World, 87. 94. Case, Origins, 8, 212, 216. 95. Case, “Whither Historicism,” 57. 96. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 129, 130, 124–25, 134–35. Case cites several s­ econd-​­and early ­third-​­century Christian writers. 97. Case, Social Triumph, 115, 9–13, passim; Evolution, 286. Yet Case aligns Stoicism with “religions of attainment,” in contrast to “religions of ­redemption”—​­a point that might differentiate it from Christianity. 98. Case, Evolution, 281, 282. 99. Case, Social Triumph, 5, 7, 148; Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, III). 100. Case, “Early Christianity and Contemporary Philosophies,” 1914 (B53, F8, I.3); Origins, 213. 101. Case, “Popular Competitors,” 71; Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 98. 102. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 68, 69, 150, 171–72, 173. 103. Case, Makers, 99, 103; Origins, 224. 104. Case, Social Triumph, 97; Christian Philosophy, 33. 105. Case, Makers, 108. In 1929, Case praises Eugène de Faye’s Origène. Sa vie, son oeuvre, sa pensée, Vol. III: La Doctrine (Paris: Leroux, 1928), in which Origen is rescued for “vital Christian experience,” not consigned to a “cold abstraction” of Platonism (“Recent French Studies,” 308). 106. Case, Makers, 168–69. 107. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 157, 158. 108. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 77, 151. 109. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 64, 66, 69, 74, 73, 82, 83).

408

No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 1 5– 3 22

110. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 161. 111. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 160, 161n.3. Case praised McGiffert’s book; anyone viewing ancient Christianity primarily from “the vital interests of the worshiping communities” (such as Bousset’s Kyrios Christos) will be sympathetic with McGiffert’s approach. McGiffert’s main argument, Case writes, is “that early Christianity is to be interpreted primarily in terms of the personal religious experiences and interests of the worshipers” (“Early Christian Conception of God,” 323, 324). 112. Case, “Rise of Christianity: A Syllabus,” n.d. (B56, F4, 77, 78, 79); Jesus Through the Centuries, 147–49. 113. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 163; Highways, 30, 33, 34. 114. Case, Social Origins, 199. 115. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 89–90, 88; Jesus Through the Centuries, 188–89. 116. Case, Makers, 125, 127, 128. 117. Case, Origins, 217. 118. Case, Christianity in a Changing World, 14–15. 119. Case, Highways, 57–58; Makers, 131. 120. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 184–85. 121. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 234, 238, 209–10, 212, 214. 122. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 164. 123. Case, Jesus Through the Centuries, 215, 230, 231. 124. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 162, 166; Christianity in a Changing World, 93. 125. Case, notes on “Growth of Nineteenth Century Liberalism” (B51, F6, 4–5). 126. Case, “Lure of Christology,” 166, 167. 127. Case, Christian Philosophy, 47–49, 182, 216, 56, 89, 91, 98, 101. 128. Case, “Critical Reviews,” 213–21. 129. Case, “Outline History of Christian Thought,” Christian Thought 304, 1937 (B51, F10, 12). 130. Case, Makers, 185, 186. 131. Case, “Study of Early Christianity,” 323; Social Triumph, 35, 37, 38; Christian Philosophy, 172. 132. Case, Highways, 33, 35, 36, 39–40, 49, 50, 45, 47, 48. 133. Case, Highways, 55–57; Makers, 97, 146. 134. Case, Highways, 62, 66–67, 68. 135. Case, Origins, 233, 234; “Early Christian Way of Life,” 205. 136. Case, Social Origins, 180–81, 183–84; Social Triumph, 224. 137. Case, Makers, 85, 86; “Early Christian Way of Life,” 227, 208–9. 138. Case, “Character Education,” 30, 31. 139. Case, “Early Christian Way of Life,” 215. 140. Case, “Early Christian Way of Life,” 210; Makers, 200–201; Christianity in a Changing World, 97. 141. Case, Makers, 152, 153, 166, 167. 142. Case, “Christian Life in the Roman Empire,” Church History 422 (B51, F6, 12–13). 143. Case, Social Triumph, 126–27. 144. Case, “Christian Life in the Roman Empire,” Church History 422 (B51, F6, 6–7, 9). 145. Case, “Christian Life in the Roman Empire,” Church History 422 (B51, F6, 15–16, 19). 146. Case, “Early Christian Way of Life,” 224. 147. Case, Social Triumph, 55, 71.



No t e s t o Pa ge s 3 2 2 – 3 2 5

409

148. Case, Social Triumph, evidence collected in chap. 2; and 71–72, 78, 80, 223, alluding to Matt. 5:34. 149. Case, Makers, 132, 137, 138.

Conclusion 1. Schaff to McGiffert, Lake Mohonk, NY, 3 July 1892 (MJP, S2, SS2A, B1, F23). 2. Adams, “Introduction to the Study of History,” 1. The Manual was a project of the American Historical Association. 3. Zachhuber, Theology as Science.

This page intentionally left blank

Bibliography

Adams, Charles Kendall. “Introduction to the Study of History.” In A Manual of Historical Literature, ed. Adams, 1–30. 3rd ed., revised and enlarged. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903 (1888). Ahlstrom, Sydney E. “Continental Influence on American Christian Thought Since World War I.” CH 27.3 (Sept. 1958): 256–72. “A Modernist” [William Laurence Sullivan]. Letters to His Holiness Pope Pius X. Chicago: Open Court Publishing Company, 1910. Appleby, R. Scott. “Church and Age Unite!”: The Modernist Impulse in American Catholicism. Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1992. Ardoin, Paul, S. E. Gontarski, and Laci Mattison. “Introduction: ‘About the Year 1910’: Bergson and Literary Modernism.” In Understanding Bergson, Understanding Modernism, ed. Ardoin, Gontarski, and Mattison, 1–8. New York: Bloomsbury, 2013. Arnold, Charles Harvey. God Before You and Behind You: The Hyde Park Union Church Through a Century, 1874–1974. Chicago: Hyde Park Union Church, 1974. ———. Near the Edge of Battle: A Short History of the Divinity School and the “Chicago School of Theology,” 1866–1966. Chicago: University of Chicago Divinity School Association, 1966. Averill, Lloyd J. American Theology in the Liberal Tradition. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1967. Bauspiess, Martin, Christof Landmesser, and David Lincicum, eds. Ferdinand Christian Baur and the History of Early Christianity. Trans. Robert F. Brown and Peter C. Hodgson. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. “Bergson’s Reception in America.” Current Opinion 54.3 (March 1913): 226. Bewer, Julius A. “Henry Preserved Smith.” American Journal of Semitic Languages and Literatures 43.4 (July 1927): 249–54. Blondel, Maurice. “Histoire et dogme: Les lacunes philosophiques de l’exégèse modern.” La Quinzaine (1904): 145–67, 349–73, 433–58; ET in Blondel, Letter on Apologetics and History of Dogma, ed. A. Dru and I. Trethowan, 219–87. New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1964. Bowden, Henry Warner. Church History in the Age of Science: Historiographical Patterns in the United States, 1876–1918. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1971. Briggs, Charles Augustus. The Authority of Holy Scripture: An Inaugural Address. 2nd ed. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1891. ———. “Catholic: The Name and the Thing.” AJT 7.3 (July 1903): 440–42. ———. The Defence of Professor Briggs before the Presbytery of New York. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893. Reprint: Religion in America, Series II. New York: Arno Press, 1972. ———. “The Encyclical Against Modernism.” NAR 187 (Feb. 1908): 199–212. ———. Theological Symbolics. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1914.

412 Bi b li o gr a p h y Briggs, Charles Augustus, and Baron Friedrich von Hügel. The Papal Commission and the Pentateuch. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1906. Brown, John Crosby. A Hundred Years of Merchant Banking. New York: private printing, 1909. Brown, William Adams. The Essence of Christianity: A Study in the History of Definition. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1902. ———. “The Old Theology and the New.” HTR 4.1 (Jan. 1911): 1–24. ———. A Teacher and His Times: A Story of Two Worlds. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1940. Bruckner, Albert. Julian von Eclanum, sein Leben und seine Lehre. Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs, 1897. Buonaiuti, Ernesto. “The Antecedents of Modernism.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 79–89. ———. “A Balance Sheet.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 90–101. ———. “Christ and St. Paul.” In The Mystic Vision, 120–43. ———. “Christianity: Perfect Religion.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 120–25. ———. “The Church of Rome Today.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 141–48. ———. “The Church, the Body of Christ.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 137–40. ———. L’Essenza del Cristianesimo. Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1922. ———. “Ethics and Eschatology of Methodius of Olympus.” HTR 14.3 (July 1921): 255–66. ———. “The Faith and the Faiths.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 152–57. ———. “The Genesis of St. Augustine’s Idea of Original Sin.” Trans. George LaPiana. HTR 10.2 (April 1917): 159–75. ———. Gnostic Fragments. Trans. Edith Cowell. London: Williams and Norgate, 1924. ———. Lo Gnosticismo: Storia di antiche lotte religiose. Milan: Libreria Editrice Ars Regia, 1907. [———.] Lettere di un prete modernista. Rome: Libreria di editrice romana, 1908. ———. “Manichaeism and Augustine’s Idea of ‘Massa Perditionis.’ ” Trans. George LaPiana (?). HTR 20.2 (April 1927): 117–27. ———. “Methodius of Olympus.” Trans. George LaPiana. HTR 14.4 (Oct. 1921): 255–66. ———. Le Modernisme catholique. Trans. René Monnot. Paris: Les Editions Rieder, 1927. ———. Il Pellegrino di Roma. Bari: Casa Editrice Laterza, 1945. ———. Pilgrim of Rome: An Introduction to the Life and Work of Ernesto Buonaiuti. Ed. Claude Nelson and Norman Pittenger. Welwyn, UK: James Nisbet and Company, 1969. ———. “Pilgrim of Rome.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 43–74. [———.] The Programme of Modernism. Trans. George Tyrrell; intro. A. Leslie Lilley. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons/Knickerbocker Press, 1908. ———. “Religion in the Life of the Spirit.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 107–13. ———. San Girolamo. Profili 49. Rome: A. F. Formiggini, 1919. ———. La Storia del Cristianesimo. 3 vols. 2nd ed. Milan: “Corbaccio” dall’ Oglio, 1942. ———. “Symbols and Rites in the Religious Life of Certain Monastic Orders.” In Mystic Vision, 168–209. Case, Shirley Jackson. “The Acceptance of Christianity by the Roman Emperors.” Presidential Address at the American Society of Church History, 28 Dec. 1925. Papers of the American Society of Church History, ed. Loetscher, 45–64. ———. “Authority for the Sacraments.” BW 29.5 (May 1907): 357–60. ———, ed. A Bibliographical Guide to the History of Christianity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1931. ———. The Book of Revelation: An Outline ­Bible-​­Study Course of the American Institute of Sacred Literature. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1918. ———. “Bousset’s ­Jüdisch-​­Christlicher Schulbetrieb.” AJT 19.4 (Oct. 1915): 599–600. ———. “Character Education in the Early Church.” Religious Education 24 (Jan. 1929): 28–33.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

413

———. Christianity in a Changing World. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1941. ———. The Christian Philosophy of History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1943. ———. “Critical Reviews.” JR 17.2 (April 1937): 213–21. ———. “The Early Christian Conception of God.” JR 4.3 (May 1924): 322–24. Review of A. C. McGiffert, God of the Early Christians. ———. “Early Christian Soteriology.” RM 3.4 (May 1943): 272–92. ———. “Early Christian Way of Life.” RM 3.3 (March 1943): 205–27. ———. “Education in Liberalism.” in Contemporary American Theology: Theological Autobiographies, ed. Vergilius Ferm. 2 vols. New York: Round Table Press, 1932. I: 107–25. ———. “The Ethics of Jesus from Strauss to Barth.” JR 15.4 (Oct. 1935): 389–99. ———. The Evolution of Early Christianity: A Genetic Study of F ­ irst-​­Century Christianity in Religion to Its Religious Environment. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1914, 1934. ———. Highways of Christian Doctrine. Chicago: Willett, Clark, & Co., 1936. ———. “The Historical Method in the Study of Religion.” Yale Divinity Quarterly 4.4 (April 1908): 121–33. ———. “Historical Study of Christian Doctrine.” The Iliff Review 2.1 (Winter 1945): 146–53. ———. “The Historical Study of Religion.” JR 1.1 (Jan.  1921): 1–17. Reprinted in JR 29.1 (Jan. 1949): 5–14. ———. The Historicity of Jesus: A Criticism of the Contention That Jesus Never Lived, a Statement of the Evidence for His Existence, an Estimate of His Religion to Christianity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1912. ———. “The Intellectual Development of Augustine.” AJT 24 (1920): 468–70. Review of Prosper Alfaric, L’Evolution intellectuelle de Saint Augustin: I. Du Manichéisme au Néoplatonisme. Paris: Nourry, 1918. ———. Jesus Through the Centuries. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1932. ———. “The Life of Jesus.” In Religious Thought in the Last ­Quarter-​­Century, ed. Gerald Birney Smith, 26–41. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1927. Essays originally printed in the Journal of Religion in 1926. ———. “Living in the Garden of Eden.” Crozier Quarterly 22.4 (Oct. 1945): 323–26. ———. “The Lure of Christology.” JR 25.3 (July 1945): 157–67. ———. Makers of Christianity: From Jesus to Charlemagne. New York: Henry Holt, 1934. ———. The Millennial Hope: A Phase of ­War-​­Time Thinking. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1918. ———. “A New Interpretation of Gnosticism.” JR 15.3 (July 1935): 325–26. Review of Hans Jonas, Gnosis und spätantiker Geist, Vol. I. Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht, 1934. ———. “New Religionsgeschichtliche Studies on Christian Origins.” AJT 18.3 (July 1914): 440–45. ———. The Origins of Christian Supernaturalism. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1946. ———. “Pagan and Christian Otherworldliness.” JR 5.6 (Nov. 1925): 640–45. ———. “Pagan Antecedents of Christianity.” RM 3.2 (Jan. 1943): 108–30. ———. “Paul’s Historical Relation to the First Disciples.” AJT 11.2 (April 1907): 269–86. ———. “Popular Competitors of Early Christianity.” JR 10.1 (Jan. 1930): 55–73. ———. “The Premillennial Menace.” BW 52 (1918): 16–23. ———. “The Problem of Christianity’s Essence.” AJT 17.4 (Oct. 1913): 541–62. ———. “Recent Books on Early Christianity.” AJT 17.1 (Jan. 1913): 122–28. ———. “Recent Books on the Question of Jesus’ Existence.” AJT 15.4 (Oct. 1911): 626–28. ———. “Recent French Studies in Early Christianity.” JR 9.2 (April 1929): 306–9.

414 Bi b li o gr a p h y ———. “The Religion of Jesus.” AJT 14.2 (April 1910): 234–52. ———. “The Religious Meaning of the Past.” JR 4.6 (Nov. 1924): 576–91. ———. Report of the Church History Deputation to the Orient, September, 1931, to March, 1932. London: International Missionary Council, 1932. ______, ed. “Report of the Committee on the Curriculum.” 11th Biennial Bulletin of the American Association of Theological Schools 13 (1938): 67–78. ———. “Review of Charles Norris Cochrane, Christianity and Classical Culture: A Study of Thought and Action from Augustus to Augustine” [Revised ed.; New York: Oxford University Press, 1944]. JR 24.4 (Oct. 1944): 289–90. ———. “The Rise of Christian Messianism.” In Studies in Early Christianity, ed. Case, 313–32. New York: Century Co., 1928. ———. “Rival Efforts to Modernize Jesus.” JR 15.1 (Jan. 1935): 82–86. ———. The Social Origins of Early Christianity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1923. ———. The Social Triumph of the Early Church. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1933. ———. “The Study of Early Christianity.” In A Guide to the Study of the Christian Religion, ed. Gerald Birney Smith, 239–326. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1917. ———. “Whither Historicism in Theology.” In The Process of Religion, ed. Krumbine, 55–71. Cauthen, Kenneth. The Impact of American Religious Liberalism. 2nd ed. Washington, DC: University Press of America, 1983 (1962). Cherry, Conrad. Hurrying Toward Zion: Universities, Divinity Schools, and American Protestantism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1995. Chiappetti, Fabrizzio. “Gli Scritti di Ernesto Buonaiuti per la rivista Il Rinnovamento. L’inizio della collaborazione.” In “In Wilder Zügelloser Jagd,” ed. Wolf and Schepers, 105–16. Clark, Elizabeth A. Founding the Fathers: Early Church History and Protestant Professors in ­Nineteenth-​­Century America. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011. Clemen, Carl. Der Einfluss der Mysterienreligionen auf das älteste Christentum. Giessen: A. Töpelmann, 1913. ———. Primitive Christianity and Its N ­ on-​­Jewish Sources. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1912. German original, 1909. ———. Die religionsgeschichtliche Methode in der Theologie. Giessen: J. Ricker, 1904. Coffin, Henry Sloane. “Can Liberalism Survive?” Religion in Life 4.2 (Spring 1935): 194–203. ———. A Half Century of Union Theological Seminary, 1896–1945. New York: Scribner, 1954. Colebrook, Claire. “Bergson on Evolution.” In Understanding Bergson, ed. Ardoin et al., 305–7. Colpe, Carsten. Die religionsgeschichtliche Schule: Darstellung und Kritik ihres Bildes vom gnostischen Erlösermythus. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1961. Commager, Henry Steele. The American Mind: An Interpretation of American Thought and Character Since the 1880’s. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1950. Daly, Gabriel. “Newman and Modernism: A Theological Reflection.” In Newman and the Modernists, ed. Mary Jo Weaver, 185–207. College Theology Society, Resources in Religion 1. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1985. ———. “Theological and Philosophical Modernism.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 88–112. Dean, William. History Making History: The New Historicism in American Religious Thought. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1988. Delmont, Théodore. Modernisme et Modernistes en Italie, en Allemagne, en Angleterre et en France. Paris: P. Lethielleux; Lyon: A. Nouvellet, 1909. DeVito, Michael J. “The New York Review (1905–1908): Modernism in the American Catholic



Bi b li o gr a p h y

415

Church.” In Papers of the Working Group on Roman Catholic Modernism, American Academy of Religion, 1978, 139–52. Dewey, John. “The Evolutionary Method as Applied to Morality. I. Its Scientific Necessity; II: Its Significance for Conduct.” Philosophical Review 11.2 (March 1902): 107–24; 11.4 (July 1902): 353–71. Dorrien, Gary. The Making of American Liberal Theology: Idealism, Realism, and Modernity, 1900– 1950. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2003. ———. The Making of American Liberal Theology: Imagining Progressive Religion, 1805–1900. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2001. “Dr. McGiffert’s Personal Influence.” The Outlook (10 Feb. 1900): 345–46. Durkheim, Emile. The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life: A Study in Religious Sociology. Trans. J. W. Swain. London: George Allen & Unwin; New York: Macmillan, 1915. French original 1912. Ellis, John Tracy. The Formative Years of the Catholic University of America. Washington, DC: American Catholic Historical Association, 1946. Emerton, Ephraim. “The Religious Environment of Early Christianity.” HTR 3.2 (April 1910): 181–208. ———, and Samuel Eliot Morison. “History.” In The Development of Harvard University, ed. Morison, 150–77. Erdmann, Johann Eduard. A History of Philosophy. ET ed. Williston S. Hough from the 3rd German edition. 3 vols. Vol. I: Ancient and Mediaeval Philosophy (2nd ed.; London: Swan Sonnenschein & Co.; New York: Macmillan & Co., 1891). McGiffert translated I: 225–542. Ernesto Buonaiuti Storico del Cristianesimo, A trent’ anni della morte. Istituto Storico Italiano per Il Medio Evo, Studi Storici, fasc. 106–8. Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano per Il Medio Evo, 1978. Fallace, Thomas D. “John Dewey on History Education and the Historical Method.” Education and Culture 26.2 (2010): 20–35. Faulkner, Harold U. “American Christianity and the World of Everyday.” In Essays in Intellectual History, 127–43. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1929. Fenn, W[illiam] W[allace]. “Modern Liberalism.” AJT 17.4 (Oct. 1913): 509–19. ———. “The Theological School, 1869–1928.” In Development of Harvard University, ed. Morison, 463–71. Fogarty, Gerald P., S.J. American Catholic Biblical Scholarship: A History from the Early Republic to Vatican II. San Francisco, CA: Harper & Row, 1989. Fogarty, Gerald P., S.J., and Sabine Schratz, “Americanism: Lutheranism Reborn or Modernism Anticipated.” In “In Wilder Zügelloser Jagd,” ed. Wolf and Schepers, 213–37. Fogazarro, Antonio. The Saint. Trans. M. P ­ ritchard-​­Agnetti; Intro. William Roscoe Thayer. New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons/The Knickerbocker Press, 1906. Italian original, Il Santo, 1905. Foster, Frank Hugh. The Modern Movement in American Theology: Sketches in the History of American Protestant Thought from the Civil War to the World War. Freeport, NY: Books for Libraries Press, 1969 (1939). Gannon, Michael V. “Before and After Modernism: The Intellectual Isolation of the American Priest.” In The Catholic Priest in the United States: Historical Investigations, ed. John Tracy Ellis, 293–383. Collegeville, MN: Saint John’s University Press, 1971. Goodspeed, Edgar J. As I Remember. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1953. ———. “The University in 1921.” Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1921.

416 Bi b li o gr a p h y Goodspeed, Thomas Wakefield. The Story of the University of Chicago, 1890–1925. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1925. ———. Completed by C. T. B and E. J. Goodspeed. William Rainey Harper: First President of the University of Chicago. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1928. Grasso, Domenico. Il Cristianesimo di Ernesto Buonaiuti. Brescia: Morcelliana, 1953. Green, Jay D. “A Creed for Modernism: Shirley Jackson Case and the Irony of Modern Approaches to ‘Faith and History.’ ” Fides et Historia 29.3 (Fall 1997): 38–49. Handy, Robert T. A History of the Union Theological Seminary in New York. New York: Columbia University Press, 1987. Harnack, Adolf. Christianity and History. Trans. Thomas Bailey Saunders. London: Adam & Charles Black, 1896. ———. “The Future of Church History.” The Independent (11 April 1889): 2–3. ———. “The Present State of Research in Early Church History.” Trans. J. King. In Adolf von Harnack, ed. Rumscheidt, 182–94. ———. “The Sect of the Nicolaitans and Nicolaus, the Deacon in Jerusalem.” Trans. Shirley Jackson Case. JR 3.4 (July 1923): 413–22. Harper, William Rainey. “The Pay of American College Professors.” Forum 16 (1893): 96–109. ———. “Shall the Theological Curriculum Be Modified, and How?” AJT 3.1 (Jan.  1899): 45–66. ———. “The Theological Seminary in Its Civic Relationship.” In Harper, The Trend in Higher Education, 207–33. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1905. ———. “Our Intellectual Difficulties.” In Harper, Religion and the Higher Life: Talks to Students, 101–12. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1904. ———. “The Trend of University and College Education in the United States.” NAR 174.545 (1902): 457–65. Haydon, A. Eustace. “­Twenty-​­Five Years of the History of Religions.” JR 6.1 (Jan. 1926): 17–40. Herrick, Robert. Chimes. New York: Macmillan, 1926. Hiers, Richard, and D. Larrimore Holland. “Introduction.” In Johannes Weiss, Jesus’ Proclamation of the Kingdom of God. Trans., ed. Hiers and Holland, 1–54. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1971. Hill, Harvey. “The Politics of Loisy’s Modernist Theology.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 169–90. Hitchcock, Roswell D., and Francis Brown, ed. The Teaching of the Twelve Apostles. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1884, 1885. Hollinger, David A. “The Accommodation of Protestant Christianity with the Enlightenment: An Old Drama Still Being Enacted.” In Hollinger, After Cloven Tongues of Fire, 1–17. ———. After Cloven Tongues of Fire: Protestant Liberalism in Modern American History. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2013. Hort, Fenton John Anthony. Two Dissertations. Part II: “On the ‘Constantinopolitan’ Creed and Other Creeds of the Fourth Century,” 73–150. Cambridge, UK: Macmillan and Co., 1876. Horton, Walter Marshall. Realistic Theology (1934). Republished in Horton, Theology in Transition. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1943. Howard, Thomas Albert. The Pope and the Professor: Pius IX, Ignaz von Döllinger, and the Quandary of the Modern Age. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017. Hügel, Friedrich von. The Papal Commission and the Pentateuch. London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1906.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

417

Hutchison, William R. “Cultural Strain and Protestant Liberalism.” AHR 76.2 (April 1971): 386–411. ———. “Introduction.” In American Protestant Thought in the Liberal Era, ed. Hutchison, 1–16. Lanham, MD: University Press of America, 1968, 1984. ———. “Liberal Protestantism and the ‘End of Innocence.’ ” American Quarterly 15.2, Part 1 (Summer 1963): 126–39. ———. The Modernist Impulse in American Protestantism. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1976; Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1982. Hutt, Curtis. John Dewey and the Ethics of Historical Belief: Religion and the Representation of the Past. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2013. Hynes, William J. Shirley Jackson Case and the Chicago School: The ­Socio-​­Historical Method. SBL Biblical Scholarship in North America Series, 5. Chico, CA: Scholars Press, 1981. “Impotent Liberalism.” The Christian Century 43.6 (11 Feb. 1926): 167–68. “In Memoriam: Arthur Cushman McGiffert, 1861–1933.” ABUTS IX.1 (Oct. 1933): 3–14. James, William. “Bergson and His Critique of Intellectualism.” In James, A Pluralistic Universe: Hibbert Lectures at Manchester College, 223–73. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1916 (1909). ———. “The Ph. D. Octopus.” In James, Memories and Studies, 329–47. New York: Longmans, Green and Co., 1924 [1911]). Originally published in Harvard Monthly (March 1903). Jemolo, A. C. Church and State in Italy, 1850–1950. Trans. David Moore. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1960. Italian original, 1948. Jennings, Louis B. “Shirley Jackson Case.” Baptist Chronicle 11.4 (July 1948): 135–44. Reprinted in Louis B. Jennings, The Bibliography and Biography of Shirley Jackson Case, 27–39. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1949. Joachim of Fiore. Tractatus super Quattuor Evangelia. Ed. Ernesto Buonaiuti. Fonti per la Storia d’Italia, vol. 67. Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano, 1930. Jodock, Darrell, ed., Catholicism Contending with Modernity: Roman Catholic Modernism and ­Anti-​­Modernism in Historical Context. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. ———. “Introduction I: The Modernist Crisis.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 1–19. ———. “Introduction II: The Modernists and the A ­ nti-​­Modernists.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 20–27. Jordan, Louis Henry. Modernism in Italy: Its Origin, Its Incentive, Its Leaders and Its Aims. London: Henry Froude/Oxford University Press, 1909. Jordan, Louis Henry, and Baldassare Labanca. The Study of Religion in the Italian Universities. London: Henry Frowde/Oxford University Press, 1909. Kelly, Michael R. “A Reading of Two Sources of Morality and Religion, or Bergsonian Wisdom, Emotion, and Integrity.” In Understanding Bergson, ed. Ardoin et al., 70–88. Kitagawa, Joseph M. “The History of Religions in America.” In The History of Religions: Essays in Methodology, ed. Mircea Eliade and Kitagawa, 1–30. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1959. Knox, John. “A Few Memories and a Great Debt.” Criterion 5.2 (Winter 1966): 24–27. Krüger, Gustav. “The ‘Theology of Crisis’: Remarks on a Recent Movement in German Theology.” HTR 19.3 (July 1926): 227–58. Krumbine, Miles H., ed. The Process of Religion: Essays in Honor of Dean Shailer Mathews. New York: Macmillan Co., 1933. Kuklick, Bruce. “John Dewey, American Theology, and Scientific Politics.” In Religion and

418 Bi b li o gr a p h y ­Twentieth-​­Century American Religious Life, ed. Michael J. Lacey, 78–93. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Kurtz, Lester R. The Politics of Heresy: The Modernist Crisis in Roman Catholicism. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1986. LaPiana, Angelina. Dante’s American Pilgrimage: A Historical Survey of Dante Studies in the United States, 1800–1944. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1948. LaPiana, George. “Ancient and Modern Christian Apologetics.” HTR 24.1 (January 1931): 1–27. ———. “The Byzantine Theater.” Sp 11.2 (April 1936): 171–211. ———. “Cephas and Peter in the Epistle to the Galatians.” HTR 14.2 (April 1921): 187–93. ———. “Doctrinal Background of Moral Theology.” In Moral Principles of Action: Man’s Ethical Imperative, ed. Ruth Nanda Ashen, 378–409. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1952. ———. “Ernesto Buonaiuti’s Spiritual Vision.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 5–27. ———. “Foreign Groups in Rome During the First Centuries of the Empire.” HTR 20.4 (Oct. 1927): 183–403. ———. “From Leo XIII to Benedict XV.” AJT 21.2 (April 1917): 175–92. ———. “Joachim of Flora: A Critical Survey.” Sp 7.2 (April 1932): 257–82. ———. “Recent Tendencies in Roman Catholic Theology.” HTR 15.3 (July 1922): 233–92. ———. Review of Donald Wayne Riddle, Early Christian Life: As Reflected in Its Literature (Chicago: Willett, Clark Co., 1936). JBL 56.1 (March 1937): 64–67. ———. “A Review of Italian Modernism.” HTR 9.4 (Oct. 1916): 351–75. ———. “The Roman Church and Modern Italian Democracy.” HTR 13.2 (April 1920): 159–83. ———. “The Roman Church at the End of the S­ econd-​­Century: The Episcopate of Victor, the Latinization of the Roman Church, the Easter Controversy, Consolidation of Power and Doctrinal Development, the Catacomb of Callistus.” HTR 18.3 (July 1925): 201–77. ———. “Theology of History.” In The Interpretation of History, ed. Joseph R. Strayer, 149–86. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1943. ———. “The Tombs of Peter and Paul ad Catacumbas.” HTR 14.1 (Jan. 1921): 53–94. ———. “The Totalitarian Church in a Democratic State: The American Experiment.” Shane Quarterly 10.2 (1949): 59–143. Reprinted as “The Totalitarian Church in a Democratic State: The American Experiment.” in LaPiana and John W. Swomley, Catholic Power Vs. American Freedom, ed. Herbert F. Vetter, 17–149. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2002. I cite the book version. Lease, Gary. “Modernism and ‘Modernism’: Christianity as Product of Its Culture.” Journal for the Study of Religion 1 (Sept. 1988): 3–23. ———. “Vatican Foreign Policy and the Origins of Modernism.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 31–55. Leonard, Ellen M. Unresting Transformation: The Theology and Spirituality of Maude Petre. Latham, MD: University Press of America, 1991. Lindsey, William D. “Shailer Mathews on Doctrinal Development: Parallels and Carryovers Between American Protestant Modernism and European Roman Catholic Modernism.” Unpublished paper. Working Group on Roman Catholic Modernism, American Academy of Religion, 1987. Livingston, James. “George Tyrrell as ‘Modernist’: His Key Theological Principles and His Replies to His A ­ nti-​­Modernist Critics.” In “In Wilder Zügelloser Jagd,” ed. Wolf and Schepers, 239–59. Loetscher, Frederick William, ed. Papers of the American Society of Church History. 2nd ser., VIII. New York: G. P. Putnam Sons/The Knickerbocker Press, 1928.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

419

Loisy, Alfred. The Gospel and the Church. Trans. Christopher Home. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1924. French original, 1903. ———. Mémoires pour servir à l’histoire religieuse de notre temps. 3 vols. Paris: Emile Nourry, 1930. ———. My Duel with the Vatican. Trans. Richard Wilson Boynton. New York: E. P. Dutton & Company, 1924. French original, 1913. ———. Simple réflexions sur le décret du S­ aint-​­Office Lamentabili sane exitu et sur l’encyclique Pascendi dominici gregis. Ceffonds: Chez l’auteur, 1908. Loome, Thomas. “The Meanings of Modernism.” The Guardian 225.6835 (June 1971): 544–47. Lotz, David W. “Albrecht Ritschl and the Unfinished Reformation.” HTR 73.3/4 (July–Oct. 1980): 337–72. ———. “Ritschl in His ­Nineteenth-​­Century Setting.” In Ritschl in Retrospect: History, Community, and Science, ed. Jodock, 8–27. Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995. Lowrie, Walter. “An Appreciation of Ernesto Buonaiuti.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 1–4. Ludlow, James M. “Charge on Behalf of the Board of Directors.” In McGiffert, “Primitive and Catholic Christianity,” 3–11. Macintosh, Douglas C. “Bergson and Religion.” BW 41.1 (Jan. 1913): 34–40. Marsden, George M. Fundamentalism and American Culture: The Shaping of ­Twentieth-​­Century Evangelicalism, 1870–1925. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1980. ———. The Soul of the American University: From Protestant Establishment to Established Nonbelief. New York: Oxford University Press, 1994. Marsh, Clive. Albrecht Ritschl and the Problem of the Historical Jesus. San Francisco, CA: Mellen Research University Press, 1992. Mathews, Robert Elden. “Shailer Mathews: A Biographical Note.” In The Process of Religion, ed. Krumbine, 3–12. Mathews, Shailer. The Faith of Modernism. New York: Macmillan, 1925. ———. The French Revolution. New York: Longmans, 1901. ———. “The Function of the Divinity School.” JR 13.3 (July 1933): 253–68. ———. “The Literature of Latin Christianity” [Review of McGiffert, History of Christian Thought, Vol. II]. JR 13.3 (July 1933): 335–36. ———. New Faith for Old: An Autobiography. New York: Macmillan, 1936. ———. “Professor McGiffert on the Apostolic Age.” BW (Nov. 1897): 350–65. ———. “Review of McGiffert, History of Christian Thought, Vol. I.” JR 12.4 (Oct. 1932): 581–82. ———. “Theology as Group Belief.” In Contemporary American Theology: Theological Autobiographies, ed. Vergilius Ferm, 163–93. 2nd ser. New York: Round Table Press, 1933. ———. “Unrepentant Liberalism.” American Scholar 7.3 (Summer 1938): 296–308. McCown, C. C. “Shirley Jackson Case’s Contribution to the Theory of Sociohistorical Interpretation.” JR 29.1 (Jan. 1949): 15–29. McGiffert, Arthur Cushman. The Apostles’ Creed: Its Origin, Its Purpose, and Its Historical Interpretation. A Lecture, With Critical Notes. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1902. ———. “Catholicism.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 31–54. ———. “Credo Quia Absurdum.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 240–44. ———. “Christ an Element in Christian Theology.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 107–13. ———. “Christianity and ­War—​­A Historical Sketch.” AJT 19.3 (July 1915): 323–45. ———. “Christianity in Light of Its History.” HJ 11.4 (July 1913): 717–32. ———. “The Christianity of Ignatius.” New World 7 (Sept. 1898): 470–83. ———. “The Christian Temper.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 201–2.

420 Bi b li o gr a p h y ———. “Christian Theism.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 164–74. ———. “Credo Quia Absurdum.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 240–42. ———. “Current German Thought.” AR 7.41 (May 1887): 563–66. ———. “Current German Thought.” AR 8.43 (July 1887): 80–82. ———. Dialogue Between a Christian and a Jew. New York: Christian Literature Company, 1889. ———. “German Theological Literature.” AR 8.47 (Nov. 1887): 548–50; 556–58. ———. “The God of Spinoza as Interpreted by Herder.” HJ 3.4 (July 1905): 706–26. ———. The God of the Early Christians. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1924. ———. “The Historical Study of Christianity.” BS 50.197 (Jan. 1893): 150–71. ———. “History and Theology.” An Address delivered before the Presbyterian Ministers’ Association of Philadelphia, 25 April 1898, 3–22. Pamphlet. No publication information. ———. A History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1897. ———. A History of Christian Thought. Vol. I: Early and Eastern, From Jesus to John of Damascus. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1954 (1932). ———. A History of Christian Thought. Vol. II: The West from Tertullian to Erasmus. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1954 (1933). ———. “The Influence of Christianity upon the Roman Empire.” HTR 2.1 (Jan. 1909): 28–49. ———. “The Kingdom of God.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 298–311. ———. “The Living Christ.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 132–41. ———.” The Lordship of Jesus.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 114–28. ———. “Martin Luther and His Work.” Century Magazine, Dec. 1910–Nov. 1911. ———. Martin Luther: The Man and His Work. New York: Century Co., 1911. ———. “The Ministry of Reconciliation.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 257–71. ———. “Modernism and Catholicism.” HTR 3.1 (Jan. 1910): 24–46. ———. “Mysticism in the Early Church.” AJT 11.3 (July 1907): 407–27. ———. “Personal Religion and Social Ethics.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 245–56. ———. “The Place of the Sacraments in Protestantism.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 223–31. ———. “Primitive and Catholic Christianity.” New York: John C. Rankin Co., 1893. ———. “Primitive Christianity.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 17–30. ———. “The Problem of Christian Creeds as Affected by Modern Thought.” An Address Delivered in Westminster Presbyterian Church of Buffalo, New York, 3–23. Buffalo, NY: Westminster Club, 1901. ———. “The Progress of Theological Thought During the Past Fifty Years.” AJT 20.3 (July 1916): 321–32. ———. “Prolegomena.” Church History of Eusebius. Nicene and ­Post-​­Nicene Fathers, 2nd ser., Vol. 1, ed. Philip Schaff, 3–72. New York: Christian Literature Society, 1890. ———. Protestant Thought Before Kant. London: Gerald Duckworth & Co., 1911; reprint, New York: Harper & Brothers, 1962. ———. “Religion and a Better ­World-​­Society.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 282–89. ———. Review of Adolph Harnack, History of Dogma, trans. Neil Buchanan. New World 7.26 (June 1898): 361–63. ———. Review of The Catholic Encyclopedia, Vol. I. Ed. Charles C. Herbermann et al. New York: Robert Appleton Co., 1907? The Outlook, 10 Aug. 1907, 788–89.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

421

———. Review of G. Koffmaul, ed., Abriss der Kirchengeschichte des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts. In “German Theological Literature.” AR 8.45 (Sept. 1887): 332–35. ———. Review of Johann H. Kurtz, Lehrbuch der Kirchengeschichte für Studierende. 10th ed. 2 vols. Leipzig. In “German Theological Literature.” AR 9.50 (Feb. 1888): 221–23. ———. Review of Otto Pfleiderer, Das Urchristentum, seine Schriften und Lehren. In “Theological and Religious Intelligence: Current German Thought.” AR 9.50 (Feb. 1888): 200–203. ———. The Rise of Modern Religious Ideas. New York: Macmillan Company, 1915. ———. “Ruin a Minister to Make a Manager, and Some Other Spiritual Crimes of the Day.” An Address to Union Seminary Students, 22 Sept. 1924. Excerpted in The Christian Register, 9 Oct. 1924, 981. ———. “The Seminary and War.” UTSB 1.1 (Nov. 1917): 3–20. ———. “The Study of Early Church History.” New World 8.29 (March 1899): 1–22. ———. “Theological and Religious Intelligence: Current German Thought.” AR 7.37 (Jan. 1887): 104–6. ———. “Theological and Religious Intelligence: Current German Thought.” AR 9.50 (Feb. 1888): 200–203. ———. “Theological Education.” AJT 15.1 (Jan. 1911): 1–19. ———. “Theological Reconstruction.” An Address Given at the Union Theological Seminary Alumni Banquet, 12 May 1902. In George William Knox, Arthur Cushman McGiffert, and Francis Brown, The Christian Point of View: Three Addresses, 31–48. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1902. ———. “The Unsearchable Riches of Christ.” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 142–44. ———. “The Validity of N ­ on-​­Episcopal Ordination.” Dudleian Lecture, Harvard University, April 9, 1901, 3–25. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1902. ———. “What Makes a Christian?” In Christianity as History, ed. McGiffert Jr., 144–48. McGiffert, A. C. [Jr.], ed. Christianity as History and Faith. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1934. ———. “The Future of Liberal Christianity in America.” JR 13.2 (April 1935): 161–75. ———. “The Making of an American Scholar: Biography in Letters.” USQR 24.1 (Fall 1968): 31–46. ———. “A ‘Mischievous’ Book: Further Correspondence of A. C. McGiffert.” USQR 24.4 (Summer 1969): 365–75. ———. No Ivory Tower: The Story of the Chicago Theological Seminary. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965. McNeill, John Thomas, Matthew Spinka, and Harold R. Willoughby, eds. Environmental Factors in Christian History. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1939. McNeill, William H. Hutchins’ University: A Memoir of the University of Chicago, 1929–1950. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991. Meland, Bernard Eugene. The Realities of Faith: The Revolution in Cultural Forms. New York: Oxford University Press, 1962. ———. “A Time of ­Reckoning—​­An Editorial.” JR 29.1 (Jan. 1949): 1–4. Moore, George Foot. Origine e sviluppo della religion. Trans. George LaPiana. Bari: Guiseppe Laterza, 1925. Morghen, Raffaello. “Il modernismo e la Storia del Cristianesimo.” In Ernesto Buonaiuti Storico del Cristianesimo, 7–22. ———. “An Evaluation of Buonaiuti’s Work.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 165–79.

422 Bi b li o gr a p h y Morison, Samuel Eliot, ed. The Development of Harvard University Since the Inauguration of President Eliot, 1869–1929. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1930. Mueller, David L. An Introduction to the Theology of Albrecht Ritschl. Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1969. The Mystic Vision: Papers from the Eranos Yearbooks. Trans. Ralph Manheim. Bollingen Series 30.6. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1968. Murri, Romolo. “An Italian Modernist’s Hope for the Future.” HTR 9.4 (Oct. 1916): 376–81. Nelson, Claude. “A Personal Note.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 180–86. Obituary for Edgar J. Goodspeed. BW 25.3 (March 1905): 169–72. O’Connell, Marvin R. Critics on Trial: An Introduction to the Catholic Modernist Crisis. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1994. Pauck, Wilhelm. “What Is Wrong with Liberalism?” JR 15.2 (April 1935): 146–60. Payne, Rodger M. “Charles Augustus Briggs: Protestant Prophet of Roman Catholic Modernism,” 4–15. Working Group on Roman Catholic Modernism, American Academy of Religion, 1986. “Petition from a Group of French Catholics to Pope Pius X,” September 1906. In Sabatier, Modernism, 197–216. Petre, M[aude] D. Alfred Loisy: His Religious Significance. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1944. ———. “The Advantages and Disadvantages of Authority in Religion.” HJ 12.2 (1913–1914): 295–305. ———. Autobiography and Life of George Tyrrell. 2 vols. London: Edward Arnold, 1912. ———. “Friedrich von Hügel. Personal Thoughts and Reminiscences.” HJ 24.1 (1926): 77–87. ———. Modernism: Its Failures and Its Fruits. London: T. C. and E. C. Jack, 1918 (?). ———. “A New Catholic Apologetic.” NYR 2.5 (March–April 1907): 602–9. ———. “Still at It: The Impasse of Modern Christology.” HJ 20.3 (1921–1922): 401–10. Pincherle, Alberto. “Buonaiuti storico dei primi secoli.” In Ernesto Buonaiuti Storico del Cristianesimo, 43–53. Pittenger, Norman. “Ernesto Buonaiuti and the Modernist Movement.” In Buonaiuti, Pilgrim, 28–37. Pius X. “Discourse of Pius X. on the Occasion of Conferring the Cardinal’s Hat on Those Recently Promoted to the Purple.” 17 April 1907. In What We Want, 67–71. ———. Lamentabili sane exitu. 1907. Available at Papalencyclicals.net/pius10/p10lamen.htm ———. Notre Charge Apostolique. 1910. ET available at http://www.catholicculture.org/library /view.cfm?recnum=5456. ———. Pascendi dominici gregis. 1907. ET in [Buonaiuti], Programme, 149–245. ———. Pieni’ l’animo. 1906. ET in P. Sabatier, Modernism, 181–96. ———. Vehementer Nos. 1906. ET available at http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/pius_x/encyclicals /documents/­hf_p-​­­x_enc_11021906_vehementer-​­nos_en.html. Poels, Henry A. “History and Inspiration. II: The Fathers of the Church.” Catholic University Bulletin 11 (1905): 153–94. ———. A Vindication of My Honor. Washington, DC: Judd & Detweiler, 1910. Portier, William L. “Slattery’s O’Connell: Americanism and Modernism in the Biographie de J. R. Slattery.” In Modernist Autobiography, 45–72. AAR Seminar on Roman Catholic Modernism, 1998. Quirk, Tom. Bergson and American Culture: The Worlds of Willa Cather and Wallace Stevens. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

423

Ranchetti, Michele. The Catholic Modernists: A Study of the Religious Reform Movement, 1864–1907. Trans. Isabel Quigley. London: Oxford University Press, 1969. Italian original, 1963. Ratté, John. Three Modernists: Alfred Loisy, George Tyrrell, William L. Sullivan. New York: Sheed and Ward, 1967. Reardon, Bernard M. G., ed. Liberal Protestantism. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1968. ———. Roman Catholic Modernism. Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1970. Reuben, Julie A. The Making of the Modern University: Intellectual Transformation and the Marginalization of Morality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1996. Richards, George. “Review of McGiffert, A History of Christian Thought, Vol. I.” CH 1.3 (Sept. 1932): 164–66. Richardson, Cyril C. “Church History Past and Present.” USQR 5.1 (Nov. 1949): 5–15. Richmond, James. Ritschl: A Reappraisal. A Study in Systematic Theology. London: Collins, 1978. Ritschl, Albrecht. A Critical History of the Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation, Vol. I. Trans. J. S. Black. Edinburgh: Edmonston and Douglas, 1872. ———. The Christian Doctrine of Justification and Reconciliation: The Positive Development of the Doctrine, Vol. III. Trans. and ed. H. R. Mackintosh and A. B. Macauley. 2nd ed. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1902 (1874); reprint Clifton, NJ: Reference Book Publishers, 1966. German original: Die christliche Lehre von der Rechtfertigung und Versöhnung, Bonn: A. Marcus, 1874; 3rd ed. 1888. ———. Die Entstehung der altkatholischen Kirche: eine ­kirchen-​­und dogmengeschichtliche Mono­ graphie. 2nd. ed. Bonn: A. Marcus, 1857 (1850). ———. “Instruction in the Christian Religion.” In Ritschl, Three Essays, 221–91. ———. “Theology and Metaphysics.” In Ritschl, Three Essays, 150–217. ———. Three Essays. Trans. Philip Hefner. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1972. Robinson, James Harvey. “ ‘The Fall of Rome.’ ” In Robinson, New History, 154–94. ———. “The History of History.” In Robinson, New History, 26–69. ———. “The New Allies in History.” In Robinson, New History, 70–100. ———. “The New History.” In Robinson, New History, 1–25. ———. The New History: Essays Illustrating the Modern Historical Outlook. New York: Macmillan Company, 1922. ———. “The Spirit of Conservatism.” In Robinson, New History, 236–66. Rockwell, William Walter. “In Memoriam: Arthur Cushman McGiffert.” CH 2.2 (June 1933): 105–6. Rumscheidt, Martin. Adolf von Harnack: Liberal Theology at Its Height, ed. Rumscheidt, 9–41. London: Collins Liturgical Publications, 1988, 1989. ———. “Introduction: Harnack’s Liberalism in Theology: A Struggle for the Freedom of Theology.” In Adolf von Harnack, ed. Rumscheidt, 9–41. Ryan, W. Carson. Studies in Early Graduate Education: The Johns Hopkins, Clark University, The University of Chicago. New York: The Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching, 1939. Sabatier, Paul. Modernism. The Jowett Lectures, 1908. Trans. C. A. Miles. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1908. Salvatorelli, Luigi. “From Locke to Reitzenstein: The Historical Investigation of the Origins of Christianity.” HTR 22.4 (Oct. 1929): 263–369. Salvemini, Gaetano, and George LaPiana. What to Do With Italy? New York: Duell, Sloan and Pearce, 1943.

424 Bi b li o gr a p h y Schaff, Philip. The History of the Christian Church. Vol. I: Apostolic Christianity, A.D. 1–100. Revised ed. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1882 [1858]. ———. “Other Heresy Trials and the Briggs Case.” The Forum 12 (Jan. 1892): 621–33. ———. Theological Propaedeutic. A General Introduction to the Study of Theology: Exegetical, Historical, Systematic, and Practical, Including Encyclopaedia, Methodology, and Bibliography. A Manual for Students. Part II. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1893. Schubert, Paul. “Shirley Jackson Case, Historian of Early Christianity: An Appraisal.” JR 29.1 (Jan. 1949): 30–46. Schultenover, David G., S.J. George Tyrrell: In Search of Catholicism. Shepherdstown, WV: Patmos Press, 1981. Shepard, Robert S. God’s People in the Ivory Tower: Religion in the Early American University. Chicago Studies in the History of American Religion 20. Brooklyn, NY: Carlson Publishing, 1991. Slattery, J. R. “The Workings of Modernism.” AJT 13.4 (Oct. 1909): 555–74. Smyth, Newman. Passing Protestantism and Coming Catholicism. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1908. Stone, Jerome A. “Pioneers in Religious Inquiry: Preface.” In The Chicago School of Theology: Pioneers in Religious Inquiry, Vol. I: The Early Chicago School, 1906–1959. G. B. Foster, E. S. Ames, S. Mathews, G. B. Smith, S. J. Case. Ed. W. Creighton Peden and Jerome A. Stone, i–xviii. Studies in American Religion 661. Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen Press, 1996. Storr, Richard J. Harper’s University: The Beginnings. A History of the University of Chicago. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966. Strong, Augustus H. Autobiography of Augustus Hopkins Strong. Ed. Crerar Douglas. Valley Forge, PA: Judson Press, 1981. Sullivan, William L. The Priest. 3rd ed. Boston: Sherman, French & Company, 1914 (1911). Sweet, Leonard T. “The University of Chicago Revisited: The Modernization of Theology, 1890– 1940.” Foundations 22.4 (Oct.–Dec. 1979): 324–51. Talor, C. J. T. “Innovation in Biblical Interpretation.” In Catholicism Contending, ed. Jodock, 191–211. Thelin, John R. A History of Higher Education. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004. Tyrrell, George. Christianity at the ­Cross-​­Roads. London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1909. ———. Letters from a “Modernist”: The Letters of George Tyrrell to Wilfrid Ward, 1893–1908. Introduced and annotated by Mary Jo Weaver. Shepherdstown, WV: Patmos Press; London: Sheed and Ward, 1981. ———. “Mediaevalism and Modernism.” HTR 1 (July 1908): 304–24. ———. Medievalism: A Reply to Cardinal Mercier. London: Longmans, Green, and Co., 1908. Van Dusen, Henry P. “The Farther Background: Theology in the Nineteenth Century.” In Van Dusen, The Vindication of Liberal Theology: A Tract for the Times, 155–86. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1963. Vernon, Ambrose W. “Scholar and Historian.” In “In Memoriam: Arthur Cushman McGiffert,” 3–10. Veysey, Laurence R. The Emergence of the American University. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965. Vidler, Alec R. The Modernist Movement in the Roman Church: Its Origins and Outcome. Norrisian Prize Essay in the University of Cambridge for the Year 1933. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1934.



Bi b li o gr a p h y

425

———. 20th Century Defenders of the Faith: Some Theological Fashions Considered in the Robertson Lectures for 1964. London: SCM Press, 1965. Voskuil, Dennis Neal. From Liberalism to N ­ eo-​­Orthodoxy: The History of a Theological Transition, 1925–1939. Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation, Harvard University, 1974. Wacker, Grant. Augustus H. Strong and the Dilemma of Historical Consciousness. Macon, GA: Mercer University Press, 1985. Ward, Wilfrid. “The Spirit of Newman’s Apologetics.” NYR 1.1 (June 1905): 3–14. Weaver, Mary Jo. “Wilfrid Ward, George Tyrrell and the Meanings of Modernism.” Downside Review 96.322 (Jan. 1978): 21–34. What We Want: An Open Letter to Pius X from a Group of Priests. Trans. A. Leslie Lilley. London: John Murray, 1907. Italian title: Quello che vogliamo. Whelan, Michael. “James Harvey Robinson, the New History, and the 1916 Social Studies Report.” The History Teacher 24.2 (Feb. 1991): 191–202. Williams, George H. “A Century of Church History at Harvard 1857–1957.” HDSB 23 (1957– 1958): 85–102. ———. Divinings: Religion at Harvard. Vol.  2: The “Augustan Age.” Ed. Rodney L. Petersen. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht; Newton, MA: Boston Theological Institute, 2014. ———. “Professor George La Piana [1878–1971]. Catholic Modernist at Harvard (1915–1947).” HLB 21.2 (April 1973): 117–43. Willoughby, Harold R. “Shirley Jackson Case, 1872–1947.” Divinity School News 15.1 (Feb. 1948): 4–5. Wind, James P. The Bible and the University: The Messianic Vision of William Rainey Harper. SBL Biblical Scholarship in North America Series 16. Atlanta: Scholars Press, 1987. Wolf, Hubert, and Judith Schepers, eds. “In Wilder Zügelloser Jagd nach Neuem”: 100 Jahre Modernismus und Antimodernismus in der katholischen Kirche. Römische Inquisition und Indexkongregation 12. Paderborn: Ferdinand Schöningh, 2009. Wurster, Stephen Harry. The “Modernism” of Shailer Mathews: A Study in American Religious Progressivism, 1894–1924. Ph.D. dissertation, University of Iowa, 1972. Zachhuber, Johannes. Theology as Science in ­Nineteenth-​­Century Germany: From F. C. Baur to Ernst Troeltsch. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013.

This page intentionally left blank

Index

Adams, Charles Kendall, 324 Adler, Felix, 60, 61, 68, 353n161 Allegorical interpretation, 117, 127, 282, 297– 98, 312 American Association of University Professors, 57, 352n138 American Historical Association/Society, 66, 409n2 “Americanism,” 22, 24, 27, 59, 338n112, 339n117 American Society of Church History, 62, 64, 70, 79, 80, 254, 255, 304 Ante-​­Nicene Fathers series, 62, 63, 105 Apologists, second-​­century, 44, 63, 113, 116, 121, 125, 170, 171, 226, 250, 297, 298, 313, 315, 320, 321 Apostles’ Creed, 62, 64, 80, 98, 103, 118–19, 128, 136–39, 313 Apostolic Succession, 121, 123–25, 201, 205–6, 215 Appleby, R. Scott, 23, 24, 27 Arius, Arians, 202, 203, 284, 315–16, 384n52 Augustine, 19, 31, 87, 97, 103, 105, 109, 115, 133–36 passim, 138, 140, 145, 150, 152, 172, 180–88 passim, 192, 227–38, 249, 250, 273, 284, 285, 294–98 passim, 305–6, 309, 313, 317–19 passim, 325, 338n106, 369–70n191, 379n71, 391n223 Averill, Lloyd, 31–32 Barnard College, 47, 68, 103, 104, 356n228, 364n23 Baronius, Caesare, 176, 180–81, 286 Barth, Karl, Barthianism, 36, 37, 179, 273–75, 283, 313, 317, 318, 323, 329, 346, 356–57n17 Baur, Ferdinand Christian, 32, 73, 78, 99, 104–05, 128, 286. See also Tübingen School Bergson, Henri/ Bergsonianism, 11, 281 Bible, authority of, 72, 119, 195, 230, 263, 264, 271, 325, 326

Bible, Higher Criticism of, 1, 13–15, 18–21 passim, 33, 37, 49, 83, 127, 325, 344n247, 398n23 Biblical Commission, Pontifical, 14, 23, 25, 26, 335–36n37 Blondel, Maurice, 10, 16, 26, 335n18 Bousset, Wilhelm, 34, 105–06, 118, 170, 256, 272, 277–79 passim, 307, 309, 311, 408n111 Bowden, Henry Warner, 70, 333n12, 356n1 Boyce, Gertrude Huntington, 46, 346n37 Briggs, Charles, 23–25 passim, 34, 47, 89, 331, 348n66, 356–57n17, 361n129 Brown, Francis, 36, 41, 47–49, 54–56, 61, 331, 345n3 Brown, John Crosby, 48, 53, 331, 347n53, 348n64 Brown, William Adams, 9, 34, 54, 56, 73, 344n229, 356–57n17 Buonaiuti, Ernesto, anti-​­Fascist, 16, 166; on Apologists, 170; on Apostolic Fathers, 171; on “associated life,” 168, 170, 174; on Augustine, 172; author of Il Programma dei Modernisti, 16, 19–20, 165–66, 175; on Christianity’s “orientalization,” 170; on the church, 168, 170, 174; on Church Fathers, 169, 171–72; and Benedetto Croce, 377nn31, 34; on ecclesiastical hierarchy, development of, 171; on eschatology, 169, 171, 178, 378n54; excommunicated, 15, 166; on Gnosticism, 169–70; on Adolf Harnack, 168–70; on heresies, 171; as historian, 11, 168–73; on historical development, 169; and Jesuits, 167, 173, 377nn27, 31; on Jesus, 169, 170, on Joachim of Fiore, 166, 172–73, 379n89; and journals, 17, 23, 167; and George LaPiana, 10, 147, 152–54, 161, 173– 75; life of, 147, 165–67; on Albert Loisy, 168–69; as Modernist, 10, 19, 166–68, 170, 334n7; and Benito Mussolini, 166;

428 In d e x Buonaiuti, Ernesto (cont.) “mystical,” 168–74, 187, 378n97; and Rudolf Otto, 168, 378n49; on Paul, 166, 170, 172, 378nn43, 54; refused reinstatement, 377nn30, 31; on religion from “needs,” 20; on Roman primacy, 171; on sacraments, 168, 174, 378n43; on Scholasticism, 167–68, 170, 173, 377nn43, 49; on School of Religion, 164; on Socialism, 377n34; on tradition, 168; and George Tyrrell, 167, 377nn33, 36; and Vatican, 153– 54; writings of, 19–20, 25, 150, 165–66, 168, 172, 175, 236–37 Burton, Ernest Dewitt, 246, 248, 252, 253, 279, 331 Canon, biblical, 72, 103, 120–21, 123, 207, 250, 265, 287, 291, 311 Case, Shirley Jackson: and “accommodation” model, 320–21; and American Society of Church History, 254, 255, 304; on Apologists, 297–99, 313, 315, 320, 321; on Apostolic Fathers, 314; archives of, 258, 323, 329, 331; on Arius, Arians, 284, 315–16; on asceticism, 285, 294, 311, 320–22 passim; on Augustine, 273, 284, 285, 294, 295, 298, 305–6, 309, 317–19 passim; on barbarians, 284, 285, 318, 320; on Karl Barth, Barthianism, see Neo-​­Orthodoxy; Basil of Caesarea, 322; on Bible, authority of, 263, 264; books, articles used, 291, 295–98 passim, 311, 405n18; on Wilhelm Bousset, 278–79, 307, 309, 311, 408n111; on canon (Biblical), 265, 287, 291, 315; on charity, 312, 322; on Christianity as “borrowing,” 284, 307, 310–12, 323, 329; on Christianity, development of, 262–67 passim, 278, 287, 289, 293, 294, 296, 315; on Christianity as “essence,” critique of, 261, 265, 267, 268, 270, 283, 328; on Christianity as licit religion, 304–05; on Christianity, mystical features of, 278, 304, 312, on Christianity, study of, 33, 255–56, 261–62, 286, 288–89, 293–301 passim; on Christological controversies, 284, 316–17; on Christology, 267, 315–17; on church history curriculum, 249–50, 257, 294–98; on church history, history of, 265–68, 282–87; on church as institution, 261, 262, 264, 269, 273, 284–87 passim, 295, 302, 305, 311, 315–19 passim, 322; on Carl Clemen, 279; on Clement of Alexandria, 278, 297, 298, 313, 322; on

correspondence courses, 300–301; courses taught by, 293–303; on creeds, 263–64; on Cyprian, 318–19; on Darwinian thought, 282, 283, 300, 394n68; as Dean, 256–57, 397n124; debate with Clarence Darrow, 261, 398n7; on Donatists, 319; early Christianity, “environment” of, 261, 263, 267, 274, 277–79 passim, 289, 291, 293, 294, 299, 303, 304, 308, 310, 312, 321, 323, 328, 403n173; early Christianity, as imperial religion, 304–6, 315; on emperors, Roman, 303–5, 308, 321–22, 406n37; on eschatology, 252–253, 267, 269, 272–74, 278, 285, 302, 303, 305, 314; on ethics, 257, 261, 268, 294, 299, 319–20; on Eusebius of Caesarea, 284–85, 295; on experience, religious, 260–63, 266, 267, 270, 273, 284, 289, 297, 319; at Florida Southern College, 258, 331; on “function,” “functionality,” 260, 262– 64, 268, 269, 270, 287–88, 290, 295, 298, 300, 308, 310, 314, 315, 317, 323, 328, 394n68; on Fundamentalism, 254, 270–71, 292, 323, 328, 329; “genetic” approach, 262, 270, 274, 278, 279, 281, 283, 285, 288, 289, 291, 296–99 passim, 309, 311, 323, 328; on Gnosticism, 278, 279, 311–13; on Greco-​­Roman philosophies, 296–99 passim, 312–13; on Greco-​­Roman religions, 263, 295–97, 301, 304, 306–9, 323; on Adolf von Harnack, 253, 264–68 passim, 270, 279, 286–87, 295, 300, 307, 399n51; on G. W. F. Hegel, 265–66, 281, 286; on heresies, heretics, 315–16, 233, 287, 315; on history, “crises” in, 276, 283–86 passim; on History of Religions scholarship, 256, 277–79, 282, 292, 296, 309, 323, 328; honorary degrees of, 395n91; illness and death, 258, 397n134; on imperial cult, 263, 301, 303, 304, 323, 325, 329; on imperialism, Roman, 293–94, 301–5, 318, 321; on individualism, critique of, 264, 301, 309, 312, 313, 318, 403n173; on Irenaeus, 299, 315, 318; on Jerome, 284–85, 306, 314, 321; on Jesus, representation of, 252, 253, 266–70 passim, 272, 273, 275, 278, 287–88, 290, 299, 303, 304, 307–8, 310, 314–17 passim, 323, 396n99, 403n166, 405n31; on John Chrysostom, 321; journals, 252–55, 258; on Judaism, ancient, 278, 289, 294, 301, 302, 307, 323; on Kingdom of God, 253, 269, 272–73, 275, 302–5 passim, 314, 323; on



In d e x Liberalism, Protestant, 251, 263–70 passim, 272–75 passim, 282, 289, 292, 308, 317, 328, 329, 399n24; life, 251– 58; literary approach, critique of, 262, 283–85, 289–90, 296, 298, 299; on Logos doctrine, 299, 312, 313, 315; on Alfred Loisy, 295, 296, 300; on Manicheanism, 256, 309; on Marcion, 311, 322; on marriage, 320, 321; on Arthur Cushman McGiffert, 262, 283, 289, 299, 315, 408n111; on ministerial education, 255–57, 294–301; on Modernism, Roman Catholic, 264, 271, 398n23; as Modernist, 5, 9, 264, 292, 328, 399n24; on monasticism, 318, 320–21, 322; on Benito Mussolini, 301; on “mystery religions,” 263, 278, 301, 304, 306, 309–11; on “needs,” religious, 260–61, 276, 301, 311, 398n15; on Neo-​­Orthodoxy, critique of, 254, 264, 273–75, 283, 290, 292, 312–18 passim, 323, 328, 329, 401n88; on Neo-​­Platonism, 309, 313; on “New History,” 276–77, 282, 288– 89, 292, 328; on Nicaea, Council of, 315–16; on non-​­textual data/sources, 288, 291, 298– 99; on Orient visitation project, 255–56; on Origen, 297–99 passim, 314–16 passim, 407n105; Parousia, non-​­occurrence of, 269, 272, 302–03, 305, 314; on Paul, 252, 253, 266, 269, 272, 278, 286, 297–304 passim, 307–10 passim, 320; on persecutions, 304, 308, 314–15, 321; and philosophy, 274, 280– 82, 298; on Premillenarianism, Premillennialism, critique of, 271–73, 292, 328, 396n106, 400nn73, 74; promotion of, 253, 254, 396n100; on Reformation, Protestant, 273, 293; on religion, 254–62 passim, 265, 266, 279, 282, 288, 289, 293, 302, 304, 308, 314, 328, 407n97; on religion, comparative study of, 279, 288, 295–98 passim, 308; on Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, see History of Religions scholarship; on religious community, 261, 266, 270, 278, 289, 300, 312; in retirement years, 258; on Albrecht Ritschl, Ritschlianism, 251, 252, 259, 264, 266–70 passim, 275, 287, 288, 292, 307, 317, 328; on James Harvey Robinson, 275– 77, 281, 288–90 passim, 292, 328; on Michael Rostovtzeff, 306; on Friedrich Schleiermacher, 266, 270; on Albert Schweitzer, 269, 272, 278; on science, 264, 281–84 passim, 288, 300; on seminar teaching, 293–96 passim, 323; on Socialism, 274;

429

on social sciences, 253, 256, 259, 263, 279, 289, 300, 328, 329; on socio-​­historical method, 248, 262–64, 266, 270–71, 283, 287–92; on Stoicism, 294, 298, 312–13, 407n97; on supernaturalism, 264–69 passim, 303–08 passim, 310–13 passim, 319, 323, 328, 401n88; on Tertullian, 295, 299, 312, 318, 320; on Theodosius I, 305, 319; as translator, 81, 399n51; on Tübingen School, 266, 267; on wealth, Christian attitudes ­toward, 321, 322; women in courses of, 300; and World War I, 254, 271–72, 274, 317; and World War II, 258; writings of, 253–55, 257–58, 272, 273, 276 Catholic Encyclopedia, 25, 88, 99, 340n143 Catholic University of America, 23, 24, 26 Celibacy, clerical, 146–47, 194, 223, 226 Charity, 107, 110, 186, 195, 312, 322 Cherry, Conrad, 243 Chicago, city of, 243–45 passim, 393n33, “Chicago School,” 66, 248–49, 251, 264, 270, 281, 288, 300, 323 Chicago, University of, 4, 243–46; comparative religion at, 247, 394n60, 401n108; correspondence courses at, 246, 300–01; degrees at, 246, 393n51; expansion of, 393–94n53; facilities at, 391n12, 393n50; Graduate School of, 244, 245, 392nn28, 31, 393n48; and public outreach, 245, 246, 393n37; and Rockefeller, John D., 4, 55, 243–46 passim, 391n9, 391– 92n18, 392nn20, 32, 393n48; salaries at, 244, 392n25; Summer Quarter at, 51, 243, 245, 247, 300, 301; undergraduate program at, 245, 393n38 Chicago, University of, Divinity School, 34–35, 246–48, 393n48; and American Society of Church History, 255; and Baptist Union Theological Seminary, 243, 245, 246, 393n48; and church history at, 250, 254–55, 282–92; curriculum at, 247–50 passim, 294–98, 393n47, 393– 94n53, 394nn54, 76, 404n1; degrees at, 247, 393n51; early Christianity at, 249–50, 284– 85, 293–323, 394n76; enrollment at, 247, 392n31, 393n52; language study at, 245, 247, 248, 394n54; and Neo-​­Orthodoxy, 248–49; and Ritschlianism, critique of, 259, 264, 266–70 passim, 275, 287, 288, 292, 317, 328; salaries at, 393n93; and Social Gospel, 245, 269; theological trends at, 248–49. See also Case, Shirley Jackson

430 In d e x Christianity, ancient: adapting features of Greco-​­Roman religions, 190, 191, 278, 284, 307, 310, 323; “individualism” in, 71, 111, 197, 212, 238, 264, 318, 385n92; “Jewish,” 32, 71, 78, 122, 325; organization of, 121–23; relation to Judaism, 63, 78; teaching of 101–40, 193–239, 293– 323; women in, 109, 110, 120, 214, 374n64, 387n119 Christianity, development of, 5, 71, 75, 78, 94–96, 100, 120, 137, 163, 325, 399n33 Christianity, historiography of, 93–99 passim, 104–06, 175–81 passim, 265–68, 282–87 Christianity, modern, modernization of, 1, 100, 274, 328, 329 Christianization, 187, 222 Christology, 36, 79, 116, 130, 131–36 passim, 213, 315, 317 Church Fathers, publication of, 42–47 passim, 63, 80, 98, 105, 118, 120, 168, 236 Church History, definitions of, 70; study of, 98–99, 106, 187–91, 250, 254–55, 324 Church-​­State relations, in America, 156–58, 375n102 Clement of Alexandria, 125–26, 278, 297, 298, 313, 322 Coffin, Henry Sloane, 55, 61, 101–02, 350n118 Collegia, 208, 209, 385n90 Commager, Henry Steele, 4 Comparative religions, see History of Religions Concordats, 146, 155–57, 374–75n81, 375n91 Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, 15 Councils of Vigilance, 15 Coxe, Arthur Cleveland, 63 Creation, doctrine of, 83, 114, 117, 118, 127, 325 Creeds, 64, 83, 98, 118–19, 131–32, 136–39, 263–64, 363n181, 371n224 Croce, Benedetto, 377nn31, 34 Cyprian of Carthage, 124–25, 215, 216, 318–19, 386n107, 387n124 Daly, Gabriel, 14, Darwin, Charles, 282, 283, 300, 394n68 Dean, William, 248, 397n132 Democracy, and religion, 1, 6, 11, 18, 20, 24, 101, 154, 157–65 passim, 198–200 passim, 271, 274, 334

Development, historical, 1, 2, 11, 14, 19, 89, 94–96, 100, 163, 178, 179, 183, 262–67 passim, 276–78 passim, 287, 289, 293–96 passim, 315 DeVito, Michael, 25 Dewey, John, 57, 61, 62, 81, 280–81, 392n25 Didache, 41, 47, 98, 139, 294, 345n7, 378n43 Dogma, development/evolution of, 15, 18, 20, 64, 78, 98, 137, 163, 170–78 passim, 262, 287, 296 Dorrien, Gary, 33, 34 Duchesne, Louis, 23, 105, 178 Education, freedom of in Germany, 43, 44 Eliot, Charles, 4, 46, 102, 346–47n43 Emerton, Ephraim, 175, 306, 406n63 Erdmann, Johann Eduard, 64, 354n191 Eschatology, early Christian, of Jesus, 19, 30, 35, 71; “imminent,” 30, 74–75, 185, 223, 224, 252– 53, 267, 269, 325; problem for Liberals, 35; Albert Schweitzer, 30, 269, 272, 278; Johannes Weiss, 30, 34, 71, 85 Ethical Culture Society, 68 Eucharist/Lord’s Supper, 50–51, 114–16 passim, 122, 124, 140, 159, 166–69 passim, 299, 312, 378n43 Eusebius of Caesarea, 42–47 passim, 63–64, 80, 93–94, 97, 105, 131, 163, 170, 180, 185, 193, 206, 207, 212, 221, 249, 250, 284, 285, 295, 354n187, 388n148 Evangelicals, evangelicalism, criticism of, 6, 14, 34, 57, 60, 76, 90–93, 100, 249 Evolution, scientific, 33, 89, 95–96, 97, 160, 225, 282 “Experience,” religious, 11, 15, 18, 19, 21, 28, 33, 36, 82, 83, 88, 89, 92, 111, 112, 119, 126, 128, 133, 135, 140, 160, 167, 169, 174, 179, 184, 230, 263, 266, 267, 278, 284, 289, 319, 337n74, 341n160, 407n105, 408n111 Fascism, and American clergy, 154, 165; and education, 146–47, 153, 156, 157, 217; and marriage law, 156; and Vatican, 16, 155–56, 166, 204, 222, 234, 374–75n81 Fogazzaro, Antonio, 17, 20–21, 163 Foster, George Burman, 250 Franco-​­Prussian War, 11–12, 335n23 “Function,” “Functionalism” in religion, 5, 6, 73, 86, 107, 127, 130, 132, 137, 173, 237, 248, 260–70 passim, 287–88, 290, 295, 298, 300, 308, 310, 314–17 passim, 323, 328, 344n233, 394n68



In d e x

Fundamentalism, Protestant, 96, 112, 254, 270–71, 292, 323, 328, 329 Gannon, Michael, 26–27, 339n123, 340n156 Gebhardt, Oscar von, 42, 43 “Genetic” approaches, 190, 254, 262, 270, 274–78 passim, 280–89 passim, 291, 296– 99 passim, 308, 311, 323, 328, 381n161, 395n78, 402n128 Genocchi, Giovanni, 16, 23, 336n59, 339n120 Gnosticism, Gnostics, 64, 72, 116–17, 122, 169–70, 200–201, 366–67n109 God, doctrine of, 65, 75, 86, 126–34 passim, 140, 214, 231–32, 368nn155, 165, 369n183 Goodspeed, Edgar, 247, 249, 250, 394n76 Goodspeed, George, 247, 401n108 Greco-​­Roman cults, 2, 111, 190, 210, 217, 221, 263, 295–97, 301, 304, 306–09, 323, 386n95, 98 Greco-​­Roman philosophy, 78, 107, 114, 131–35 passim, 228–32 passim, 284, 294–99 passim, 312–13, 407n97 Hall, Thomas, 56–57 Harnack, Adolf von, and American Society of Church History, 79–80; on Apologists, 113; and Shirley Jackson Case, 253, 264, 265, 267–68, 286–87, 296, 300; on Christology, 79; critiques of, 167–69, 178, 183, 195, 279, 286–87; dogma, history of, 77– 79, 98; on eschatology, 75, 378n52; on “essence” of Christianity, 77, 100, 183, 265, 358n55; on “Greek spirit” and Christianity, 78; on Hellenization, 117, 170, 358n42; on “kernel and husk,” 70–71, 77, 96, 267, 287, 360n101; as Liberal, 5, 30, 264; and McGiffert, 42–45 passim, 72, 77–81, 98, 100, 105, 106, 112, 115–22 passim, 128, 131, 135–37, 345n10, 349n88, 355n205, 360n101, 366n93; on patristic handbook, 66–67; and Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, opposition to, 402n119; and Ritschl, critiques of, 28, 30, 100; as Ritschlian, 28, 73, 77, 267, 270, 358n55, 403n165; suspicion of, 70–71; as teacher, 42–45 passim; on Tübingen School, critique of, 406n66; and World War I, 80; writings, 78, 79–81, 107, 359n70; also see Liberalism, Protestant Harper, William Rainey, 4, 243–47 passim, 293; critics of, 246

431

Harvard Divinity School, 3, 4, 5, 22, 35, 48, 51, 68, 89, 143, 150–54 passim, 161, 255, 324, 339n126, 371n224, 393n52; teaching of early Christianity at, 193–239 passim. See also LaPiana, George Harvard University, 3, 4, 27, 46, 49, 102; History Department, 151, 194; Radcliffe College, 152; Unitarian, 5, 150 Hastings’s Encyclopedia of Religion and Ethics, 118, 225, 373n52 Hegel, G. W. F., Hegelianism, 28, 29, 32, 64, 73, 74, 86, 95, 97, 105, 177, 184, 265–66, 281, 286 Herder, Johann Gottfried von, 97, 265, 354n177, 360n113, 369n186 Heresy trials, of Charles Briggs, 49, 50; of Arthur McGiffert, 49–54; of Henry Preserved Smith, 49, 50 Historical criticism, 13, 19, 33, 153–54, 325; Church Fathers ignorant of, 18; also see Historical method; Socio-​­historical criticism Historical method, 14, 32, 34, 66, 94, 95, 151, 154, 167–69, 172, 178–79, 181–83, 192, 248, 251, 262, 266, 271, 280, 283, 327 Historicism, 27, 33–35, 77, 259, 344n232, 358n56; critique of, 11, 181, 335n18 Historiography, 9, 93–98, 106, 121, 147, 175– 84 passim, 268, 282–87 passim, 300, 397n32; also see Historical criticism; Historical method History of religions, 1, 2, 32, 34, 77, 84, 168, 176, 182, 191, 192, 247, 256, 277–79, 282, 288, 292, 296, 309, 337n67, 401n108, 402n119; also see Religionsgeschichtliche Schule Hitchcock, Roswell D., 41, 48 Hollinger, David, 35 Hügel, Friedrich von, 10, 11, 16, 17, 23, 25, 334n11, 337–38n83 Hulbert, Eri Baker, 246, 250 Hutchison, William, 3, 28, 33, 36, 73, 93, 334n1 Hynes, William, 248, 253, 262, 266, 270–71, 280, 287–88 Ignatius of Antioch, 65, 112–16 passim, 122, 171, 205, 206, 366n87 Immanence, divine, Immanentism, 14, 19, 86, 89, 134, 136,160, 162, 360n113 Immigrants, in America, 59, 149, 208, 209, 327, 373n40, 393n33 Imperial cult, 2, 217, 263, 301–04 passim, 323, 325, 329

432 In d e x “Individualism,” in ancient religions and early Christianity, 71, 111, 199, 212, 238, 313, 318, 385n92; in Protestantism, 9, 88, 90, 91, 264, 301, 341n160 Index, books on, 12, 17, 21, 167 Irenaeus of Lyons, 65, 87, 115–16, 120–21, 205, 299, 315, 318, 366n93 Italy, education in, 16, 17, 145–48 passim, 155–58 passim, 161, 164, 174, 217, 337n67, 377n30 Italy, Modernism in, 10, 12–13, 16–23 passim, 147, 148, 161–62, 165, 196; also see Buonaiuti, Ernesto Italy, unification of, 144, 146, 156, 161 James, William, 75, 81, 174, 232, 246, 280, 281, 359n77 Jennings, Louis B., 259, 395n88 Jerome, 171, 194, 284–85, 306, 314, 321, 376n13 Jesuits, 11, 14, 87, 89, 146, 153, 154, 162, 167, 173, 344n10, 377n27 Jews, in modernity, 67, 68, 154, 220 John XXIII, 14 Jordan, Louis Henry, 21, 22, 35 Journals, American, 16, 25, 26, 35, 44, 77, 80–81, 83, 89, 150, 204, 209, 245, 253–54, 339n123, 359n70, 392n26, 392n32, 396nn102, 115, 401n116; Italian, 16, 17, 23, 25, 167, 337n77 Kant, Immanuel, Kantianism 28, 29, 73–76 passim, 81, 89, 97, 100, 134, 177, 179, 267, 286, 357n25, 358n45 Kingdom of God, 92, 108, 29–31, 33, 75, 83, 85–86, 185, 223, 224, 253, 269, 272–73, 275, 302– 05 passim, 314, 323; also see Eschatology; Parousia Krüger, Gustav, 36, 46, 253, 344n247 Laberthonnière, Lucien, 10 Lake, Kirsopp, 106, 175, 385n71 Lamentabili sane exitu (1907), 14, 15, 88 Lane Theological Seminary, 44, 46, 48, 49, 64, 94, 347n47 Languages, teaching of, 102, 243, 245, 247, 248, 257, LaPiana, Angelina, 143–44, 149, 152 LaPiana, George: Alexandria, church at, 196– 97, 201; in America, 149, 372n35; American Catholicism, critique of, 22, 327; on “Americanism,” 164–65; Angelina (sister),

143–44, 149, 152; on Anicetus, 207, 212, 386n110; anti-​­Fascist, 22, 147, 150, 151, 154– 55, 327, 374n77, 374–75n81; archives of, 143–44, 331; on Arians, 202, 203, 384n52; on asceticism, 214, 223–27; on “associated life,” 170, 173, 192, 194, 195, 203, 210, 223, 226, 230, 327; on Augustine, 180, 188, 227– 38; on authority, religious, 163, 178, 180, 188, 195–203 passim, 206, 207, 212–17 passim, 228, 230–31; on baptism, 191, 215, 237–38; on barbarians, 388n136; on Caesare Baronius, 176, 180–81; on Karl Barth, Barthianism, 178; books owned, 151, 373n52; books used in courses, 193–94, 219, 225, 382n9; and Ernesto Buonaiuti, 147, 150, 153–54, 165–75, 187, 227, 236–37, 239, 327; on Callistus, bishop of Rome, 189, 207, 213, 214; as Catholic, lapsed, 158–59; on celibacy, clerical, 146, 223, 226; on cemeteries, Roman, 205, 211, 212, 386n104; on Christianity and “disintegration,” 196, 197, 218, 219; on Christianity as institution, 195–97, 327; on Christianization, 187; on Christological controversies, 188, 203; on church history, history of, 176–79; on church, nature of, 161; on church-​­state separation, 156– 58, 375n102; on collegia, 208, 209, 385n90; Communism, opposition to, 145; on comparative religions, 148, 176, 177, 191, 236; compromise, necessity of, 197, 198, 221–23 passim, 227, 238, 239; on conciliar system, 202; on Concordat of 1929, 146, 155–57, 374–75n81, 375n91; on Constantine, 221–22, 388n151; on Corinth, church at, 206–07; courses taught, 193–94; on cults, Roman, 210, 217, 221, 386nn95, 98; on Cyprian of Carthage, 215, 216, 386n107, 387n124; on democracy, 160, 162, 198, 199; on development, historical, 178, 183; on Diocletian, 218, 219, 221; dissertation of, 148; on Donatists, 228, 233–34, 386n107; at Dumbarton Oaks, 152; on early Christianity, approaches to, 187–91; on early Christianity as “borrowing” religion, 190, 191, 278, 284; on early Christianity, not democratic, 198; on early Christianity, Greco-​­Roman environment of, 177, 189; on early Christianity, organization of, 193–203; on early Christianity, as synthesis, 189–91; on early Christianity, and women, 374n64; early life of, 144–45;



In d e x on Easter, dating of, 207, 212–13; on ecclesiastical authority, systems of, 197–203; on economic factors/analyses, 185–87, 197; on education, 145, 157–58; education of, 145– 46, 148; and Ephraim Emerton, 173, 175; on episcopal succession, 201; on “essence” of Christianity, critique of, 183; on Eusebius of Caesarea, 180; on evil, problem of, 231–32; on evolution, scientific, 225; on family, 143–45, 149, 152, 372n7; on I Clement, 205, 206; on Galerius, 218– 21 passim; on geography, 184; on God, doctrine of, 214, 231–32; on Gnosticism, 200–201; on Adolf Harnack, 178, 183; at Harvard, 27, 150–53, 374n71; on Hegesippus, 207; on Hippolytus of Rome, 213–14, 387n119; on historical method, 151, 178, 181–83, 327; on history of religions, 148, 176, 191, 192, 236; on Adolf Hitler, 218, 384n50; on illness and death of, 159; on immanence, 162; on immigrants in America, 149, 208, 209, 327, 373nn40, 41; on immigrants in ancient Rome, 108–11, 149, 327; on imperial cult, 217; “individualism,” critique of, 196, 199, 223, 226, 385n92; on intolerance, religious, 217, 222, 229, 233, 234; on “intuitive approach,” 184, 228; on Irenaeus, 205; Italy, research in, 153; on William James, 174, 232; on Jerusalem, 185, 202, 205, 384n66; on Jews, modern, 154; and Jesuits, 146, 153, 154, 162, 167; on Joachim of Fiore, 173, 238, 327; and Judaism, ancient, 190, 205, 210– 11, 225; on Kingdom of God, non-​­arrival of, 185, 223, 224; and Lake, Kirsopp, 175, 385n71; on languages of ancient Roman church, 211–14 passim, 386nn104, 105; on Leo XIII, 162, 164–65, 177; on Liberal Protestantism, 178, 179; life of, 144–159; Lowell Lectures of, 204, 211, 213, 227, 231, 374n59; on Magdeburg Centuriators, 176, 179; on Manicheanism, 225, 231–32, 235–37 passim; on Marcion, 169, 384n50; on marriage, 146, 156, 194, 214, 225, 37n119; on miracle, 182; on Modernism in America, 164–65; as Modernist, 2, 5, 9, 17, 147, 148, 160–63, 192, 197, 217, 234, 238; on Modernists in Italy, 12–13, 147, 148, 161–68 passim, 173–75; on monarchical episcopate, 197–98, 200–201, 213, 216; on monasticism, 226–27; on monotheism, pagan, 190–91, 222; on George Foot Moore, 150,

433 210; on Muratorian Canon, 207; on Romolo Murri, 161; on Benedetto Mussolini, 146, 154–56 passim, 218, 222, 234, 374– 75n81; on mystery, mysticism, 187–89, 192, 230, 236, 239; on “mystery religions,” 190, 210, 236; on “needs,” religious, 189, 192, 197, 214, 223, 224, 227, 239; on Nicaea, Council of, 202; on North African Christianity, 189, 211–15 passim, 228–29, 233, 234; on papal infallibility, 205, 383n26, 387n115; on papal system, 203; on Parousia, 199, 224, 226; on patriarchal system, 202–03; on Paul, 185, 188, 196, 205, 208, 218, 224– 26, 384n65, 389n170; on Pelagius, Pelagianism, 234–37, 390n213; on penitential discipline, 214; on persecutions, 215, 217– 21, 388n142; on persecutions, benefits from, 220–21; on Peter, apostle, 205, 207, 215, 216, 385nn71,72; on philosophy and history, 177, 184; on Pius X, 147, 163, 178; on Pius XI, 146, 155–56; plan for school in Rome, 164; on Platonism and Neo-​ ­Platonism, 228–30, 232; on Polycarp, 212, 295, 386n110; on poverty, 186; on Pragmatism, 174, 177; priesthood, profession of, 146; on Priscillianists, 222, 234, 285; on Protestantism, critique of, 168, 178–80, 195, 196, 199, 201, 218, 327, 385n92; on Reformation, Protestant, 146, 167, 175, 180, 234; on “religious experience,” 160, 179, 184, 230; and Risorgimento, 146; Roman church, bishops of, 205–07, 211–16, 386n112; Roman church, development of, 203–07, 216–17; Roman Empire, decline of, 186–87; Roman Empire, government of, 217; Rome, cemeteries of, 205, 211, 212; Rome, early church at, 185, 208–11; on Michael Rostovtzeff, 187, 193, 209, 219; on Auguste Sabatier, 195, 198–99, 230–31; on sacraments, 233; and Gaetano Salvemini, 151, 154, 374n77; on Shepherd of Hermas, 206; on sin, original, 235–37; on slaves, slavery, 189, 219; sociological approach, 183– 84; on Stephen of Rome, 215; on Supreme Court, 157–58, 219–20, 388n140; on Syllabus of Errors (1864), 177; on syncretism, religious, 210, 220, 386n96; as teacher, 146–48 passim, 151; on Tertullian, 208, 234; on Theodosius I, 220, 222; on “theological method,” 179–81, 327; Thomism, critique of, 145, 162–63, 178, 192; on

434 In d e x LaPiana, George: Alexandria (cont.) tradition, 163, 180–81, 185, 188, 191, 197, 201, 205, 209–13 passim, 383n26, 387n115; as translator, 150, 402n118; on Trinitarian controversies, 203; on Vatican I, 205; on Victor, bishop of Rome, 197, 211–13, 386n105; and George H. Williams, 143, 144, 148, 155, 158, 159; and World War I, 150–151; writings, 148, 149, 152, 154, 161, 204, 209, 374n59, 384n60 Law of Separation (1905), 12, 335n23 League of Nations, 60, 153 Lega Democratica Nazionale (League of National Democracy), 13, 16, 24 Leo XIII, 12–14 passim, 145, 162–65 passim, 177, 335n28; Aeterni Patris (1879), 13, 177; and Newman, John Henry, 177; Providentissimus Deus (1893), 13–14; Rerum Novarum (1891), 162, 165; and Secret Vatican Archives, 12, 177; Testem Benevolentiae (1899), 164, 338n112 LeRoy, Edouard, 10, 11 Liberalism, Protestant, 2–9 passim, 27–37 passim, 59–60, 69, 81, 85, 88, 90, 92, 121, 132, 140, 178, 179, 249, 251, 263–70 passim, 272–75 passim, 282, 289, 292, 308, 317, 328, 329, 399n24; 333nn1, 11, 344n248; also see Case, Shirley Jackson; Harnack, Adolf von; McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Sr.; Ritschl, Albrecht Lilley, A. Leslie, 18 Logos theology, 129–30, 135, 299, 312–15 passim, 326 Loisy, Alfred, 10–16 passim, 19, 20, 338n112, 357n36 Lovejoy, Arthur O., 57, 61 Lowell, A. Lawrence, 27, 151 Lowell Lectures, 152, 204, 208, 211, 213, 227– 28, 231, 232, 374n59 Ludlow, James M., 70–71 Magdeburg Centuriators, 176, 179, 180, 285–86 “Magic,” and sacraments, 136–40 passim, 174, 190, 233, 311 Marburg, University of, 42–45 passim, 60, 62, 253 Marcion, Marcionites, 64, 65, 118–20, 129, 137, 169, 311, 322, 363n181, 384n50 Marsden, George, 244, 264, 271, 272

Mary, mother of Jesus, 62, 119, 299; Immaculate Conception of, 18, 24; also see Virgin Birth Mathews, Shailer, 5, 34, 35, 51, 66, 246, 248– 53 passim, 259, 264, 271, 280, 281, 294, 331, 334n1, 391n12, 393n33, 395nn79, 83, 396n102, 397n117, 398n141, 399n24, 404n2 McCown, C.C., 259 McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Jr., 37, 46, 66, 345n252, 348n72, 368n157; as student, 104, 105, 123, 138, 139, 368n157 McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Sr., on allegorical interpretation, 127; anti-​­isolationist, 58; on Apologists, 113–14, 128–29; on Apostles’ Creed, 64, 98, 118–19, 136–39, 363n181, 371n224; on Apostolic Fathers, 112–13, 122; on Apostolic Succession, 121; archives of, 331; on asceticism, critique of, 108, 109, 120, 362n155; on Athanasius, 131, 132, 135; on Augustine, 87, 109, 133, 135–40 passim, 369–70n191; on authority, institutional and religious, 36, 84, 87, 89–90, 119; on baptism, 50, 64, 86, 98, 125, 126, 132, 137–39 passim; at Barnard College, 68, 103, 364n23; on F. C. Baur, 73, 78, 99, 104–05, 128; on Bible, historical-​­critical study of, 50–53, 83, 85, 127; at Bibliothèque Nationale, 44–45; books used in courses, 104–07 passim, 118, 135, 367n114; on Briggs’s trial, 49–50; on canon (Scriptural), 72, 120–21; on Cappadocians, 132; on Celsus, 113–14; on Chalcedon, Council of, 135, 136; Chicago faculty on, 251; on charity, early Christian, 107, 110; on Christianity, “development” of, 72, 89, 94–96, 100, 120, 122, 137; on Christianity, “essence” of, and critique, 81, 96, 100, 360n101; on Christianity as “opportunity,” 84, 112, 140; Christocentric, 85, 131, 136; on Christology, 83, 116, 134–36; on church history, study of, 98–99, 106; on Clement of Alexandria, 125–26; and Columbia, 102; as Congregationalist, 50; on Constantine, 107, 131; courses taught, 103–06; on creeds, 83, 98, 131–32, 137–38; criticism of, 34, 51– 52, 64, 66; on Cyprian, 124–25; on democracy, 57, 82, 92; on “development,” historical, 94–96, 100; and Dewey, John, 81, 84; dissertation of, 44, 62–63; on Donatism, 124; Dudleian Lectures, 89–90; on early Christianity, appeals of, 106–07; on



In d e x early Christianity, critique of, 65, 101, 107– 11, 136; on early Christianity and education, 109; on early Christianity, officers in, 122– 23; on early Christianity, organization of, 121–22; on early Christianity, social makeup of, 112; on early Christianity, teaching of, 101–40; on Enlightenment, 82; on eschatology, “imminent,” 50, 74–75; on ethics, failure of early Christian, 65, 101, 107–11, 327; on Eusebius, 42, 45–46, 63–64, 93–94, 131–32; on evangelicals, evangelicalism, 6, 57, 60, 90–93, 100; on family of, 41, 42, 44, 46–47, 346n41, 347n56; on finances of, 44, 46, 48; on forgiveness of sins, controversies over, 123; on Fundamentalism, 96, 112; as fundraiser, 55–56; in Germany, 41–45, 72– 73; on Gnosticism, 116–17, 122, 366– 67n109; on God, doctrine of, 65, 75, 86, 126–34 passim, 140, 368nn155, 165, 369n183; on God, immanence of, 86, 134, 136, 360n113, 369n186; on Greco-​­Roman religions, 111; and Adolf Harnack, 42–45 passim, 72, 345n10, 355n205; on Adolf Harnack, critique of, 79, 96, 106, 117, 138; on G. W. F. Hegel, Hegelianism, 74, 86, 95, 97, 360n115; heresy charges and trials, 49– 54; on historiography, 93–98; on history, “humanization” of, 97; History of Christianity in the Apostolic Age, 50–54 passim, 61, 102; on history of religions, 84, 96; honorary degrees of, 48–49; on Ignatius, 65, 114– 15, 368n87; illness and death of, 61; inauguration of, 70–72; on “individualism,” 71, 90, 91, 362n155; on internationalism, 59, 60, 92; on Irenaeus, 65, 87, 115–16, 120–21, 366n93; in Italy, 45, 46; on Jesus, representation of, 65, 74–75, 326; on “Jewish Christianity,” 122; on Jews and Judaism, ancient, 62–63, 111–12, modern, 67–68, 355n222; on Justin Martyr, 113, 129, 135; on Kant, 73–76 passim, 81, 89, 97, 100, 134; on Kingdom of God, 50, 54, 74–76, 83, 85–86, 92, 93, 106, 108, 110, 133, 138; on Ku Klux Klan, 96; on Johann Kurtz, 364n26; at Lane Theological Seminary, 44–49 passim, 64, 94; on language study, 102; on Last Supper and Lord’s Supper, 50–51, 86–87, 99, 139–40; on League of Nations, 60, 96; life of, 41–61; as Liberal Protestant, 59–60, 69, 81, 85, 88, 90, 92, 121, 132, 140; on Logos

435 theology, 85, 113, 116, 126–35 passim, 326; on Luther, 65, 82; mannerisms of, 102–03; on Marcion, 64, 65, 118–20, 129, 137; at Marburg, 42–45 passim; on Karl Marx, 97; on ministerial training, 84; on Mithraism, 106, 107; on Modalism, 128–131 passim; on Modernism, Roman Catholic, 88–90; on modernization of Christianity, 84–87, 140; on monasticism, 109, 362n155; on Montanism, 72, 119–20; on “mystery religions,” 111–17 passim, 325; on “needs” and “wants,” religious, 84, 85, 107, 113; on Neo-​ ­Orthodoxy, 96; on John Henry Newman, 87, 94, 95, 128, 131; in New York Philosophical Club, 60–62, 81, 361n130; on Nicaea, Council of, 115, 131–32; on 1907 Vatican decrees, 88; on Old Roman Symbol, see McGiffert, Apostles’ Creed; on Origen, 126–27, 368n155; on overcoming world, 74, 86; on papal infallibility, 89, 90, 121; on Paul, 50, 108, 112, 115, 117; on persecutions, 114–15, 124; on philosophy, 61–62, 64, 76, 353n175, 360n113, 369n186; on Pietism, 82; on Platonism and Neo-​­Platonism, 107, 131–35 passim; on Porphyry, 114; on Pragmatism, 62, 75–76, 81, 326, 354n177; praise for, 54, 61, 64–65; on premillenarianism, 91, 106–07, 120; as Presbyterian, 41, 52–54 passim; as President of Union, 4, 36, 54–55, 58, 61; on primitive and Catholic Christianity, 71, 72, 99; on “provincialism,” 96; on Reformers and Reformation, Protestant, 65, 70, 72, 79, 82, 90, 98, 100, 103, 106, 119, 359n81; on Albrecht Ritschl, as Ritschlian, 5, 32, 33, 72–76, 84, 93, 99, 129, 134; on Roman Catholicism, contemporary, 87–88; on Roman Empire, 107–08; on Roman government and Christianity, 114–15; on Rome, bishops of, 121–24 passim; on sacraments, 50–51, 86–87, 133, 138–40, 326; on Philip Schaff, 41–48, passim, 63; on Schleiermacher, 74, 76, 82–83, 90, 130–31, 371n220; on science, 83; on service, 92, 93, 108, 110–11, 134, 140, 326, 344n229; on slavery, 50, 90, 97, 99, 109, 110; on Social Gospel, 92, 93; societies belonged to, 62; on Stoicism, 131, 132; as student, 41–46; on Billy Sunday, 92; as teacher, 101–03; on Tertullian, 55, 65, 105, 108, 138; on tradition, critique of, 84, 100, 121, 140; as

436 In d e x McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Sr. (cont.) translator, 64; on Tübingen School, 44, 99; on vacations, 62; on “values,” 74, 75, 118; as Washburn Professor, 48; on wealth, 110; and Carl Weizsäcker, 51; on H. G. Wells, 97; on Westminster Confession/Standards, 52–54, 138, 371n227; and Western Reserve University, 41, 49, 96; on women, early Christian, 109; on women as students and professors, 68; on Woodrow Wilson, 57–61 passim; and World War I, 56–61, 80, 96, 110; writings of, 62–66 Meland, Bernard, 248, 259 Merry del Val, Raffaele, 25, 26 Metaphysics, critique of, 18, 29, 32, 73, 76, 125–28 passim, 188, 201, 228, 267, 280, 316, 326 Minocchi, Salvatore, 16, 17, 337n74 Modernism, Protestant, 5, 9, 34, 264, 300, 334n1, 399n24, 401n95 Modernism, Roman Catholic, 2, 3, 5, 10–16, 143–239 passim; in America, 5, 10, 22–27, 164–65; and “Americanism,” 22; and biblical and historical criticism, 10–15 passim, 19, 20, 88, 151, 163, 166–71 passim, 178, 181–83, 327; condemnation of, 14–15, 69, 88, 161–63; definitions of, 10–11, 14, 334n7; on divine immanence, 15, 36, 88, 160, 162, 178, 334n14; on “individualism,” critique of 9, 88, 170, 196, 199, 212, 223, 226, 238; in Italy, 5, 16–22, 147, 149, 161, 165–75, 376nn1, 2; name of, 10, 19; on science, study of, 88; on Thomism, critique of, 5, 19, 20, 25, 145, 162–63, 167–68, 170, 173, 178, 192, 377nn43, 49 Monotheism, 108, 128, 129, 190–91, 221, 231, 302, 316 Montanus, Montanism, 72, 119–21, 196, 198, 200, 213, 367n125, 374n64, 385n92 Moore, George Foot, 67–68, 150, 210, 279, 359n70 Murri, Romolo, 11–18 passim, 24, 161, 337nn65, 67 Mussolini, Benito, 146–56 passim, 165, 166, 198, 204, 217–18, 222, 234, 301, 374n81 “Mystery religions,” 2, 106, 111–17 passim, 177, 190, 210, 236, 263, 278, 301–11 passim, 325 “Needs,” in human religion, 15, 19, 20, 84, 107, 111, 113, 133, 167, 192, 197, 227, 239,

260–62 passim, 300–302 passim, 308, 310, 311, 314, 316, 325, 334n1, 398n15 Neo-​­Orthodoxy, 6, 36, 37, 96, 128, 248, 249, 259, 264, 273–75, 277, 290, 292, 317, 319, 328, 344n248, 377n132, 399n24, 401n88; also see Barth, Karl, Barthianism “New Apologetics,” 18, 25, 264 Newman, John Henry, 24, 87, 95, 163, 177, 178, 265, 340n156, 376n13 “New Theology.” See Liberalism, Protestant New York Philosophical Club, 60–62, 81, 361n130 New York Presbytery, 50, 53, 54 New York Review, 25 Nicene and Post-​­Nicene Fathers series, 42, 63, 80, 93, 105, 131 Oath, anti-​­Modernist, 13–15 passim, 23, 147– 49, 167, 336n51 O’Connell, Denis, 23, 339n119, 340n150 Old Roman Symbol, 64, 66, 72, 137, 363n181; also see Apostles’ Creed Origen, 126–27, 297–99 passim, 314–16 passim, 368n155, 407n105 Otto, Rudolph, 60, 168, 378n49 Papal Estates, 12, 20, 156, 162, 374–75n81 Papal Infallibility, 11, 87–90, 121, 205, 325–26, 376n7, 387n115 Parousia, 19, 169, 199, 224, 226, 35–36n37 Pascendi dominici gregis (1907), 14, 15, 88, 336n48 Pauck, Wilhelm, 37, 248, 253, 254, 341n160, 345n253 Pentateuch, Mosaic authorship of, 14, 25, 26, 49, 335–36n37 Persecutions of early Christians, 105, 114, 115, 121, 124, 198, 208, 210, 215, 218–22 passim, 239, 304, 314–15, 321, 388n142 Petre, Maude D., 10, 13, 17, 334n5 Pittsburgh Presbytery, 52 Pius IX, 11–12; Syllabus of Errors (1864), 11, 177 Pius X, 10–25 passim, 88, 147, 153, 162, 163, 165, 171–72, 178, 335n23, 337n64, 376n13; on Immaculate Conception, 18; Lamentabili sane exitu (1907), 14, 88; Notre Charge Apostolique (1910), 12; Pascendi domini gregis (1907), 14, 88; Pieni l’Animo (1906), 13; Sacrorum Antistitum(1910), 15; Testem Benevolentiae (1899); Vehementer Nos (1906), 12



In d e x

Pius XI, 146–47, 154–56 passim Pius XII, 14 Platner, J. W., 51, 73 Platonism, Neo-​­Platonism, 64, 78, 107, 131–35 passim, 228–32 passim, 309, 313 Poels, Henry, 26, 338n114, 340n150 Pontifical Biblical Commission, 14, 23, 25, 26 Pontifical Biblical Institute, 14 Poverty, 21, 93, 110, 185, 186, 322 Pragmatism, 11, 62, 75, 76, 81, 284, 326, 359n77; also see Dewey, John; James, William Predestination, 82, 133,140, 369–70n191 Premillenarianism, Premillenialism, 91, 106– 07, 120, 271–73, 292, 328, 396n106, 400nn73, 74 Presbyterian Church, USA, 41, 47–54 passim, 69, 71, 122, 249, 333; Epigraph, 348n66, 371n127 Process Theology, 37, 248, 281 Il Programma dei Modernisti (1907), 19–20, 165, 166, 175, 327, 377n24 Protestantism, Evangelical, 6, 34, 57, 60, 76, 90–93, 100, 249, 334n190–93 Quello che vogliamo (1907), 17–20 passim Rauschenbusch, Walter, 34, 354n187 Reformation, Catholic, 11 Reformation, Reformers, Protestant, 31, 60, 65, 70, 72, 79, 82, 90, 98, 100, 103, 106, 119, 146, 167, 175, 180, 234, 273, 293, 326, 359n81 Reitzenstein, Richard, 170, 194, 277, 279, 309 Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, 5, 277–79, 282, 296, 309; also see History of religions Religion, “essence” of, 35, 73, 77, 81, 96, 100, 183, 261, 265–70 passim, 283, 328, 358n55, 360n101 Religious Education Association, 62, 354n178 Revivals, revivalism, 44, 60, 81 Revolution, French, 11, 184, 395n79 Ritschl, Albrecht, Ritschlianism, 5, 9, 74, 358n55; on Baur, critique of, 32, 73; on Christianity as unique, 341n160; Christocentric, 31, 85, 357n40; on eschatology, 342n186; on Hegel, critique of, 73, 74; Judaism, de-​­emphasized, 78; on Kant, appropriation of, 29, 73–75 passim, 81, 341n175, 357n25; on Kingdom of God, 29–31, 74–75; metaphysics, critique of, 29,

437

73; New Testament as norm, 32, 75; on patronage system, 186; Pauline emphasis of, 78; as pragmatist, 73, 75; on Schleiermacher, critique of, 74; on spirit and matter/nature, 28–29, 64, 74, 342n179, 343n220; on Trinitarian and Christological doctrine, 31, 129; and Troeltsch, 358n56; on Tübingen School, 27, 28, 73, 341n167; and Union Seminary, 34; on value judgments, 29, 73–75 passim, 267; writings, 27–28, 32, 73, 99; also see, Liberalism, Protestant. Robinson, James Harvey, 275–77, 281, 288–90 passim, 292, 328, 392n27, 401n102 Rockefeller, John D., and Baptist Seminary in Rochester, 391n8; Orient visitation project, 255; and University of Chicago, 4, 55, 243–46, passim, 249, 391n9, 391–92n18, 392nn20, 32, 393n48; and Union Theological Seminary, 55–56 Rockwell, William 61, 364n29 Rome, early bishops of. See under Case, LaPiana, McGiffert Rome, early church at. See under Case, LaPiana, McGiffert Rostovtzeff, Michael, 187, 193, 209, 219, 306 Sacraments, 50–53 passim, 114, 116, 138–40, Salaries, professorial, 47, 48, 55, 244, 252, 347nn44,49, 392n25, 395n93 Sangnier, Marc, 11 Santayana, George, 81, 359n77 Schaff, Philip, 3, 34, 71; death of, 48; editor of Nicene and Post-​­Nicene Fathers series, 42, 63; as teacher and mentor, 41–49 passim, 253 Schleiermacher, Friedrich, 28, 74, 76, 82–83, 90, 130–31, 226, 270, 371n220 Schubert, Paul, 259, 288, 401n88 Schweitzer, Albert, 30, 75, 85, 269, 272, 278 Science, modern, 6, 10, 18, 28, 68, 73, 83, 86, 88, 118, 140, 162, 181, 195, 218, 225, 247, 264, 281–82, 284, 288, 360n117, 393n33, 394n62 Scopes trial, 92 Semeria, Giovanni, 16 Seminar, seminar method, 41, 43, 47, 103, 194, 247, 250, 293–96 passim, 323 Le Sillon, 12 Slattery, John, 22, 23, 24, 339n117 Smith, Gerald Birney, 250, 259 Smyth, Newman, 34, 343n23

438 In d e x Social Gospel, 3, 34, 92, 93, 245 Social sciences, sociology, 5, 34, 183–84, 198, 244–45, 253, 256, 259, 263, 276, 277, 279, 289, 300, 328, 329, 401n102 Socio-​­historical criticism/method, 151, 178, 181–83, 248, 262–64, 266, 270–71, 283, 287–92, 327 Strong, Augustus H., 243, 249, 391n8 Sullivan, William L., 22–24 Sweet, Leonard, 245 Sweet, William Warren, 254, 396n110 Syllabus of Errors (1864), 11, 177 Talor, C. J. T., 13 Tertullian, 19, 47, 65, 105, 108, 138, 194, 208, 234, 250, 295, 299, 312, 318, 320 Thomism/Scholasticism, 3, 13, 19, 20, 25, 89, 145, 162–63, 167–68, 170, 173, 178, 192, 377nn43, 49 Tradition, critique of, 84, 100, 121, 140, 163, 168, 180–81, 185, 188, 191, 197, 201, 205, 209–13 passim, 325, 383n26, 387n115 Trent, Council of, Tridentine, 19, 121, 158, 174, 250 Trinity, doctrine of. See God, doctrine of Troeltsch, Ernst, 34, 193, 265, 358n56 Tübingen School, 27, 28, 32, 44, 73, 99, 266, 267, 341n167, 406n66 Tyrrell, George, 3, 10, 13–19 passim, 36, 88, 89, 167, 334nn7, 10, 337–38n83 Ultramontane, Ultramontanism, 11, 89, Union Theological Seminary, 4, 34, 41, 45–49, 53–55, 92, 102; church history at, 3, 37, 44, 50, 70, 79, 103–06, 254; early Christianity at, 41, 71–72, 101–40; expansion of, 56, 351n132; freedom of scholarship at, 53–54; fund-​­raising at, 4, 55; gifts to, 348nn64, 66, 351n132; liberalism at, 34–35, 50, 62; presidents of, 4, 36, 63, 69, 104; prize fellowships at, 41, 42, 44, 345n5; Ritschlianism at, 5, 28,73; and World War I, 56–60 passim, 96, 351n134, 351–52n136, 352n137; also see McGiffert, Arthur Cushman, Sr.

Unitarian Church, Unitarians, 5, 23, 24, 46, 52, 68, 119, 135, 150, 158, 164, 346n41 University of Chicago Divinity School. See Chicago, University of, Divinity School Vatican City, 155, 156 Vatican decrees of 1907, 3, 6, 12–26 passim, 88, 89, 149, 165, 334n4; also see Biblical Commission, Pontifical; Lamentabili sane exitu; Pascendi dominici gregis Vatican I, 11, 87–89, 174, 205, 206, 376n7, 383n26, 387n115 Vatican II, 2, 19, 25, 168 Vernon, Ambrose, 72, 352n137, 356n15 Vidler, Alec, 15, 335n25, 376n1 Vincent, Marvin, 350n116 Virgin Birth, 20, 135, 249; also see Mary, mother of Jesus; Virgin Mary Virgin Mary, 62, 119; Immaculate Conception of, 11, 18, 24, 87 “Vitalism,” 281, 287 Voskuil, Dennis, 36 Wacker, Grant, 77, 259 Ward, Wilfrid, 25, 340n137 Warfield, Benjamin B., 348n72, 369–70n191 Wealth, 110, 185, 186, 322 Weiss, Johannes, 30, 34, 75, 85 Western Reserve University, 41, 49, 96, 345n2 What We Want. See Quello che vogliamo Whitehead, Alfred North, 36–37, 248, 280, 281 Wieman, Henry Nelson, 248, 280, 281 Wilson, Woodrow, 57, 58, 60, 61, 400n72 Wise, Stephen, 67, 355n.222 Women, as students and professors, 47, 68, 103, 143, 152, 244, 300, 371n4371n4 World War I, 6, 16–17, 36, 55, 96, 150, 254, 268, 271, 272, 274, 317, 344n244, 353n161; and dissident professors, 251n134, 351– 52n136, 352n137 World War II, 151, 153, 154, 258, 400n70 Zachhuber, Johannes, 3, 27, 28, 32, 77, 325, 358n56

Acknowledgments

Much of The Fathers Refounded was built from archival materials, so I especially wish to thank the librarians and archivists who assisted me with my work. At Union Theological Seminary, Ruth Tonkiss Cameron proved invaluable; her interest in my project kept my enthusiasm high over the years. At Harvard Divinity School, Frances O’Donnell helped me tackle the boxes of George LaPiana’s materials; then–Harvard Divinity School students Daniel Becerra and Luke Drake provided further assistance. I also thank archivist Julia Gardner of the University of Chicago for help with materials stored there. Shirley Jackson Case’s massive archive, however, is housed largely at Florida Southern College, where archivist Gerrianne Schaad was of enormous help, and recruited t­ hen-​­student Meredith Kaffee to photocopy many of Case’s materials for me. The Interlibrary Loan Service of Duke University supplied many books and articles. I also thank then–graduate student Julia Kelto Lillis of Duke University for research assistance. Darrell Jodock and George Gilmore helpfully supplied me with materials from the Working Group on Roman Catholic Modernism of the American Academy of Religion. I have given papers on materials related to this book at meetings of the American Academy of Religion, the American Society of Church History, the Christian Scholars’ Conference, the Oxford International Patristics Conference, and at Oxford University (the Ptarmigan Lecture), the University of Oslo, the University of Chicago, the University of Toronto (the Mary White Lecture in Classics), Wheaton College (the Papatheofanis Lecture), Washington University in St. Louis (the Weltin Lecture), the University of Missouri, and Virginia Commonwealth University (the Blake Lecture); I thank audiences at these institutions and conferences for their comments, suggestions, and criticisms. I also thank colleagues who hosted me and/or made my visits more pleasant at some of the above institutions at which I worked or lectured: in Cambridge, Karen King, Laura Nasrallah, and David Frankfurter; in New York,

440 Ac k n ow le d gm e n t s

John and Eileen McGuckin and Brigitte Kahl (in whose apartments some of this book was written); in Oxford, Sarah Foot, Averil Cameron, and Judith Herrin; in Oslo, Halvor Moxnes; in Chicago, Margaret Mitchell and Richard Rosengarten; in Toronto, Kyle Smith and Maggie Fost; in Wheaton, Illinois, Gregory Lee; in St. Louis, Leigh Schmidt and Laurie M ­ affly-​­Kipp; in Columbia, Missouri, Dennis and Carlynn Trout; and in Richmond, Virginia, Andrew Crislip. I thank my former colleagues Grant Wacker and Mark Chaves, and Terrence Tilley of Fordham University, for reading the manuscript of this book and offering suggestions and criticisms. With Terry, I had many conversations about Roman Catholic Modernism. Friends along the way offered encouragement and good cheer: Sarah Beckwith and Bart Ehrman, the late Kalman Bland, Tolly Boatwright, David Brakke and Bert Harrill, Caroline Bruzelius, Ann Burlein, Virginia Burrus, Caroline Walker Bynum and Günther Roth, Julie Byrne, the late Alan Cameron and Carla Asher, Averil Cameron, Euan and Ruth Cameron, David Carr and Colleen Conway, Raffaella Cribiore, Deborah DeMott, Maria Doerfler and Nick Williams, Ben Dunning and Bob Davis, Valeria Finucci and Haig Khachatoorian, Carmela and William Franklin, Mary McClintock Fulkerson, Giuseppe Gerbino, Janet Groth, Barbara Harris and Stanley Chojnacki, Richard Jaffe and Elaine Maisner, Laura Lieber and Norman Weiner, Dale Martin, Tomoko Masuzawa and Donald Lopez, David and Patricia Cox Miller, Janet and Albert Rabil, Rebecca and Donald Reed, Barbara Herrnstein Smith, Randall Styers, Ken Surin and Janell Watson, the late Maureen Tilley and Terry Tilley, Annabel Wharton, Janet Wishner, Clare Woods, and Malcolm and Robin Darling Young. And a big thanks to former graduate students who continue to cheer me with their news and make me a proud mentor. I also thank Jerome Singerman, Senior Humanities Editor of the University of Pennsylvania Press, for taking on this mammoth volume, and the Divinations series editors (Daniel Boyarin, Virginia Burrus, and especially Derek Krueger), and Noreen O’­Connor-​­Abel of Penn Press, for their help and encouragement. And thanks to Jim McCartin for his reading for the Press.