Drawing on the witness statements compiled as part of the fifteenth-century diocesan inquest petitioning for the canonization of Jeanne-Marie de Maillé (1331–1414), a French holy woman and mystic, this paper argues that the inquisitorial process of saint-making offered an opportunity for deponents to make use of authoritative legal spaces for their own social and religious ends, and that through their use of rhetorical and narrative devices, deponents could use this contact with institutional mechanisms to perform acts of self-construction and self-authorization, over and above the formal requirements of the process. Through an examination the statements of two witnesses – one a canon of the Basilica of St Martin, and the other a bourgeoise laywoman – this paper illustrates that deponents could make use of a wide range of narrative strategies, from deploying the evidence of gossip to negotiate their own social position, to rhetorically crafting their own experiences in order to comment on and establish their own piety and devotion. The use of these strategies highlights the complexity of the interaction between individuals and institutions, and the multiple possibilities that were enabled by engagement with the machinery of the cult of saints.

This essay responds to scholarly arguments that “religion” arose in the particular circumstances of the modern West, distinct chronologically and conceptually from medieval religio. It argues that in the Middle Ages, Christian persecution helped to form that very notion of religion. It does so via the register of heresy inquisitions conducted by Bishop Jacques Fournier in Pamiers (1318–1325), which contains a curious and overlooked Occitan phrase: entendensa del be (“understanding of the good”). In three provocative ways, entendensa del be helps us to reconsider the origins of “religion.” First, one possibility is that the phrase represents an organic proto-religion among the heretics known as Good Christians. A second possibility is, conversely, that scribes presented an insignificant phrase as a technical term, helping to identify the group as heretical. This would highlight coercive inquisitorial agency in reinterpreting language and behavior, anticipating early-modern and modern constructors of “religion.” Third, by its links to troubadour culture, the phrase reminds us how in Occitania, conquest and resistance intertwined with inquisition's policing of “religious” behavior in a way that resembles claims for modernity. Regardless of which possibility, and most importantly, we discover how medieval persecution helped to form modern religion.

Samuel’s Life of Barsauma, a little-studied, late fifth-century Syriac text, commemorates the ascetic career of a nasty saint. One of the most noticeable features of this monastic hagiography is the high degree and diversity of violence: Barsauma is frequently portrayed as the victim of violence by his adversaries and the perpetrator of violence against his adversaries. Yet, the Life of Barsauma stands out from other late ancient monastic hagiographies because of its enthusiastic depiction of the saint’s lethality. According to Samuel, Barsauma uses his curse to kill an array of individuals, and the mere presence of him and his disciples leads to the mass deaths of Jews gathered in Jerusalem. For most late ancient hagiographers, a saint’s performance of violence was something to be downplayed or specifically rationalized, and rarely if ever would a saint’s performance of holy violence lead to the death of one person, let alone many people. The Life of Barsauma’s deviation from contemporary hagiographical convention compels this article’s investigation into the meaning that Samuel hoped to communicate through his thorough depiction of a lethally violent saint. I argue that Samuel’s Life constitutes the literary amplification of a memory about the historical Barsauma, and an exhortation for the monks of Barsauma’s monastery to imitate him with similarly violent actions. In the end, Samuel’s defies the conventions of monastic hagiography in order to authorize readers to perform their own acts of violence as they construct and police the monastic community’s sectarian boundaries.

The rhetoric of spiritual kinship was a pungent part of a “discourse of separation” which materialized among the English puritans in post-Reformation England. Using print literature aimed at properly preparing the godly to come “worthily” to the Lord's Supper, most of which was penned by puritan divines, this article examines family language in use among the godly in the context of the communion meal in the Elizabethan and early Stuart national church. This rhetoric signaled a real identity – an identity tied intimately to the nexus of right doctrine and a certain type of English Protestant practice. The present essay traces out the theological framework that buttressed this identity and suggests the ways in which family language fostered both inclusive and exclusive responses among the godly as they sought to “rightly” celebrate the sacrament. It argues that the use of the language of spiritual kinship helped the godly come to terms with their uncomfortable position in a national church they considered insufficiently reformed, and with the difficulties that ensued from “holy” living, as naturally unholy beings, in a fallen world. This study contributes to our understanding of the informal mechanisms by which early modern English Protestants could navigate the choppy waters of social and religious life in Elizabethan and early Stuart England. More generally, this consideration of a distinctive puritan usage of familiar scriptural language to make sense of England's religious landscape in this period underscores the interpretive importance of remaining acutely aware of discursive context in early modern religious sources.

In the annual presidential address to the American Society of Church History (ASCH), Jonathan Ebel reflects on both the Depression-era meetings of the society and the efforts of agricultural economist Harry Drobish and his team of reformers in 1930s California. Ebel uses this framing of the ASCH meetings nine decades ago and Drobish's project to consider those who risk reform and he argues that a lesson the ASCH of today can take from the example of Drobish is that, even if things can go wrong, a tremendous amount of good can come from engaged action. Ebel asks the society's members to consider how hindsight can benefit them by encouraging them to not be silent or disengaged as individuals, and to think creatively about when and how their work resonates in and is relevant to the current social–political moment.

This article examines the words used by Christian chroniclers in medieval Iberia to refer to North Africans. Following the Islamic conquests of the Peninsula in the early eighth century, Iberian Christians increasingly associated North Africans with Islam – and, conversely, Muslims with North Africa. I demonstrate that the term “Moor” reflected a growing tendency over the Middle Ages to collapse religious identity and geographical origins, and further suggest that it was racialized in various ways. In other cases, chroniclers employed scriptural identifiers like “Moabite” and “Hagarene” to distinguish between Muslims from North Africa and those from Iberia. While such terms acknowledged a measure of geopolitical specificity in the present, they simultaneously asserted a kinship between contemporary Muslims and ancient biblical peoples, casting them as religious others, denying their coevalness with Christians, and further racializing them. Finally, I discuss the use of the word “barbarian,” which was sometimes applied to Muslims in general, but was occasionally used to refer to North Africans in particular, drawing on Arabic usage to associate barbarity and lack of civilization with North Africa. Ultimately, I argue that the application of such labels to North Africans and Muslims functioned to displace them geographically and temporally, serving Iberian Christian colonizing impulses and projects over time.

The wig was the quintessential accessory of eighteenth-century European culture, but the wearing of wigs by clerics became a subject of heated controversy across Catholic societies. Critics of clerical wig-wearing pointed to its inherent vanity, to Paul's proscription against men covering their heads in Church in 1 Corinthians 11, and to its apparent denial of the tonsure's importance as the visible outward sign of clerical status. However, defenders pointed to arguments about the need to cover up imperfections in the priest's body and avoid scandal. Various bishops moved to restrict the use of wigs amongst their diocesan clergy. However, no bishop was more active in legislating than the bishops of Rome themselves. Popes from Clement IX (r. 1667–69) to Pius VI (r. 1775–99) all issued instructions about clerical wig-wearing and their legislation betrays shifting attitudes and approaches. The most zealous rules from the 1720s gradually gave way to more pragmatic ones which attest to the persistent desire of Roman clerics to engage in male status competition and to the growing difficulty that the Church's leadership had in persuading them of the intrinsic superiority of their clerical status.

This article examines eleven communities of non-cloistered religious women in fifteenth-century Rome. These women, known as bizzoche, created a shared identity through their choice of clothing, which did not conform with their elite status, and their acts of piety, such as Eucharistic adoration and service to the poor. Such practices share similarities with the beguines in northern Europe, beatas in Spain and the Americas, and others, pointing to a broader women’s religious movement that transcended geographic space. However, scholarship often examines such communities of non-cloistered religious women in isolation, obscuring such connections. This article seeks to illuminate some of these commonalities and argues that late medieval, non-cloistered religious women across Europe used habit and pious practices to form a shared identity and navigate the gender- and class-based restrictions on publicly practicing their religion.

William Stringer was at various times a cheesemonger, a Methodist lay preacher, a priest, and an American Loyalist exile. Originally from London, Stringer preached the Gospel for the early Methodist movement, but longed for priestly ordination in the Church of England. Unable to achieve this goal due to his humble background, he was instead ordained in 1764 by the controversial and ecumenically minded Greek Orthodox bishop, Gerasimos Avontilies (also known as Erasmus of Arcadia), who ordained several Methodists under Greek Orthodox rites in London. Having acquired illicit ordination, Stringer moved to Philadelphia where he ministered to a parish that had broken from the Church of England during the Great Awakening. The clergy of Philadelphia responded negatively and wrote to Archbishop Richard Terrick of London, who ordered Stringer to desist from his ministry. However, Stringer did such a remarkable job of bringing his congregation back into the Anglican fold that Terrick agreed to re-ordain him in London under Anglican rites in 1773. With the outbreak of the American Revolution in 1775, Stringer supported the British cause and rejected the revolt as inconsistent with Christian obedience. He was forced to leave America and return to England, where he lived out the rest of his life as a curate. Despite his initial transgressions, I argue that Stringer was a force for order, stability, and orthodoxy in a revolutionary world.

In the first half of the twentieth century, Protestant internationalism and missions turned their attention to social and economic matters. The 1920/30s saw an agricultural turn that was paralleled by a global discourse on the “improvement” of the rural. While the transformations in Protestant internationalism have been addressed in view of theological, ecumenical, and geopolitical changes, historians have yet to acknowledge the complex interplay of their local and global effects. By focusing on the work of a particular agent in agricultural missions, the International Missionary Council and its rural expert Kenyon L. Butterfield, and their engagement with rural reconstruction in India, China, and Japan, this article argues that impactful schemes necessitated the cooperation of a wide array of actors, from private to state, from foreign missionaries to local Christian and non-Christian communities and activists. Missionary and Christian rural reconstruction in Asia in the interwar period was shaped by forces of nationalism, (anti-)colonialism, and secularization that could benefit, halt, and transform comprehensive schemes. While the impact of missionary rural reconstruction was eventually hampered by its inherently universalist and invasive nature, its drive for professionalization led to manifold cooperations and careers that transitioned well into and in many ways anticipated and prepared a post-World War II development discourse.

John Paget (c. 1574–1638), head pastor of the English Reformed Church of Amsterdam from 1607–1637, helped to shape the future of Presbyterianism. Exiled from England for nonconformity, Paget embraced the cosmopolitanism and religious toleration of his new city, studying Hebrew and Arabic in a multicultural circle of scholars. When the plague struck Amsterdam, he preached sermons on death and visited members in infected homes. When it came to Protestant English exiles, his own tolerance ran short. His strict interpretation of Presbyterian governance met with challenges from Separatists and Puritans advocating for independent congregations (Thomas Hooker and John Davenport), and some of his own congregants who wished for more democracy in church matters. The controversy in Holland, especially via polemical publications, influenced England and America. His last years of ministry were marred by a group known as “The Complainants,” who attempted to unseat him. He relied on his relationship with the Dutch Reformed Church and the city magistrates to maintain his own position and turn away opponents. While his contentiousness dampened his influence and diminished his reputation, nevertheless, Paget was a key agent in the survival of Presbyterianism when it could not flourish in early 17th-century England.

This paper explores the origins of two different emergences of the Christian worldview concept, and their relationship to understandings of cultural conflict. It will offer an analysis of the historical, cultural, and theological context for each emergence. In both cases, worldview was what Ian Hunter has termed a “combat concept.” Section I of the paper will offer an overview of the origins of Christian worldview thinking in the late nineteenth century through the thought of James Orr (1844–1913) and Abraham Kuyper (1837–1920). Section II will deal with the second major emergence of Christian worldview as a combat concept in the 1970s, focusing on figures like Francis Schaeffer (1912–1984), Chuck Colson (1931–2012), and Nancy Pearcy (1951–). Both contexts exhibited increased cultural and religious pluralism, and conservative Christians displayed a heightened sense of ideological conflict. Worldview became a tool for differentiation from, and contention with, the “other.”

When evaluating factors shaping the Australian home front during World War I, the impact of preaching is generally overlooked, though historians have identified it as one of the most influential sources of public speech. This paper examines preaching in Melbourne just before and during the war, as reported in the influential Melbourne Herald. It asks how preaching was affected by the outbreak of war, and explores its developments, its reporting and its impacts. It points to conclusions about the nature and place of religion in the life of the city, and the interplay of preaching and war that highlight gaps in our understanding of the interaction of religion and war in Australia at that time. It challenges notions about Australian secularity, the degree of sectarianism, and the place of religion in our understanding of the war in both Australia and the wider British world.

During World War II, the German theologian Paul Tillich, then a professor at Union Theological Seminary, partnered with the United States’ organization Voice of America to deliver over 100 religious addresses in the German language into his homeland. In these broadcasts, Tillich utilized the Lutheran categories of Law and Gospel to identify and discuss the sins of the Nazis (and Hitler in particular) and to remind the German population that there was still hope in redemption. Remarkably, well before the war's end, Tillich argued for German collective guilt and the need for the atonement and expiation of the German people. He continually warned them of impending judgment and inescapable punishment – both human and divine – as the Allies advanced on the battlefield in a race toward Berlin. Yet Tillich often tempered this focus on judgment with an emphasis on the Gospel, the certain hope Germans have in God's salvation. This prism of Law and Gospel pervades the religious addresses. I will place these broadcasts in the context of the war, the wartime work of Voice in America, and what we know of other religious addresses delivered over the airwaves to Nazi Germany, to reveal how Tillich preached resistance to Nazi Germany.

This article tells the story of Lottie Beth Hobbs, one of the most important figures of the anti-ERA movement – and therefore a founding mother of the Religious Right. Although opposition of fundamentalist women to the ERA increasingly has been recognized in the founding of the Religious Right, Hobbs’s role remains underexplored. Relying on a moral and political framework indebted to her lifelong commitment to the Churches of Christ, Hobbs spearheaded a rhetorical and ideological shift that first united disparate conservative causes under a “pro-family” banner, then focused their attention on the threat of a tentacular secular humanism. By focusing on Hobbs’s career, this article bridges two scholarly foci on modern American conservatism, one highlighting anti-ERA organizing in the 1970s and the other focused on “family values” activism during the Reagan administration.

This essay explores evangelical Christians and the public debate over gun rights in the recent past, when white evangelical activism on behalf of the Republican Party and conservative politics converged with the development of a gun culture that emphasized an individual right to bear arms. It argues that political partisanship, attitudes toward gun rights, and the embrace of gun culture have influenced white evangelical identity, revealing internal divisions and raising questions about the nature of their relationship with the secular world. It also examines white evangelicals’ distinctions between “good guys” and “bad guys,” an exercise that requires coming to terms with human sinfulness and evil. The white evangelicals analyzed here see themselves in a conflict that requires both guns and political power to defeat the evil that other people represent. Good guys include both people who protect (“sheepdogs”) and those who need protecting (“sheep”). This worldview envisions little distinction between true Christian identity and American national interests, and it views racial attacks in a colorblind vacuum that reinforces conclusions about the need for guns to defend themselves and their churches. Dissenters within the church criticize the emphasis on individual gun rights and the gun rights subculture many evangelicals inhabit and defend.

The worker priest movement in France between 1946 and 1954 was a significant attempt by the Catholic Church to reach out to the increasingly alienated working class. It foundered on the rocks of elite opposition, worker priest embracing of class conflict, Cold War currents of thought, and government willingness to sacrifice the movement in the name of collaboration with Rome on a suite of issues, most notably free education. The historiography of the movement has proven similarly complex, with observers allowing contemporary trends and values to color their perception of this unique moment in French history and remembering and forgetting both playing a role in the image of the worker priests handed down to future generations.

The question of how Christians perceived and related to non-Christians – heathens – is of pressing historical importance in every era of the history of Christianity. It lies at the core of the historical category of “religion,” particularly as it developed through European colonial expansion in the early modern era, and it plays important roles in the globalizing processes of the nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-first centuries. Kathryn Gin Lum's book, Heathen: Religion and Race in American History, winner of the ASCH's 2023 Philip Schaff Prize, chronicles that history. Through her narrative, she queries the ways historians engage categories of difference and the role of religion in creating social and political hierarchies.

Readers of this journal will surely have noticed the remarkable proliferation in the past few decades of “handbooks” and “companions” devoted to major – and even obscure – topics, thinkers, and actors in religious history. The simultaneous appearance in 2021 of The Oxford Handbook of Calvin and Calvinism and Brill's Companion to the Reformation in Geneva provides an opportunity to reflect on the character and value of such volumes, the conditions of their production, and the reasons for their recent proliferation. Also discussed here for purposes of comparison will be an ambitious collection of essays of a more conventional sort: Protestant Empires: Globalizing the Reformations, edited by Ulinka Rublack.1

Lloyd Daniel Barba, assistant professor of religion at Amherst College, and Jonathan H. Ebel, professor and head of Religion at the University of Illinois, have written a pair of books that reframe the study of sacred space and the nature of religious communities while advancing the study of religion in the U.S. West. Each book does important theoretical and interpretive work on its own. Together, the books offer a rich picture of California’s Central Valley, a subregion that Kori Walker-Price notes has been “dismissed as a site of serious study” because of its factory farms, its mobile labor force, and its distance from the more iconic scenery of California and the west. But they do more than that. Both use their subjects to make larger arguments and claims about religion, methodology, power, race, and gender in the United States.