The essential conservatism of medieval Biblical exegesis is well illustrated by the sources used by Andrew of St. Victor in his commentary on the books of Samuel. Despite his justified reputation as an exponent of literal exegesis, his originality and his freedom in his handling of his authorities, the overall appearance of his commentary is not all that different from the literal portions of the ninth-century commentaries of Rabanus Maurus and Angelomus of Luxeuil, despite the lapse of time and increasing sophistication of approach. Josephus, Jerome, Isidore, Bede, and Pseudo-Jerome continue to hold the field. In fact, in at least one respect there is a recession, as Rabanus and Angelomus knew how to distinguish between Jerome and Pseudo-Jerome (Hebraeus), whereas Andrew did not, and this in spite of his use of Rabanus and Angelomus, who had incorporated substantial chunks of Pseudo-Jerome into their commentaries.

Recent studies in the chronology of the monarchical period have demonstrated that the variations between the chronologies of MT and LXX are not the result of isolated misreadings, but are a product of different chronological calculations. These studies have been important not only for historical reconstruction, including new proposals for identification of kings involved in various war, but they have shed a good deal of light on the history of the text of the Hebrew Scriptures and LXX, including the Old Greek and the proto-Lucianic and kaige recensions. Furthermore, it is now possible to assign priority to one chronological system over another, and to understand why the different systems arose.

In 1941 Charles Virolleaud published a small corpus of tablets commonly referred to as the Rephaim Texts because they apparently involve the Ugaritic forerunners of the Biblical rĕpāʽîm. The meaning of these texts is often obscure, but at least the following seems clear: the rp’m are invited to someone's house or palace; after three days' travel by chariot they arrive at the grnt/meṭʽt, usually translated “threshing floors/plantations,” though the exact significance of the expression is not really clear; finally, the rp’m spend seven days in eating and drinking. This much is a least common denominator shared by all interpretations. When we get to more specific details, however, we find disagreement among students of these texts. Most of the disagreements arise from the differing ways in which the identity of the rp'm is understood.

In the world of English Christian poetry the co-ordinates by which we usually map our position are Dante and Milton. Any serious, inclusive religious poem, that is, one in which the Christian matter is presented in devotional mode with prophetic intent, will, ultimately, exhibit a more significant inherent relationship either to the Divine Comedy or to Paradise Lost. T. S. Eliot, clearly, was Dantesque, and though the story of his ambivalent Miltonism is no longer even a smouldering issue, it still speaks cogently to the point of his anti-Miltonic sensibility. Auden, however, was atypical in that though he talked much about Dante, when it came down to cases he wrote more like Milton. And in For the Time Being he faced a problem very similar to the one Milton faced in Paradise Lost. What Puritanism was to Paradise Lost, Existentialism was to For the Time Being, enormously complicating the devotionalism, but simultaneously dramatizing and humanizing it.

Two recent publications that appeared during the Coleridge bi-centennial prompt this bibliographical survey of Coleridge's reputation as a religious thinker. Neither Norman Fruman's Coleridge, The Damaged Archangel nor René Wellek's contribution to the latest edition of The English Romantic Poets gives an adequate picture of Coleridge's ideas on religion and the profound effect they had on the English-speaking theological tradition. More concerned with debunking Coleridge's originality, both writers appear generally indifferent and unsympathetic to the large body of Coleridge's later writings that constitute by far the greater part of his canon and are the source of his wide influence on succeeding generations.

In its celebration of the Name of God, the Zohar offers a significant way of coming to terms with the apostrophe to Light that opens Book III of Paradise Lost. The Ineffable Name, states the Zohar, “is the source and beginning of supreme mysteries indeed; it is the sphere whence emanate all the burning lights, and where the whole mystery of Faith is centred; this Name dominates all.” Similarly, Milton celebrates “holy Light,” but his “Hail” is immediately qualified by his unwillingness to penetrate too far into the mystery. Whether that “Light” is the “ofspring of Heav'n first-born,/ Or of th' Eternal Coeternal beam” (III, 1–2), Milton will not say. However his words suggest the nature of godhead in its association with the Muse, Milton's stance is clear enough. He intends to “keep off with a sacred reverence” the naming of that which might incur blame. Thus, the first two lines of the apostrophe culminate with the all-important question: “May I express thee unblam'd?” (III, 3). Representing a fitting tribute to one who dwells “in unapproached light” (III, 4), this question strikes at the heart of Milton's attitude toward the Name of God. As Milton states in Christian Doctrine (I. 2), if the Divine Name is to be pronounced at all, it had better be “with due reverence” (“modo reverenter”) (Works, XIV, 38, 39).