The figure of Satan has been a standing puzzle in the history of religion. Where did this figure originate, and what is its role? Satan is scarcely present in traditional Judaism to this day and is not present at all in classical Jewish sources—at least not in the form that later Western Christendom knew him, as the leader of an “evil empire,” of an army of hostile spirits who take pleasure in destroying human beings. Yet images of such spirits did develop and proliferate in certain late antique Jewish sources, from ca. 165 BCE to 100 CE. Specifically, they developed among groups I shall call “dissident Jews,” which included the early followers of Jesus; within decades, the figure of Satan and his demons became central to Christian (and later to Islamic) teaching. How did this occur?

Three of the earliest extant Jewish exegetes, Aristobulus, Aristeas, and Philo, all state that King Ptolemy was responsible for a Greek translation of the Hebrew sacred writings. Scholarly discussion has focused on finding the historical kernel in these stories, or linking their creation to a particular event such as the official promulgation of an original or corrected Greek translation. The Letter of Aristeas is usually considered the most accurate version, in large part because it later was used as an introduction to the Septuagint. These discussions have overlooked the fact that in each case the basic plot is fine-tuned to suit each exegete's own ideas about how the Torah was written, how the text and its translation should be read and interpreted, and by whom. A comparison of the three versions reveals that each writer embellishes this bare-bones plot in a distinct manner. In particular, “historical” details are created by each writer that support the very exegetical endeavor he is undertaking. The story of the translation becomes a vehicle for creating all the components necessary to justify the exegete's role, from the creation of a unitary “Torah” out of the multiplicity of versions and stories to the motivation for the particular interpretative moves “demanded” by the very qualities of this Torah. Comparing the three stories gives us valuable insights into the self-perceptions of the exegetes and the emergence of what will become a standard model of text-author-exegete in Judaism.

In his collection of Jewish inscriptions, Jean-Baptiste Frey identifies as Jewish a stone fragment that contains no writing, but only depictions of an amphora, several birds, a branch of a plant, numerous circular objects with smaller circles within them, and one drawing of a fish. Frey considers the amphora to be an oil jar; the birds to be doves and a goose; the plant branch to be the lulav associated with the Jewish festival of Sukkoth; the circles to be masot; and the fish to be the tuna that Jews are said to have eaten on Friday nights and on various Jewish festivals. The stone bears no irrefutably Christian symbols, such as a chi rho, but neither does it bear such things as a seven-branched menorah, which virtually all scholars accept as an explicit Jewish symbol. Frey even speculates that were the stone complete, it would probably be found to include a seven-branched menorah.

Basil wrote the homily On Envy around 364, after he was ordained a presbyter by Eusebius of Caesarea. He probably intended it as a Lenten sermon for his congregation in Caesarea, which was largely composed of catechumens. The homily has received very little attention from scholars, although, along with nine other homilies, it has been classified as one of the moral treatises, rather than as an exegetic or panegyric work. Most recent scholarship has deemed it an authentic homily of Basil's. One can readily see why On Envy has been overlooked by historical theologians: the treatise is didactically straightforward, theologically and philosophically unsophisticated, and in no way combats Arian opponents. There are, how-ever, other reasons to find On Envy of interest. The treatise documents Basil's attempt to confront a mode of behavior that implicitly questions the church's authority. Simply stated, On Envy is Basil's direct effort to wrest control over the evil eye for the church. What is significant about the homily is that it demonstrates how Basil continued to work within the indigenous code of Mediterranean social behavior that was dominated by honor, shame, revenge, and envy. Thus what Basil offered his congregation as a solution to the grave problem of envy is really a recasting of the pursuit of virtue, so common to Christian Neoplatonists, into the Mediterranean social code. Virtue is rewarded by the most valued possession: honor.

“One is never done with Schleiermacher,” Karl Barth once wrote, and those who have read Church Dogmatics know just how true that is. Schleiermacher's work presents a constant task for theology to incorporate fully and critique its sophisticated method; to follow its rigorous passion for ethics; to imitate, if only palely, its synthetic power and breadth; to stand open-eyed before its beauty and elegant simplicity. Barth knew this well. To read his Church Dogmatics carefully is to hear Barth's respect for Schleiermacher on every page. The dispute with Schleiermacher's method and doctrine, far from being dismissed, courses through the Dogmatics, paying tribute to the gift and the burden of Schleiermacher's thought to his descendents.

For the beat generation of the 1940s and 1950s, dissertation time is here. Magazine and newspaper critics have gotten in their jabs. Now scholars are starting to analyze the literature and legacy of the beat writers. In the last few years biographers have lined up to interpret the lives of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, and William Burroughs, and publishers have rushed into print a host of beat journals, letters, memoirs, and anthologies. The most recent Dictionary of Literary Biography devotes two large volumes to sixty-seven beat writers, including Neal Cassady, Herbert Huncke, Gary Snyder, Gregory Corso, John Clellon Holmes, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Philip Lamantia, Peter Orlovsky, Michael McClure, and Philip Whalen.