As Below, So Above: Apocalypticism, Gnosticism and the Scribes of Qumran and Nag Hammadi 9781593330828, 1593330820

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As Below, So Above

Perspectives on Philosophy and Religious Thought 13

Perspectives on Philosophy and Religious Thought (formerly Gorgias Studies in Philosophy and Theology) provides a forum for original scholarship on theological and philosophical issues, promoting dialogue between the wide-ranging fields of religious and logical thought. This series includes studies on both the interaction between different theistic or philosophical traditions and their development in historical perspective.

As Below, So Above

Apocalypticism, Gnosticism and the Scribes of Qumran and Nag Hammadi

Glen J. Fairen

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34 2013

Gorgias Press LLC, 954 River Road, Piscataway, NJ, 08854, USA www.gorgiaspress.com Copyright © 2013 by Gorgias Press LLC

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise without the prior written permission of Gorgias Press LLC. 2013

‫ܚ‬

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ISBN 978-1-59333-082-8

ISSN 1940-0020 Second Printing

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A Cataloging-in-Publication Record in Available from the Library of Congress. Printed in the United States of America

TABLE OF CONTENTS Table of Contents....................................................................................................v Preface.....................................................................................................................vii Acknowledgments ..................................................................................................ix Abbreviations ..........................................................................................................xi 1 Introduction ....................................................................................................1 2 Apocalypses, Apocalyptics and Apocalypticisms ......................................5 2.1 Introduction ...........................................................................................5 2.2 The sui generis Prophets, sans pareil Jesus, and Apocalyptic PreWWI ........................................................................................................9 2.3 Rudolph Bultmann and Apocalyptic Post-WWI............................14 2.4 Apocalypse How?................................................................................17 2.5 Foreign Politics and the Egyptian Apocalypses .............................26 2.6 Hellenistic Syncretism and the Fourth Sibylline Oracle .....................33 2.7 Genre-ness and Zand-i Vohuman Yasn—the Centre Cannot Hold.......................................................................................................36 3 The Dead Sea Scrolls as a Cipher for Judaism ........................................45 3.1 Introduction .........................................................................................45 3.2 Apocalyptic-ness of the Dead Sea Scrolls .......................................50 3.3 Let’s Talk About Sects—the Essenes and Sadducees ...................52 A) Essenes .....................................................................................................53 B) Sadducees .................................................................................................56 3.4 The Judeo-Christianisation of the Scrolls........................................58 3.5 The Yahad and the Crucible of Apocalypticism .............................65 4 Gnosticism as the Heretical Boogey-Man ................................................69 4.1 Introduction .........................................................................................69 4.2 Irenaeus and the Construction of Heresy........................................72 4.3 Adolph von Harnack and the Construction of Hellenism ...........74 4.4 History of Religions School and the Construction of Orientalism ...........................................................................................78 4.5 Hans Jonas and the Construction of the Gnostic Religion ..........81 4.6 Elaine Pagels and the Inversion of the Gnostic Religion .............83 4.7 Alastair Logan and the Gnostic Cult................................................86 v

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4.8 The Scholarly Investment in Keeping Gnosticism as “Other” ...93 5 The Anti-Canon of the Nag Hammadi Library.......................................95 5.1 Introduction .........................................................................................95 5.2 Variety is the Spice of Heresy............................................................98 5.3 The Nag Hammadi’s “Anti-Canons”.............................................101 A) “History of Revelation” Arrangement...............................................101 B) Anti-canonical Format..........................................................................102 5.4 The Syncretism of the Nag Hammadi Library .............................105 5.5 Thomas, John and Dualism.................................................................107 A) Thomas and John: Material / Spirit Split..............................................109 B) Thomas and John: Gnosis. ........................................................................110 C) Thomas and John: Docetic Christology and the Gnostic Redeemer Myth.....................................................................................................112 D) Thomas and John: Demiurgical speculation........................................116 5.6 The Orthodoxy of Thomas and the Gnosticism of John...............117 6 Prophets, Scribes and the Book of Watchers at Qumran and Nag Hammadi .....................................................................................................123 6.1. Introduction .......................................................................................123 6.2 Prophets, Scribes and “Legitimate” Apocalypticism ...................129 6.3 The Scribal Class of the Ancient Near and Middle East.............136 6.4 Scribal Apocalypticism and the Book of Watchers .............................139 6.5 The Book of Watchers within the Dead Sea Scrolls.........................144 6.6 Gnosticism and the Disenfranchisement of the Scribes.............149 6.7 The Book of Watchers within the Nag Hammadi Library. .............152 7 Conclusion...................................................................................................165 Bibliography .........................................................................................................171 Ancient Sources ..........................................................................................171 Modern Sources..........................................................................................171 Index of Subjects .................................................................................................183 Index of Names ...................................................................................................187 Index of Ancient Texts.......................................................................................189

PREFACE Within historical reconstructions of religion, there has been a scholarly prioritization of nascent Christianity. Based upon the adoption of a Christian mythical narrative, historical reconstructions have understood Christianity as the inheritor and fulfillment of the salvation history of ancient Israel, and as such a “unique” and sans pareil religion in relation to other Hellenistic expressions of late antiquity. In the interest of shoring-up this construction, scholarship has created two binary categories: A) Apocalypticism as a way of linking “unique” Christianity to the prestigious pedigree of a sui generis Judaism. B) Gnosticism as a way to quarantine those analogous and “heretical” expressions that threaten the uniqueness of this mythical construction. Within the framework of this model, scholars have subsequently juxtaposed the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library as two diametrically opposed collections by deploying the Dead Sea Scrolls as “legitimately apocalyptic” and as such completely separate from the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library. This assumption, however, is simply wrong. By examining the scholarly criteria for “Apocalypticism” and “Gnosticism,” and the variety of hermeneutics used to deploy texts within these categories, I will argue that, in the interest of buttressing the Christian mythical narrative, scholars have used the “Apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls as a cipher for that which should or could be legitimately Christian and the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library as that which should not or cannot be legitimately Christian. Through an examination of the social-political context of both collections, I will argue that the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library are not diametrically opposed, but are linked in three significant ways: 1) a shared an Enochic worldview that was used (2) by marginalized elements of the scribal class who (3) were reacting to the political reality of cessation of native rule and the lack of a royal patron under Hellenism. Glen J. Fairen March 2008

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A project of this size is not the sole production of a single person. Therefore, I would first like to thank my advisor and academic mentor Dr. William Arnal, whose insight and assistance was not only vital to this project, but whose influence and guidance have been fundamental to my overall academic development. I would also like to thank Dr. Darlene Juschka and Dr. Franz Volker Greifenhagen who have also been invaluable to the production of this project. All three have left giant footprints on my brain. Outside of the varying degrees of discomfort, I would like to thank them. I would also like to acknowledge a number of people who helped me during my time at the University of Regina. Dr. Yuan Ren for the tea and weekend conversations, Paul Owens for the quantum arguments and tenuous military alliances, Carmen Webb (University of Calgary) who I will see next Tuesday, and Janet Klippenstein (University of Alberta) for all of the . . . well . . . you know. And while not directly involved with the production of this project, I would also like to acknowledge Rachel Gostenhofer, Chad Kile and Sami Helewa for their invaluable support during my time at the University of Toronto and for being excellent people to think with. Grateful acknowledgement is also due to my parents, Noreen and Tim for all of their encouragement, love and enthusiasm. I would also like to thank Kate Stott at Gorgias Press for her editorial work, for showing interest in getting this book published in the first place and just going the extra parsec when it was needed. Finally, this book is dedicated with love to the memory of my Grandmother Vera Tweedle: the first person to read this that didn’t have to.

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ABBREVIATIONS Asc. Apoc

Asclepius Apocalypse

Civ

Augustine City of God

Geniza A+B, 4Q266–272 1QH, 1Q35, 4Q427–432 1QpHab 1QS, 4Q255–64a, 5Q11 1QSa, 1Q28a 1QM, 4Q491-496 4Q171, 4Q173, 1Q16 4Q203, 1Q23, 2Q26, 4Q530–532, 6Q8 4Q227 4Q243, 4Q244, 4Q245 4Q246 4Q448 4Q521 4Q543–548 4QMMT 11Q13 11Q19–20 Gen Num 1 Kgs 2 Kgs Ps Isa Ezek Dan Amos Zech

Dead Sea Scrolls The Damascus Document Thanksgiving Psalm A Commentary on Habakkuk Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association Charter for Israel in the Last Days The War Scroll Commentaries on Psalms The Book of Giants Enoch and the Watchers The Vision of Daniel A Vision of the Son of God In Praise of King Jonathan Redemption and Resurrection The Vision of Amran A Sectarian Manifesto The Coming of Melchizedek The Temple Scroll Hebrew Bible Genesis Numbers 1 Kings 2 Kings Psalms Isaiah Ezekiel Daniel Amos Zechariah xi

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2 Bar 1 En 4 Ezra 4 Sib. Or

Hebrew Bible Pseudepigrapha 2 Baruch 1 Enoch 4 Ezra Fourth Sibylline Oracle

Haer

Irenaeus Against Heresies

Ant War Life

Josephus Antiquities of the Jews Jewish War The Life

2 Apol

Justin Martyr Second Apology

Yad

Mishna Yadaim

Ap. John Gos. Phil Hyp. Arch Orig. World Gos. Thom

Nag Hammadi Library Apocryphon of John Gospel of Philip Hypostasis of the Archons On the Origin of the World Gospel of Thomas

Matt Mark Luke John Rom 1 Cor Gal Rev

New Testament Gospel of Matthew Gospel of Mark Gospel of Luke Gospel of John Romans 1 Corinthians Galatians Revelation

Pot. Or

The Potter’s Oracle / The Apology of the Potter

Praescr

Tertullian Prescription Against Heretics

Zand

Zand-i Vohuman Yasn

1 INTRODUCTION De Omnibus Dubitandum. Karl Marx

Considering that the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library were both discovered within the same decade, it is unsurprising that scholars have juxtaposed the two collections. Even considering that both are the products of different centuries and that both consist of a wide range of diverse and contradictory material, the potential that the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library have to significantly alter the constructions of the shared Jewish and Christian history of Late Antiquity is staggering. No longer are scholars limited to the “orthodox” and canonical literature of the Bible or (by implication) the “secondary” literature of the Pseudepigrapha and Apocrypha: now there are primary sources from “non-canonical” groups that could help illustrate the diverse and heterodox nature of the variety of Judaisms and Christianities present in Late Antiquity. It is unfortunate then, that despite this potential, comparisons between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library have done little except impose ancient polemical categories upon both sets of texts. Rooted in the self-defining discourses of the early Christian heresiologists, scholars have used the Dead Sea Scrolls as an apocalyptic “cipher of orthodoxy” and as such a way to illustrate the inherent Gnostic “heresy” of the Nag Hammadi Library. For example, Jesuit and Biblical scholar Joseph Fitzmyer has stated that, when compared to the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Nag Hammadi Library is “in no way comparable in importance [to] the Qumran documents. . . [since they show that the “Gnostics”] did indeed teach what the church Fathers, such as Irenaeus, said they did” (Fitzmyer 1993, 22). Not only is this statement a gross over-generalization, it also sets up a qualitative and mutually exclusive typology between the two collections that is based, not on their intellectual significance, but on the polemical categories of the Christian heresiologists of Late Antiquity. In other words, by assuming the Nag

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Hammadi Library is part of the “deviations of heretics” (Haer 1.22) 1 Fitzmyer has, by proxy constructed the Dead Sea Scrolls as essentially “orthodox” and in continuity with the “rule of truth which we hold” (Haer 1.22.1). This discourse is at least partially based on the scholarly adoption of a mythic narrative that presupposes “normative” or orthodox Christianity was not one of the many syncretistic and Hellenistic religions of Late Antiquity, but was a “unique” or sans pareil tradition that was the culmination of a narrative “foretold by the prophets of the Old Testament, inaugurated by Jesus and his sacrifice for the sins of the world, established by the apostles in their missions, and confirmed by the bishops in their loyalty to the teachings of that illustrious tradition” (Mack 1995, 7). In an effort to shore up this mythical claim, scholars have appropriated the Dead Sea Scrolls as “legitimately apocalyptic” and as such completely separate from the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library. This assumption, however, is simply wrong. By looking at how both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library are deployed, this study will show how modern scholarship has constructed two discursive and binary categories—“Apocalypticism” and “Gnosticism”—to establish a nostalgic Christianity that not only draws its pedigree from a sui generis and “pure” Judaism but is also insulated from the syncretistic and “foreign” influence of Hellenism (Smith 1990, 83). It is under this standard Christian mythic narrative, that scholars have constructed two mutually exclusive textual categories and placed both col1 While the convention in academic writing is that “abbreviations for the Hebrew Bible / Old Testament, New Testament, Apcrypha, and Septuagint titles do not require a period and are not italicized” (Alexander, Kutsko, Ernest & DeckerLucke 1999, 73 emphasis original), this is not the case with their non-canonical counterparts, either in title (i.e. compare Gospel of John to Gospel of Thomas) or abbreviation (i.e. compare Col, Rom with Acts Phil., Hyp. Arch). However, considering that the overall argument of this book is that the theological designation of “canonical” or “non-canonical” should have no bearing on the significance of a text in historical reconstructions of antiquity, the use of this citation schema which (implicitly or otherwise) parses off “biblical” texts from their non-biblical counterparts would seem disingenuous at best. Therefore, while I will elect to use conventional abbreviations, none will be italicized as where the titles of all ancient texts will be so (i.e. Genesis, Gen and Apocryphon of John, Ap. John). Please also note that, while the cave and numerical designations for the Dead Sea Scrolls will be used as abbreviations (i.e. 1QS for the War Scroll) on occasion, this book will use both title and numerical designation as a means of clarity. Please see the abbreviations page (xvii-xviii) for a full listing of titles and abbreviations used.

INTRODUCTION

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lections within them. Hence, the “Apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls are that which should or could be legitimately Christian and the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library is that which should not nor cannot be legitimately Christian. These methodological assumptions, however, instead of helping illustrate the variety of Judaisms and Christianities of Late Antiquity, have simply legitimated the ancient polemic of the heresiologists with a veneer of scholarship and in essence constructed two opposed groups with historical provenance: the legitimate Judeo-Christian “orthodox” religion, and the illegitimate and syncretistic faith(s) of the “heretics.” Chapter 2 will explore the various ways in which scholars have constructed the category of apocalypticism as a discursive strategy to establish a sui generis Judaism, one that can serve as a prestigious pedigree for a sans pareil Christianity. However, because of the preponderance of “apocalyptic” texts throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East, these discursive categories—such as “Hellenistic”, “foreign” and “genre Apocalypse”—are far more porous than the predominant Judeo-Christian deployment used in scholarship would imply. Chapter 3 will examine how scholars have construed the “apocalyptic community” of the Dead Sea Scrolls. However, because of the a priori assumptions used in the identification of the Scroll group (such as the accuracy of Josephus’ cleanly demarcated “Jewish philosophical schools”), constructions of the community of Qumran have predominantly been that of an insulated, non-Hellenized and hence, “authentic” form of Judaism, which can in turn be used to buttress Christianity’s claim of prestigious “Jewish” pedigree. Chapter 4 will look at how the scholarly construction of Gnosticism or the “Gnostic Religion” is repeatedly deployed as a cipher for the “other,” to shore up the borders of “normative” Christianity. However, because what defines normative Christianity changes depending on the discourse used, Gnosticism becomes simply a cipher for that which is “heretical” and as such is a useless typological category in scholarship. Chapter 5 will examine how the Nag Hammadi Library is constructed as an overtly Gnostic “anti-canon” that can be deployed in a binary discourse, to buttress the legitimacy of the New Testament writings as the most authoritative Christian texts of Late Antiquity. However, a comparison between the Gospel of Thomas and the Gospel of John will illustrate the artificiality of these categories when used in scholarly constructions because their authority is based not on each collection’s intellectual significance, but on the a priori typological binary of “heresy” and “orthodoxy.”

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And finally Chapter 6 will, by first exploring the social-political crucible of apocalypticism, show how the “Apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls and the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library are not diametrically opposed, but are linked in three ways: 1) a shared Enochic worldview that was used (2) by marginalized elements of the scribal class who (3) were reacting to the political reality of cessation of native kingship / rule and the lack of a royal patron under Hellenism.

2 APOCALYPSES, APOCALYPTICS AND APOCALYPTICISMS 2.1 INTRODUCTION There are many implications associated with the word “apocalypse.” Derived from the Greek ἀποκαλυψις meaning “uncovering” or “revelation,” and found in the title of the last book of the New Testament, the term apocalypse (and variants thereof) has become synonymous with various cataclysmic and “end of the world” scenarios (Bowker 1997, 80). However, the catastrophe associated with an apocalypse should not be thought of as simply the result of a natural disaster or a human conflict. An apocalypse represents something that is bigger than nature and bigger than human action. It is an event of “biblical proportions,” something that is “permeated by the expectation of the imminent end and, for it, the advent of the end does not depend upon human action” (Stone 1984, 383). However, this “imminent end” is not understood as the final end game or terminus. Along with its destructive implications an apocalypse also implies transition, a radical change and a reordering for the better. In essence, an apocalypse is cipher par excellence for a “new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away” (Rev 21:1). It is in this spirit of transition that apocalypse finds its meaning within scholarly discourses. For not only are the apocalypses understood to be essentially a Jewish phenomena (Collins 1997, 7) they are also understood as representing a very specific kind of Judaism that can serve as a transitional link between the salvation history of ancient Israel and nascent Christianity. There are problems, however, with the establishment of this kind of link through the vector of apocalypticism, in particular because of the preponderance of apocalyptic expressions from the Ancient Near and Middle East. 2 While the constructed “core” of apocalypticism is limited to a select 2 While it is the norm within scholarly discourse to draw a hierarchal distinction between the genre apocalypse, the apocalyptic “worldview” and general

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group of documents that comprise the genre, 3 there is a wide range of apocalyptic literature that is not limited simply to Jewish and Christian expressions. Produced not just in Judea, but in Greece, Egypt, and Persia, apocalyptic literature appears to have been a common form of political protest literature, expressing discontent with the cessation of native kingship and the suppression of ancestral traditions under foreign rule (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 115). There are however certain a priori assumptions that motivate the scholarly discourse of apocalypticism (J.Z. Smith 1990, 34–35). For example, in a comparison of Jewish and Christian apocalypses with the various Sibylline Oracles, Michael Stone has stated that: First, in some measure, it seems that the same springs of oriental discontent with Hellenistic Greek rule fed some of the apocalyptic political formulations and those of the Sibylline Oracles. . .[where] in some extended political prophecies, the Sibylline books show an appreciation of the overall structure of history resembling that which can be detected in the political apocalyptic visions. Yet is should be stressed, in spite of such analogies, the two genres are quite different. In the Sibylline Oracles there is far less sustained development of ideas than in the apocalypse. The Sibylline Oracles are written as political and religious propaganda, directed outward at the pagan world; a function difficult to attribute to the apocalypses. (Stone 1984, 422 emphasis mine)

And while scholars have gone to great pains to show how the genre apocalypse is literarily distinct from other analogous expressions such as oracular literature (Collins 1979a, 14; 2003, 76), if both expressions were the product of “oriental discontent with Hellenistic Greek rule,” what then makes them so functionally different? Or asked a different way, if the Sibylline Oracles

apocalypticism (see Stone 1984, 392) this book will use the term “apocalypticism” in a more general sense to encompass both the writings that are understood to be part of the genre, (Revelation, Daniel, 1 Enoch, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch) and those that contain apocalyptic material, such as the so-called “Synoptic apocalypses,” and “foreign” text such as The Potter’s Oracle and Zand-i Vohuman Yasn. 3 While exact lists as to what constitute the genre vary from scholar to scholar—for example Michael Stone includes the Apocalypse of Abraham and 3 Baruch (Stone 1984, 394), while John Collins is unique in his inclusion of the Persian Zand-i Vohuman Yasn (Collins 1979a, 3)—there is nonetheless general agreement that Daniel 7–12, Revelation, 1 Enoch, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch (Clifford 2003, 3) form the “core” of the genre.

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where written as simply “political and religious propaganda,” what then is the function of the apocalypses? Despite scholarly insistence, in Late Antiquity there was essentially no functional difference between these genres. As hinted at in the previous quote, there is an a priori assumption that the Jewish and Christian core apocalypses are more than simple political texts as are, it is claimed, their Oracular counterparts. But as this chapter hopes to show, because the genre apocalypse functions as a transitional link(s) between the salvation history of ancient Israel and nascent Christianity, these texts must represent a higher order of literature; one that has been designated under the privileged category of “religious texts” 4 (Attridge 1979, 160). And herein lies the problem. While this privileging of Jewish and Christian texts is unsurprising, considering the priority given to “Western” religion in scholarship (Blumenburg 1983, 30) what is more worrisome is the ideological imperatives behind this academic discourse. For not only are these kinds of “religious” texts limited to those of “Jewish” or “Christian” origin, they are also limited to only those texts that can be used in supporting a Christian mythic narrative that requires a nostalgic and sui generis Judaism, which in turn can then be adopted and fulfilled by a “unique” and sans pareil Christianity. 5 In the 4“The

insistence that religion has an autonomous essence—not to be confused with the essence of science or of politics, or of common sense—invites us to define religion (like an essence) as a transhistorical and transcultural phenomena” (Asad 2001, 123). However, this parsing off of “religion” from other cultural activities was not an expression found in Late Antiquity, but is a modern concept that is part of “the West’s distinctive historical feature of a secularized state” (Arnal 2005a, 31). Hence when scholars designate certain texts as “religious,” “secular oracles” or “political propaganda”, it is important to note that although “useful for the purposes of categorization and analysis, these classifications schemes are strictly scholarly exercises” (Adler 1996b, 8). 5In scholarship, “normative” Judaism has, “[o]n one hand . . . provided apologetic scholars with insulation for early Christianity, guarding it from ‘influence’ from its ‘environment.’ On the other hand, it has been presented by the very same scholars as an object to be transcended by early Christianity” (J.Z. Smith, 1990, 83). It should be noted, however, that both Second Temple Judaism and First Century Christianity consisted of a plurality of expressions, with no one “normative” or “orthodox” tradition. But because only certain elements from antiquity are palatable to modern constructions—such as “biblical” Judaism or the (singular) Church—these elements are in turn deployed as representing what was “normative” in antiquity. In other words, what is constructed as “legitimately”

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service of maintaining this mythical narrative scholars have deployed the “Judeo-Christian” apocalypses as both a transitional link between the salvation history of ancient Israel and the nascent Church and, by virtue of the apocalypses’ “uniqueness,” have insulated the nostalgic purity of sui generis Judaism and the sans pareil status of Christianity. Unsurprisingly, because the Judeo-Christian apocalypses act as a transitional link between Judaism and Christianity, and in the interest of maintaining ideological “orthodoxy,” certain criteria have been established to distinguish these texts from other comparable expressions. Hence, when texts such as the Egyptian Potter’s Oracle or the Persian Zand-i Vohuman Yasn are compared to the “religious” writings of Daniel or Revelation, they are repeatedly dismissed—not because they lack intellectual significance or authentic apocalyptic-ness—but simply because of the ideological need to construct them as “political” and “foreign” writings that are not of the same character as the “religious” and “transhistorical” Judeo-Christian texts (Attridge 1979, 160; Stone 1984, 383, 392). And when obviously Jewish and Christian apocalyptic writings, such as the Fourth Sibylline Oracle and various so-called “Gnostic” texts cannot be deployed in the service of a sui generis Judaism or the sans pareil understanding of Christian origins, they too are dismissed, relegated to being products of “extreme Hellenisation,” “Oriental influence” or “Gnostic Revelatory literature.” 6 By illustrating how modern scholars have historically constructed apocalypticism as a transitional link between sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity and by examining the scholarly criteria for these “legitimate” apocalypses—such as “legitimate” sources, thematic concerns and arbitrary adherence to genre—this chapter will show how various “foreign” and “syncretistic” texts, while fitting these criteria, are nonetheless excluded from historical reconstructions, simply as a method of establishing a prestigious sui generis Jewish pedigree that can act as insulation for the sui generis Judaism and san pareil Christianity (see Figure 1).

Christian and Jewish then is based on what is perceived as legitimately Jewish and Christian now. This is similar to the discourse on “Gnosticism” that retrojects elements of Christianity that are palatable for modern Christians as “orthodox” and others that do not fit into acceptable modern renditions, as “Gnostic.” 6 See Chapter 4 for an analysis of the scholarly construction of Gnosticism and its relationship to early Christianity.

APOCALYPSES, APOCALYPTICS AND APOCALYPTICISMS

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Figure 1: The Construction of Standard Christian mythical narrative. • Egyptian Prophecy

• Egyptian Apocalypticism (Potter’s Oracle)

• Ancient Near and Middle Eastern Wisdom Literature. Ð

As found with the Hebrew Prophets Ï • Canaanite and Hittite Cultic Religion

• Hellenism / Gnostic Religion

• Mithraism

• Jewish Sibylline Oracles

sui generis Judaism

• Isis worship

ÍÎ

Ð “legitimate” Judeo-Christian apocalypticism As found in the genre apocalypses and Dead Sea Scrolls Ï • Persian Apocalypticism

Ð

sans pareil ÍÎ

Christianity

Ó ÍÎ

As found in the New Testament Ï • GrecoRoman philosophy

Ð Christian / heretical Gnosticism(s) As found in the Nag Hammadi Library

Ñ • Syncretism

• Zand-i Vohuman Yasn

2.2 THE SUI GENERIS PROPHETS, SANS PAREIL JESUS, AND APOCALYPTIC PRE-WWI For the Judeo-Christian apocalypses to serve discursively as the transitional link between sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity, certain criteria need to be established. In particular, scholars must be able use the apocalypses as a bridge between that which is understood as uniquely Jewish and what is understood to be uniquely Christian. Predominantly this link has been created by describing the apocalypses as both having their source within the “unique” prophetic office of the ancient Hebrews and anticipating or fulfilling the Christological and Messianic claims of nascent Christianity. In other words, if the apocalypses can be shown to find their pedigree in the Hebrew Prophets and encode what makes Jesus unique, they can act as an important discursive tool in establishing a sui generis Jewish pedigree for the Christian mythical narrative.

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We see the beginnings of this project in 1899 when R. H. Charles 7 constructed a link between the pre-exilic Hebrew prophets 8 and Old Testament apocalypticism. For example, Charles stated that: [P]rophecy and apocalyptic are, in the main, concerned with the same objects, that they use, in the main, the same methods, but that, whereas the scope of prophecy was limited, in regards to time and space, that of apocalyptic was as wide as the universe and as unlimited as time. (Charles 1963 [1899], 193 italics in the original)

For Charles, prophecy and apocalypticism represented a hierarchal continuum, with both expressions growing out of the same authentically Jewish matrix but with far different eschatological concerns. 9 Hence, Charles could construct the Hebrew prophetic message as one that was limited in scope, dealing only with “the destiny of Israel, as a nation . . . with no message of light or comfort beyond the grave” (Charles 1963 [1899], 178) whereas apocalypticism could be constructed as an expression that was essentially universal in scope as it “advanced this heathen conception . . . [with its] belief in a blessed future life [for all humanity]” (Charles 1963 [1899], 178). Unsurprisingly, considering the mythic narrative framework of Charles’ discourse that required a “pure” Judaism to act as Christian pedigree (J.Z. Smith 1990, 83) this relationship between prophecy and apocalypticism was understood as an encapsulation for the relationship between Judaism and Christianity: Moreover, inasmuch as prophecy had died long before the Christian era, and its place had been taken by the apocalyptic, it was from the apocalyptic side of Judaism that Christianity was born . . . (Charles 1963 [1899], 193)

7 In 1831 Friedrich Lucke also concluded that the antecedent of apocalyptic literature grew out of the prophetic tradition of ancient Israelite religion, “concluding that disillusionment with the course of history and infighting within the [Jewish] community were contributing factors” (Hanson 1983, 4). 8 See Chapter 5 for further discussion on the discursive need to root apocalypticism within the nostalgically constructed prophetic office of pre-exilic Israel. 9 While both the prophet and apocalypticist used the same methods to seek or “come to learn the will of God” (Charles 1963 [1899], 174) their overall eschatological concerns and hence their results were for Charles radically different. “Prophetic eschatology is the child of prophecy, and apocalyptic eschatology is the child of apocalyptic. As might be expected the two eschatologies by no means agree” (Charles 1963 [1899], 178).

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Here Charles constructs an evolutionary continuum between the prophetic office and apocalypticism, where Christianity adopts the legitimacy of ancient Israel, but also offers a method by which that same Christianity can transcend its parent, acting as a means to “fulfill the greatest of all [Jewish] prophecies—the advent of the Messianic kingdom” (Charles 1963 [1899], 187) 10 presumably through the figure of Jesus. 11 Hence Charles offers a method whereby apocalyptic offers not only a link between Judaism, its unique prophets, and nascent Christianity, but where it can also be deployed as a model par excellence for the overall Christian mythic narrative that begins with the Old Testament prophets and is fulfilled by Christianity (Mack 1995, 7): [A]ll history, alike human, cosmological and spiritual [was] a unity . . . [as] Apocalyptic stretched in outline the history of the world and of mankind, the origin of evil, its course, and the inevitable overthrow and the final consummation of all things.” (Charles 1963 [1899], 183)

Here we can see the ideological importance of establishing a prophetic pedigree for apocalypticism. 12 By constructing apocalyptic as a link between the Hebrew prophets and nascent Christianity, Charles (and subsequent scholars) were able to establish a model for not only the Christian appropriation of the salvation history of Judaism, but also an evolutionary renderOne of the defining features of apocalyptic for Charles was the “element . . . of unfulfilled prophecy” (Charles 1963 [1899], 184). 11 This construction of Judaism stigmatizes it as narrowly nationalistic and only relevant for Jews, whereas Christianity is rendered as essentially “universal” and encompassing all people. 12 The importance of prophetic pedigree for apocalypticism can be illustrated by Julius Wellhausen who in 1878 dismissed apocalypticism as irrelevant in Christian reconstructions because he could not find its source within the pre-exilic Hebrew prophetic office. Since apocalyptic writings began to appear in the post-exilic period, Wellhausen determined that they were not “purely” of the prophetic tradition, but were “products of epigons borrowing [from] Persian sources, signifying very little of theological value” (Hanson 1983, 4; see also Wellhausen 1973 [1878], 1–6, 27– 28). Working from a Christian mythical schema that saw the Jewish exile as “a breach of historical continuity that which it is almost impossible to conceive a greater” (Wellhausen 1973 [1878], 28) and from a framework of colonialist anxieties (Said 1994 [1978], 209), Wellhausen constructed Jewish apocalypticism as simply deriving from “oriental” or Persian influences, and as such could not be used either to buttress sui generis claims of Judaism, nor as a proper pedigree for sans pareil Christianity. 10

12

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

ing of sacred history that begins with Adam, moves through the Hebrew prophets, the advent of Christ and the Church, and finding culmination within Western Christian discourse (Mack 1989, 294–95; Adler 1996a, 205). As noted, however, the establishment of the sources of apocalypticism within the prestigious pedigree of ancient Judaism is only one half of the standard Christian mythic narrative. For the discourse to function successfully, apocalypticism needs to anticipate the unique essence of Christianity. In particular, the distinctive element of Christianity, which has been linked to apocalypticism, has been the “uniqueness” of Jesus. As a Christian mythical narrative cipher, apocalypticism, as a product of “legitimate” or prophetic Judaism, acts as a method of rooting Jesus in an “authentically” Jewish context, but also offers a way to facilitate his transcendence over that same context. It is as if some believe that an insistence of Jesus’ Apocalypticism so completely certifies his Jewishness . . . The irony here is that the “eschatological” Jesus has been co-opted as code for the “unique” Jesus, uniqueness invariably understood as superiority.” (Miller 2005, 113)

However, linking Jesus to Judaism via apocalypticism, while “highly serviceable to a number of conceptual claims” (Kloppenborg 2005, 23) in the standard Christian mythical narrative, should be understood as a relatively recent phenomenon in scholarship. Outside of a few notable exceptions such as Charles and Lucke, apocalypticism gained its discursive weight due to the cultural shock the West suffered after the First World War (Hanson 1983, 3). Hence, we find in Albert Schweitzer’s Quest of the Historical Jesus (first edition 1910), that while Jesus was constructed by Schweitzer as a product of Second Temple apocalypticism, this construction served to present him as a figure who was essentially foreign to contemporary Christianity. “Jesus as a concrete historical personality remains a stranger to our time . . . He comes to us as One unknown . . .” (Schweitzer 1954, 399, 401). Growing out of the European Kulturoptimismus of the 19th and early 20th centuries, Schweitzer, as with most scholars, rejected the pessimism of apocalypticism as essentially antithetical to academic discourse: For the intelligentsia of the Enlightenment, for the idealistic philosophers and liberal theologians of the nineteenth century, and for the sober scholars and thinkers at the beginning of [the twentieth century], apocalypticism, with few exceptions, was ignored or repudiated with loathing. (Hanson 1983, 2)

Unsurprisingly, the pessimistic themes of apocalypticism effectively barred their use in academic reconstructions, in particular in how they could be

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applied to the figure of Jesus who at the time encapsulated the Liberal Theological understanding of “human history [as a] state of moral enlightenment through the inculcation of rational and humane values” (Kloppenborg 2005, 3). Schweitzer, however, in a critique of the scholars who tried to construct Jesus as this kind of ethical forerunner of 19th century values, stressed that: [t]he Jesus of Nazareth who came forward publicly as the Messiah, who preached the ethic of the kingdom of God, who founded the kingdom of heaven upon earth, and died to give his work its final consecration, never existed. He is a figure designed by rationalism, endowed with life by liberalism, and clothed by modern theology in a historical garb. (Schweitzer 1954, 396)

For Schweitzer, Jesus was a figure who was both unrecognizable to liberal theological scholarship and could not function as a figurehead for 19th century values. Instead Schweitzer constructed Jesus as “a foreigner and enigma” (Schweitzer 1954, 397) to Western norms, because he was rooted in an ancient apocalyptic context. “[Schweitzer’s] Jesus of history breathed the strange and foreign air of Second Temple Jewish Apocalypticism, with its belief in God’s imminent intervention in the cosmos to bring about a new order of things” (Kloppenborg 2005, 4). In other words, by reconstructing Jesus as fundamentally apocalyptic, Schweitzer essentially alienated Jesus from the contemporary context of the 19th century: The world affirms itself automatically; the modern spirit cannot but affirm it. But why on that account abolish the conflict between modern life, with the world-affirming spirit which inspires it as a whole, and the world-negating spirit of Jesus? (Schweitzer 1954, 400)

However, while the “world-negating spirit” of an apocalyptic Jesus may have been antithetical to establishing a sans pareil Christianity as it was conceptualized in the early part of the 20th century, Schweitzer’s construction could still be reconfigured in useful ways: “[I]t is not the [apocalyptic] Jesus as historically known, but the Jesus as spiritually risen within men, who is significant for our time and can help it” (Schweitzer 1954, 399). This spirit for Schweitzer can be conceptualized as a kind of Christological “will”; a “mighty . . . force [that] streams forth from Him and flows through our time also. This fact can neither be shaken nor confirmed by any historical discovery. It is the solid foundation of Christianity” (Schweitzer 1954, 397). While Jesus was a figure grounded in the apocalypticism of his time, Schweitzer stressed that this apocalypticism was a secondary element to the overall meaning of Jesus for contemporary Christianity. In other words,

14

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

while Jesus was rooted in apocalypticism, his true meaning for Christianity was not. “The essence of Christianity is an affirmation of the world that has passed though [an apocalyptic] rejection of the world. Within a system of thought that rejects the world and anticipates its end Jesus sets up the ethic of active love” (Schweitzer 1949, 55).

2.3 RUDOLPH BULTMANN AND APOCALYPTIC POST-WWI While apocalypticism at the time of Schweitzer’s quest may have seemed irrelevant to the optimism of 19th and early 20th century Europe, his construction was given wider currency with the outbreak of the First World War, when “apocalyptic literature seemed more accurately to describe reality as it actually was experienced than did the constructions of the philosophical idealist and the harmonious systems of the theological liberals” (Hanson 1983, 2). Due to the horrors of the mechanized mass slaughter preformed on the battlefields of Europe, there was a radical reconfiguration of apocalypticism and how it could be deployed in the service of establishing a sui generis pedigree for the Christian mythical narrative. No longer were the “pessimistic” themes of ancient apocalypticism irrelevant to the contemporary context. Within less than a decade of the first publication of Schweitzer’s Quest, the themes of the apocalyptic writings of the 1st century seemed exceedingly relevant for the 20th century 13 where “apocalyptic was embraced as an increasingly important theological category in a way that was quite foreign to Schweitzer” (Kloppenborg 2005, 12). This kind of reconfiguration of apocalypticism is found in the work of Rudolph Bultmann, who on the one hand accepted Schweitzer’s apocalyptic Jesus but on the other radically re-deployed this claim along lines similar to R. H. Charles’ use of apocalyptic constructions as a discourse that was exceedingly serviceable to the mythic Christian narrative that needed an insulated link with sui generis Judaism. For example, where Schweitzer tried to separate Jesus’ world-affirming “ethic of active love” from the apocalypticism of Second Temple Judaism, Bultmann, through “an existential [re-] interpretation” (Kloppenburg 2005, 9) of apocalypticism, insisted that the essential message of Jesus could only have meaning within its apocalyptic context. For Bultmann, however, this apocalyptic context was not tied to any one event, but was indicative of existential crisis:

13 “The unique feature of [Jesus’ apocalyptic] teaching is the assurance with which he proclaims that now has the time come” (Bultmann 1956, 87).

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The sense of crises in human destiny expresses itself in the conviction that the hour of decision has struck. [Hence, Jesus’] eschatological preaching is not the outcome of wishful thinking or speculation, but of his sense of the utter nothingness of man before God. (Bultmann 1956, 92)

As noted, this “crisis of human destiny” that served as Jesus’ apocalyptic context was not one that Bultmann envisioned as being limited to, or even rooted in, Second Temple Judaism. For Bultmann, the apocalypticism of Jesus was not a critique of any specific socio-political context. 14 Rather, through a methodological process of “demythologization” of the symbols of Jesus’ eschatology, 15 Bultmann was able to establish a “universal” apocalypticism that not only transcended its political context but was also palatable to the standard Christian mythic narrative. “It interests him [Jesus] not at all [for apocalypticism to be] a describable state of existence but rather as a transcendent event” (Bultmann 1958, 41, emphasis mine). Here is the genius of Bultmann. By recasting the apocalyptic contexts of Jesus into a modern, existential construction, Bultmann managed essentially to change apocalypticism from political protest literature to: a cipher for the finality towards which human existence is oriented and served to exemplify the twin reformation doctrines of God’s absolute sovereignty over humankind and the necessity of creaturely decision and obedience. (Kloppenborg 2005, 14)

The apocalyptic constructions of Bultmann succeeded in two conceptual tasks that are still employed by contemporary scholars. By first adopting Schweitzer’s model of an apocalyptic Jesus, Bultmann was able to establish a discursive link between Jesus and the prestigious pedigree of Judaism: 16 The preaching of Jesus is controlled by an imminent expectation of the Reign of God. In this he stands in line with Jewish eschatology in general, though clearly not in the nationalistic form . . . [yet Jesus] never speaks of a political Messiah who will destroy the enemies of Israel, of “The Messianic king of the last day is depicted after the model of the national Davidic dynasty . . . [There are, however, unmistakable] differences between the eschatological expectations of Jesus and the popular Jewish hopes” (Bultmann 1958, 41, 43). 15 Hence the claim made by Bultmann that “Jesus rejects the whole content of apocalyptic speculation (Bultmann 1958, 39, emphasis original). 16 Through Jesus’ apocalypticism, Bultmann maintains that “[t]he predictions of the prophets . . . are in process of fulfilment . . .” (Bultmann 1956, 89). 14

16

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE the establishment of a Jewish world empire . . . instead we find in his preaching the cosmic hopes of the apocalyptic writers. (Bultmann 1956, 86–87)

Unsurprisingly, considering the “unique” essence of Jesus’ apocalypticism, Bultmann also constructed nascent Christianity as a unique and sans pareil religion. For unlike every other religion of Late Antiquity, Bultmann insisted that: We must not be misled . . . into supposing that the early Christian community understood itself as a real phenomenon in history. . .The continuity is not a community growing out of history but one created by God. He called a new people as his own people, and for this new people all promises of the Old Testament will be fulfilled, indeed, they were originally given precisely for this new people. (Bultmann 1957, 35)

Therefore, when scholars like Schweitzer deployed the term “apocalyptic” to describe the foreignness of the historical Jesus and the early church, for Bultmann and other New Testament scholars of the post-world wars era, 17 apocalypticism came to encode, not only Jesus’ utter uniqueness, but the sans pareil status of nascent Christianity: “[W]hat was a relative statement that Jesus is ‘alien’ or ‘strange’ with respect to our time has been transformed, by later scholarship, into an absolute statement that Jesus is ‘unique’ in all respects for all time” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 41). 18 Hence, apocalypticism became “the mother of all Christian theology’” (Kloppenborg 2005, 15), where Schweitzer’s alien and apocalyptic Jesus serves to buttress a modern Christian mythical narrative that does not reject the pessimistic themes of apocalypticism, but which has adopted them as part of the modern, western Zeitgeist (Hanson 1983 [1971], 37):

17 For example, “P. Vielhauer’s fixed picture of ‘Jewish apocalyptic’ was that it offered a convenient backdrop against which to demonstrate Jesus’ transcendence of the apocalyptic environment in which he carried out his ministry. He wanted, like Bultmann, to dissociate Jesus’ teachings from Jewish eschatological hopes or national aspirations, so that it could serve the Christian universal claim. However, Bultmann’s theory was so overwhelming that it stood in place of evidence” (Adler 1996b, 6). 18 The construction of apocalyptic “served to distinguish Jesus from his environment. For Bultmann the term ‘eschatological’ [apocalyptic] stands for the novelty of Christianity, its incomparable superiority, the uniqueness of its victorious religion” (Miller 2005, 112).

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The historical Jesus’ announcement of an imminent and decisive transformation of human reality thus happily coincided with what was now seen to be at the heart of the Christian theological project itself. Christology, the unique status of Christianity among the religions of the world, and the basic contours of a salvation history that embraced the history of Israel and reached to the ends of the world, could be seen to flow from Jesus’ eschatological beliefs. (Kloppenborg 2005, 19–20)

2.4 APOCALYPSE HOW? As noted above, “[a]fter Schweitzer, Apocalypticism has become a category highly serviceable to a number of conceptual claims” (Kloppenborg 2005, 23), in particular that of a link between sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity. Since apocalypticism—due in part to the discursive enterprises of Charles, Schweitzer and Bultmann—has become the transitional link between the Hebrew prophets and the birth of Christianity, there is much at stake in constructing texts that are palatable to the standard Christian mythic narrative as a distinct kind of literature. Hence, three discursive parameters have been established that can be used to sequester “legitimate” (i.e. Judeo-Christian) apocalypticism from other analogous texts. 1) “Religious” Texts vs. Political Texts: If certain documents are to serve as an indication of sui generis Judaism and subsequent sans pareil Christianity, they cannot be rooted in any limited, contextual context, but must be constructed as apolitical, transhistorical (Sacchi 1990, 39) and essentially “religious.” 2) “Pure” Judaism vs. Hellenistic Syncretism: Because the “Judeo-Christian” apocalypses are assumed a priori to be of a special character, they must also, by proxy, represent a “pure” expression, either that of a uniquely “Jewish” character that anticipates Christianity, or of a Christian character that draws legitimacy from a sui generis Judaism. 3) Genre vs. non-Genre: While this kind of parsing off may seem impossible, considering the preponderance of apocalypticism in the Ancient Near and Middle East, scholars have been able to evoke discursively one more category to draw a distinction between the Judeo-Christian apocalypses and other apocalyptic texts: that of genre. Because the apocalypses deployed to shore-up the mythic narrative of a sans pareil Christianity that derives its pedigree from a sui generis Judaism are also part of a “literary” (i.e., valueneutral) genre that can be defined outside of any apparent ideological con-

18

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

text, 19 the task of constructing the apocalypses as special expressions becomes exponentially easier. By emphasising the “genre-ness” of the texts as proof-positive of their unique status, scholars have been able to mystify the ideological imperatives behind the texts, constructing them as both valueneutral and unsurprisingly, fundamentally different from other apocalyptic expressions. In other words, genre-ness has become tantamount to apocalypticness, with the validity of a text gauged, not necessarily by its content or intel19 As noted (n. 4), since the apocalypses are understood as both “religious” texts and are part of a coherent genre, there has been very little consideration given to the fact that the documents that make up the genre were intentionally preserved—not because of their historical importance or genre-ness—but simply because of their palatability to the standard Christian mythic narrative. It must be stressed that the texts that sit at the core of the genre were not a random scattering of documents from various “religions,” or the luckily found collection of a non-biased individual from antiquity. In all instances, the “Jewish” apocalypses were intentionally preserved from antiquity by Christian groups, because of their ideological palatability. Much as the process of Biblical canonization intentionally included specific texts to buttress certain ideological concerns, ancient Christians preserved these apocalypses, not because of their intellectual significance, or their paradigmatic apocalyptic-ness, but precisely because they could be easily adapted to fit into their agenda: an agenda that has been reinforced by the scholarly “canonization” of the genre. For instance, John Collins noted that “the most widely recognized type of apocalypse and [the one that] is often the basis of generalizations about ‘apocalyptic’” (Collins 1979a, 14) is the subset designated “Type Ia: Historical Apocalypses with No Otherworldly Journey.” This wide acceptance, however, is not based on “Type Ia” being the most prevalent or numerous apocalypses (Collins 1979a, 23), but on its serviceability for the Christian adoption of Judaism. For example, of the genre’s core, three texts (Daniel 7–12, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch) can be found within the parameters of “Type Ia.” What is interesting however is that, while the historical apocalypse is not a common expression of Jewish apocalyptic literature, the historical elements nonetheless offered a theory of history that later Christian writers found compatible with their own. “Understood in this way Daniel [and other Jewish apocalyptic texts] mediated through a tradition of Jewish and Jewish-Christian interpretation, was the theological foundation for the idea that the temporal and genealogical succession of the post-exilic high priests formed the legitimate link between the end of the Old Testament history and the advent of Christ and the Church” (Adler 1996a, 238). Again, this is not to say the genre as it stands does not contain historical surveys. But to assume that this is a phenomenological element of the genre, without taking into account that these “historical” writings were preserved precisely because they could fit universalistic claims, needs to be re-examined.

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lectual significance, but by its adherence to an arbitrary model. 20 The result of this priority given to genre-ness has, in academic reconstructions, minimalized the ideological imperatives behind the texts and constructed them, not as products of a specific historical and political context, but as “a new kind of literature that had its own coherence and should not be seen as a child or adaptation of something else” (Collins 2003, 76). This statement, however, is simply unconvincing. Growing out of a scholarly discourse grounded in the work of Charles, Schweitzer and Bultmann, modern scholars have re-enforced and entrenched, not only the ideology of the last 100–plus years of scholarship, but they have also glossed over the theological imperatives of the last 2000 years of Christian self-definition with the veneer of academic legitimacy. However, the scholarly construction of a sui generis Judaism to serve as pedigree for Christianity is not a new or unique phenomena, but finds an analogue in the writings of Herodotus (5th Century BCE), who in one of the first recorded instances of religious comparison, articulated ideas remarkably similar to the discourse of Christian self-definition. For example, in the Herodotean enterprise of Greek self-definition, the Egyptians were presented as a sui generis and unique culture that depended on no one for their customs. The Persians, on the other hand, who were for the Greeks objects of scorn, were understood to borrow from everyone. Hence the Greeks, in an act of “borrowing,” derived cultural legitimacy with no negative value through the pedigree of “autochthonic” and sui generis Egypt, and as such, were able to discursively distance themselves from their hated rivals, the Persians (J. Z. Smith 1990, 46). Within the study of ancient Christianity and its relationship to the cultures of Late Antiquity, the names have been altered, but the relationships remain the same as those sketched by Herodotus. In the service of selfdefinition, modern scholarship has tended to retrench the a priori assumption that: Early Christianity is primarily to be considered as autochthonous. If there is any dependency, it is from the prestigious centre. In this model, Israel appears in the role of Herodotean Egypt [and] “Greco-Oriental syncretism”, plays the part of Persia. This requires that the enterprise of comparison focus on questions of borrowing and diffusion. The use of “Studies in apocalyptic literature commonly designate certain Jewish texts as apocalypses on the basis of some modern conception of the genre” (Adler 1996b, 8). 20

20

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE comparisons as a hermeneutical device, or as a principle of discovery for the construction of theories or generic categories plays no role. What rules, instead, is an overwhelming concern for assigning value, rather than intellectual significance to the results of comparisons . . . ‘the Jew as opposed to the ancient Greek, the Gnostic or the mystery religionist [becomes] the good guy.’” (J. Z. Smith 1990, 45–46)

Hence, as Herodotus deployed notions of borrowing and autochthony to help construct a privileged Greek self-identity, so too have modern scholars (following in the footsteps of the last 2000 years of Christian selfidentification) constructed a sui generis Judaism which lends its prestigious identity to Christianity, via the intermediary of apocalypticism. By organizing the various texts into a set of binary and exclusive pairs, scholars have sifted through a variety of apocalyptic sources of the Ancient Near and Middle East, and differentiated between “legitimate” apocalypticism and other comparable expressions.

Apocalypse ↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

Genre “Judeo-Christian” Jewish Apolitical Transhistorical

non-Apocalypse ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

non-Genre Pagan Foreign Political Historical

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

This binary system not only works horizontally as paired opposites, but vertically, re-enforcing either side of the polarity with greater and greater levels of association, and essentially constructing a mutually exclusive system that helps support the standard Christian mythic narrative which constructs a sui generis Judaism and a sans pareil Christianity that are unique in relation to other religions of Late Antiquity (Stone 1984, 422; Attridge 1979, 160). But outside of the framework of the Christian mythic narrative, this binary system begins to fall apart. For example, since apocalypticism was a common literary expression in Late Antiquity, it is unsurprising that many of the “essentials” of the “Judeo-Christian” genre, when stripped of their “religious” mystique, can also be found in “foreign” or “syncretistic” texts, expressing the same concerns and serving the same function as the apocalypses. Take for instance, the thematic concerns found within the “acceptable” apocalypses. While genre has been the ultimate litmus test for the determination of apocalyptic “legitimacy,” scholars have also deployed a series of “unique” thematic concerns to buttress the special nature of the JudeoChristian texts. For example, to a greater or lesser degree, within the core of the apocalyptic genre, there are a series of six interlocking thematic aspects

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that have been used both to sequester the genre from other texts, and to buttress the standard Christian mythical narrative. 1) Vaticinium ex eventu or “prophecy after the event” is a narrative technique used in Judeo-Christian apocalypses to legitimize the “predications” of the author’s current political context (e.g. 4 Ezra 12:1–50). Framed as the culmination of a formulaic schematization of history (Dan 7:17), 21 the apocalypticist retrojects his current political situation back into the past by composing the text so that it appears to be “foretelling” the event before it takes place. For example, 2 Baruch, written at the end of the first century CE or the beginning of the second, “foretells” Rome’s conquest of Palestine, when; a fourth kingdom arises, whose power is harsher and more evil than those which were before it, and it will reign a multitude of times like the trees on the plain, and it will rule the times and exalt itself more than the cedars of Lebanon. (2 Bar 39:5–6)

2) Nostalgic Israel. Within the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, there is an insistence on the special status of an “Israel” that stands in proper religious continuity with God; either the land (4 Ezra 9:8) or the people (Rev 7:4–8), “The nation of which you [God] found no equal” (2 Bar 48:20; see also 4 Ezra 6:55–59). In this nostalgic connotation, “Israel” is not simply a geographic or nationalistic term, but an idiom of self-definition, signifying an “us”—ranging from the Jewish nationalistic desire for continuity with a nostalgic past (4 Ezra 12:32; 2 Bar 61:2), to the Christian adoption of Jewish legitimacy (Rev 3:7, 22:16)—that is opposed to a vilified “them,” such as the “gentiles” or “other nations” (4 Ezra 2:7, et al.). Hence, by virtue of its special place, “Israel”—from the point of view of the apocalypticist—is the world’s locus and functions as essentially an axis mundi. 3) Israel Compromised. However, the Judeo-Christian apocalypses maintain that nostalgic “Israel” has been compromised, either though acts of impiety, where “[a]ll Israel has transgressed your [God’s] law and turned aside, refusing to obey your voice” (Dan 9:11) and / or via the presences of foreign invaders: Why Israel has been given over to the Gentiles as a reproach; why the people whom you loved has been given over to godless tribes, and the

21 Historical schematization tends to take the form of history divided into 4 kingdoms and / or 10 generations.

22

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE law of our fathers has been made of no effect and the written covenants no longer exist. (4 Ezra 4:23; see also 4 Ezra 11:1–12:9; 2 Bar 8:3–4) 22

In either case, the axis mundi that is encapsulated by the signifier “Israel” has been corrupted. 4) Societal Collapse. Because nostalgic Israel has been compromised, and its identity as axis mundi has been corrupted, the fabric of society—at least from the apocalypticist’s point of view—has begun to wear thin. “There shall be a time of anguish, such as has never occurred since nations first came into existence” (Dan 12:1). From the point of view of the author, the proper, divinely ordained social order that has separated “Israel” from other groups has become degraded by the “evil things which the two tribes which remained have done” (2 Bar 1:2; see also Dan 9:5; 4 Ezra 5:1). During this societal collapse, a binary tension exists between the minority that holds to the ideals of “Israel,” and the majority that does not: Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they will have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates. Outside are the dogs and sorcerers and fornicators and murderers and idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices falsehood. (Rev 22:14–15)

5) Cosmic Calamities. As a result of nostalgic Israel’s corruption, there will not only be an increase in social disorder but also an increase in “cosmic” calamites, both natural—“great and mighty clouds, full of wrath and tempest, shall rise, to destroy all the earth and its inhabitants, and shall pour out upon every high and lofty place a terrible tempest” (4 Ezra 15:40)—and supernatural: The fifth angel poured his bowl on the throne of the beast, and its kingdom was plunged into darkness; people gnawed their tongues in agony, and cursed the God of heaven because of their pains and sores, and they did not repent of their deeds. (Rev 16:10–11; see also Rev 16:1–9, 12– 21)

In other words, because the axis mundi of nostalgic Israel has been corrupted, death, famine, earthquakes, ghosts, violence and “disorder and a mixture of all that has been before” (2 Bar 27:13; see also 4 Ezra 14:11–12) will increase. 6) Divine Re-ordering. As the social and natural calamities reach an appropriately dire crescendo, the apocalypticist predicts that, as the fulfilment of the ex eventu, there will be a divine re-ordering—usually through a 22

Foreign invasion, in this instance, is a result of God’s punishment of Israel.

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messianic agent of God (Rev 1:13; Dan 7:13; 4 Ezra 12:32; 2 Bar 39:7) or through God himself (1 En 16:3)—where the societal collapse will be rectified, and the proper, nostalgic social reordering will take place (4 Ezra 7:26; 12:10–34). Understood as the inauguration of a “new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away” (Rev 21:1), God (or his agent) will overthrow the wicked, (4 Ezra 12:32) drive out the foreigners who “will be delivered up to the sword” (2 Bar 72:6; see also 40:1–2), re-establish proper religious practices (Rev 21:6–8), and most importantly, place “Israel” as the dominant nation: “And the land [which] was then beloved by the Lord, and because its inhabitants sinned not, it was glorified beyond all lands, and the city Zion ruled then over all lands and regions” (2 Bar 61:7). Considering the Greco-Roman hegemony of the Ancient Near and Middle East of Late Antiquity, a contextual understanding of these thematic concerns is not difficult to construct. The apocalypticist of the JudeoChristian texts, chafing under Greco-Roman rule—either directly or through “corrupted” vassals—is expressing discontent with his/her current situation. However, because of their “piety” (from their point of view), God will intervene on his/her behalf and, in essence, will help establish the apocalypticist’s aims, which range from Jewish nationalistic hopes to Christian eschatological fulfilment. In any case, the apocalypses should be understood first and foremost as literature of protest. However, because the apocalypses have been constructed as essentially “religious” texts—with all the transhistorical and phenomenological associations—the contextual situation is given insufficient consideration in their interpretation. In other words, because these texts are interpreted through the a priori lens of sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity, context is often minimalized so that they can be forced to fit— and in turn buttress— the standard Christian mythical narrative. For example, there is a privileged status applied to the deployment of nostalgic views of “Israel.” Because of the assumed “religious” nature of the texts, nostalgic “Israel” is not the concern of an ancient author, but has become a cipher not only for the sui generis Judaism of antiquity, but more importantly for the “New Israel” of Christianity that fulfils and transcends its pedigree (see, e.g. Bultmann 1958, 41). Because “Israel” is so loaded with mythic connotations, the ancient invocation cannot but resonate within

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modern, western discourses. 23 Hence, any “re-establishment” of the proper forms of piety in the form of the “New Israel” will not be based on the narrowly nationalistic aspirations of Judaism, but will be superseded by a universalistic Christianity (Bultmann 1956, 86–87). This idea of transcending the Hebrew past is also the ideological cipher used when interpreting the divine resolution of the apocalypse. From the perspective of the modern Christian mythic framework, this re-ordering is not a divinely assisted revolution (that failed) but is understood as the end of the linear, progressive historical narrative that began with Adam, is traced through history, to the western, Christian expression as the pinnacle of the social evolutionary ladder. 24 Hence, the divine re-ordering within the apocalypses is not understood as an expression of Jewish nationalism as expressed in Late Antiquity or of ancient Christian salvific expectations, but as a mystification of modern Western teleological renderings (Said 1994 [1978], 58; 100; 309; Mack 1995, 303–310). However, during times of crisis, the apocalypses can be more specifically applied. As with the various pesherim found within the Dead Sea Scrolls (Berrin 2000, 645), the affiliation of the apocalypses with Christian sacred history allows a fluidity of interpretation, where each subsequent deployment of an “end time”—such as the Two World Wars, the Cold War and, more recently, 9/11—can be re-read into the text and applied to a current situation. Hence, because the “New Israel” (the Christian West) for all intents and purposes is the axis mundi, when calamity strikes it is not simply a local or national event, but must have global or even cosmic repercussions. 25 For example, George W. Bush, on September 20, 2001, evoked an “And even if one knows that both can’t be equally true, the biblical history must always prevail if one wants to remain, or must remain, a part of the march of the Western Christian culture. Saying yes to that history has been the price one had to pay for access to Western civilization” (Mack 1995, 295). 24 “Jesus was mistaken in thinking that the world was destined soon to come to an end. His error was similar to that of the ancient prophets who believed that God’s redemptive act was immediately impending. . . Does his message therefore stand or fall with that misconception? . . . It would be better to reverse the proposition and to say that this expectation springs from the conviction that lies at the root of his preaching . . .[that is] the sovereign majesty of God and the absolute character of his will . . .” (Bultmann 1956, 92). 25 In essence, the apocalypse give textual mystification, not to just the “religion” of the west, but also to the west’s pre-occupation with itself as the “New Israel” (i.e. Charles and Bultmann). 23

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apocalyptic binary system to cast the upcoming invasion of Afghanistan as not simply a retaliatory strike by the United States, but as a conflict that has both global repercussions and divine sanction. For example, the so-called “War on Terror”: is not, however, just America's fight. And what is at stake is not just America's freedom. This is the world's fight. This is civilization's fight. This is the fight of all who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom. . . As long as the United States of America is determined and strong, this will not be an age of terror; this will be an age of liberty, here and across the world . . . Our nation—this generation—will lift a dark threat of violence from our people and our future. We will rally the world to this cause by our efforts, by our courage. We will not tire, we will not falter, and we will not fail . . . May God grant us wisdom, and may He watch over the United States of America. (Bush, 2001, emphasis mine)

One cannot help but see the apocalyptic resonance in Bush’s speech. The invasion of Afghanistan is not a fight that only affects one nation, or even the world, but by virtue of the United State’s place 26 this conflict places all of “Civilization” at stake. 27 The attacks of 9/11 were not simply political actions, but were an indication of the “age of terror” 28 that Bush’s apocalyptic struggle will defeat with its “age of liberty” that will lift the “dark threat of violence” and begin a new age “for our people and our future” all with God’s blessing as “He watch[es] over the United States of America.” 29 Bush, coming from a Western, Christian-centric mythological framework, renders a sacred history (Mack 1989, 294–95) based on the apocalyptic model (Charles 1963 [1899], 183) that essentially recasts 9/11 as an event that has apocalyptic connotations. Hence, when read from a mythical framework that assumes both a sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity, the thematic concerns of apocalypse do seem to give the texts a special, “religious” status, especially if they can be cast—as Bush’s speech writer did—to resonate with the now. 30 From this ideological point of view, these are not ancient Jewish nationalistic texts, expressing discontent with Greco-Roman domination, but “reliSee Point 2: Nostalgic Israel. Also 2 Bar 48:20; 4 Ezra 6:55–59. See Point 5: Cosmic Calamities. Also 2 Bar 27:13; 4 Ezra 14:11–12. 28 See Point 4: Societal Collapse. Also Dan 12:1. 29 See Point 6: Divine Re-ordering. Also Rev 21:1; 4 Ezra 12:32; 2 Bar 72:6. 30 While this was most likely not Bultmann’s purpose in recasting apocalyptic, his reclaiming apocalypticism as a valid source to be mined for contemporary insight no doubt contributed to these kinds of constructions. 26 27

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gious” texts that narrate of the entirety of human history and can be used, as Bush has, to resonate as a contemporary pesher. However, these conclusions are not something that can be gleaned from an independent reading of the texts, but can only be seen through the lens of the standard Christian mythic narrative. It is this ideological starting point that predisposes the reader to see the texts as essentially “proving” a sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity as universal, transhistorical and atemporal. And, because the texts prove the ideological claims, they too must therefore also be transhistorical and atemporal. However, it must be stressed that the thematic concerns and aspirations of the apocalypse that are deployed to prove their “religious” status are not unique to the Judeo-Christian texts, but can also be found within a variety of “foreign” and “syncretistic” apocalyptic texts.

2.5 FOREIGN POLITICS AND THE EGYPTIAN APOCALYPSES Within the Hermenic text Asclepius, there is a section (Asc. Apoc 24–26) that has been labelled the Asclepius “Apocalypse,” a text that, despite the scholarly insistence on its “foreign” pedigree (Attridge 1979, 170), nonetheless shares many of the same thematic concerns as the Judeo-Christian apocalypses. 31 For example, as with the Judeo-Christian texts, Asclepius Apocalypse is composed as a vaticinium ex eventu prophecy, retrojecting the author’s current social / political situation back into a past prophetic dialogue in the hopes of giving it legitimacy. Much like Ezra’s “Eagle Vision” that projects Rome’s domination of Judea as a past prophetic oracle, the Asclepius Apocalypse is a “foretelling” of Greco-Roman domination of Egypt: “Egypt will be forsaken, and the land which was once the home of religion will be left desolate, bereft of the presence of deities. This land and region will be filled with foreigners” (Asc. Apoc 24b:4). As with the Judeo-Christian texts, the Asclepius Apocalypse contains the conception of an axis mundi. But it is not nostalgic Israel that is important, but a nostalgic Egypt that “is an image of heaven, or, to speak more exactly, in Egypt all the operations of the powers which rule and work in heaven have been transferred to earth below” (Asc. Apoc 24b:1–2). Structurally compatible with the Judeo-Christian renderings of Israel, the Egypt of the Asclepius Apocalypse is not simply a geographic locale. “Nay, it should rather 31 Most scholars when discussing the Asclepius “Apocalypse” use, as illustrated, sanitizing quotes to qualify the designation of apocalypse.

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be said that the whole Kosmos dwells in this our land as in its sanctuary” (Asc. Apoc 24b:1–3). However, this nostalgic Egypt is under foreign domination, occupied by “Scythians or Indians, or by some such race from the barbarian countries thereabout” (Asc. Apoc 24b:5). Due to this foreign occupation, the native religion of Egypt has either been ignored or actively suppressed. For “not only will men neglect the service of the gods, but . . . there will be enacted so-called laws by which religion and piety and worship of the gods will be forbidden, and penalty prescribed” (Asc. Apoc 24b:5–6). Unsurprising, considering its domination by foreign powers, Egypt will subsequently experience societal collapse. “The dead will far outnumber the living; and the survivors will be known for Egyptians by their tongue alone, but in their actions they will seem to be men of another race” (Asc. Apoc 25:2). During these social calamities, the ancient, nationalistic values and religion of Egypt will be ignored, in particular the traditional religious values so that the pious “will be deemed insane, and the impious wise . . . and the wicked will be esteemed as good” (Asc. Apoc 25:3). As with the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, these social calamities will be mirrored by a variety of natural disasters, such as the Nile being “swollen with torrents of blood, thou will rise to the level of thy banks, and thy sacred waves will be not only stained, but utterly fouled with gore” (Asc. Apoc 24b:6). But, because the Asclepius Apocalypse constructs Egypt as axis mundi, these natural disasters will be universally felt throughout the creation. There will be earthquakes, ships will no longer be able to sail, crops will fail, the gods will be struck dumb, and the stars will stop in their orbits: And so the gods will depart mankind . . . and only evil angels will remain, who will mingle with men, and drive the poor wretches by main force into all manner of reckless crime, into wars, and robberies, and frauds, and all things hostile to the nature of the soul. . . After this manner will old age come upon the world. Religion will be no more; all things will be disorderly and awry; all good will disappear. 32 (Asc. Apoc 25b–26a)

However, as the culmination of the vaticinium ex eventu, there will be a divine re-ordering, where:

The use of the “evil angel” motif in the Asclepius Apocalypse is remarkably similar to the one found in 1 Enoch, not just in the use of the “evil angels” but also in both texts’ phantasmagorical critique of Greco-Roman rulers (Pagels 1995, 50). 32

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Much like the Judeo-Christian texts, the foreign domination of Egypt and the cessation of native traditions have universal repercussions; so much so that a divinely instigated social re-ordering will take place, not just in Egypt, but the whole of creation: [T]he maker and restorer of the mighty fabric, will be adored by the men of that day with unceasing hymns of praise and blessing. Such is the new birth of the Kosmos; it is a making of again of all things good, and holy and awe-striking restoration of all nature. (Asc. Apoc 26a:1–4)

These thematic concerns are also found in another “foreign” apocalyptic text, marginalized in scholarship, known as the Potter’s Oracle or the Apology of the Potter, an extremely fragmentary document that nonetheless provides “evidence of the intellectual resistance on the part of Egyptian national groups to Greek hegemony” (Koenen 1970, 249). As with the Asclepius Apocalypse, the Potter’s Oracle is an expression of native Egyptian discontent with foreign rule, “[For] in the time of Typhonians 33 they will say, ‘Wretched Egypt, [you are] maliciously [treat]ed with [awesome] malicious deeds maliciously worked [ag]ainst you.’” (Pot. Or P3. Col.1, 5–7; see also 31–32). As with the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the Potter’s Oracle expresses concerns about the cessation of native cultural and religious practises as a result of foreign domination, where “. . . n]ot ev[en the ki]ng [will attai]n divine victory during any time of the [Ty]phonians” (Pot. Or P3.Col. 1,8) and the “[p]ossessions of the temples [will become few.] B[urial , [in wet] clay. Some sten[ch] wi[ll re]ach to the city by those needing burial” (Pot. Or P3.col1, 5–7). Predictably, this religious impiety has caused Egypt to experience a series of social upheavals, where the “countryside will [be disrupted by] anarchy . . . And the pe[ople will be ki]lled b[y] one another . . . and among pregnant women there will be much death” (Pot. Or P2. Col.1, 21–27). And, specifically because of foreign domination, “the farmer who did not sow will be asked to pay taxes” (Pot. Or P2. Col.1, 7–8). In keeping with 33

Col. 2, 33 identifies the “Typhonians” with the Greeks.

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the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the social calamities are juxtaposed against natural disasters, where “land itself will not harmonize with the seeds. . . [and] things to be destroyed by the wind” (Pot. Or P3. Col.1, 10–11). However, because of Egypt’s special status as axis mundi, the Potter’s Oracle predicts that the gods, for the good of creation, will orchestrate a divine re-ordering where the foreign occupation will end and the proper, nostalgic religious practice will be re-established. “The city of the beltwearers [the Greek city of Alexandria] will be made desolate . . . and the cult images that have been transferred there will come back to Egypt again. And the city by the sea will be a drying place for fishermen” (Pot. Or P32–35). In particular, this restoration will be encapsulated with the resumption of native self-rule, under a messianic king who is “a giver of good things, who is appointed by the greatest goddess Isis so that the ones who survive will pray that the ones who died before will arise in order that they may share in the good things” (Pot. Or P2. Col.1: 40–43). Without being blinded by an ideological filter that assumes the “JudeoChristian” apocalypses are somehow “special” and “religious,” similarities between them, the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, cannot be ignored. Far from being unique, the thematic concerns of the Judeo-Christian apocalypse can, as illustrated, be found in other analogous texts that also express discontent with foreign domination. However, because the Potter’s Oracle and Asclepius Apocalypse cannot help construct the Christian mythic narrative claims of sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity (and in fact because of their similarly call that claim into question), scholars have repeatedly downplayed or outright ignored the similarities between these texts in an effort to keep them as far away from the Judeo-Christian apocalypses as possible. For example, the Potter’s Oracle and Asclepius Apocalypse are: similar to Jewish works inasmuch as they stand at the periphery of Hellenistic civilization and represent a reaction to it. The most significant works, in fact, clearly depend on the tradition of Egyptian prophecy [and as such are] relevant to the study of the political and cosmic elements in the eschatology of the Jewish apocalypses, the literary form of these texts is that of oracular prophecy [and therefore a] distinctive dialogue form [that] distinguishes them from Jewish and Christian apocalypses. Closely related to them are the Gnostic revelatory dialogues. (Attridge 1979, 160 emphasis mine)

Such a statement illustrates some of the biases scholars have toward the socalled “foreign” apocalypses. Asserting that these texts derive from Egyptian prophecy instantly categorises them as “foreign,” and, as such, com-

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pletely separate from any legitimately Jewish texts. Categorising them with “Gnostic revelatory dialogues” assures that any points of contact between them and proper Jewish apocalypses will be dismissed out of hand as containing “acute Hellenization” (King 2003, 55): an anathema to the purity claims of standard Christian mythic narrative. 34 Also, by emphasising the political agenda of these texts, they are contrasted to the Jewish and subsequent Christian works which allegedly do not contain as their raison d’etre a political agenda. While the Judeo-Christian apocalypses may contain a smattering of politics, they are still essentially “religious” texts, with all the associated connotations. This is critical because if the Judeo-Christian apocalyptic texts are proven to be overtly political, they would become historically and temporally rooted: a discourse that affects the “mythic”, trans-historical status of the standard Christian narrative (see Figure 1.1). For example, when Daniel 7–12 is read outside of the standard Christian mythic narrative like the Potter’s Oracle and the Asclepius Apocalypse, it is simply a political text expressing discontent with foreign rule. But scholars, in the need to buttress Judeo-Christian ideology, have re-cast it to fit universalistic claims. “[A]s Daniel sees it, the struggle is not just between Greeks and Jews. It is a re-enactment of the primordial struggle where the beasts of chaos rise from the sea in rebellion against the rightful God” (Collins 2003, 74). The question is: why do scholars assume that this projection of a political critique to a cosmic framework, is structurally any different from similar projections found in the Potter’s Oracle or Asclepius Apocalypse? Why are the “transcendent claims” of the Judeo-Christian apocalypses considered valid, whereas those made by the Potter’s Oracle and the Asclepius Apocalypse are not? The answer is simply ideology, an ideology that not only underwrites scholarship, but is part of the dominant cultural schema. 35 Because the standard Christian mythical narrative is understood as essentially true, texts that help support that position, are understood as “religious.” And because the texts are religious, they cannot be “ideological” or rooted in a historical context, but must be apolitical, universal and ultimately, true. For example, Michael Stone, in his critique of Egyptian apocalyptic material, goes through a series of mental contortions not only to keep the 34 The use of “Gnostic” or “Gnosticism” as a scholarly discursive category of “other” will be discussed in Chapter 4. 35 For example, there is an overall acceptance of “God” as the dominant deity within the standard Christian mythical narrative, where Isis or the “Master,” has no discursive weight.

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“foreign” texts separate, but also to construct a sui generis Judaism to serve as the proper pedigree for Christian mythological claims. According to Stone, the resemblance: between certain pagan Egyptian oracles of political and eschatological character and the apocalypses has been observed above. These Hellenistic Egyptian oracles are typified by a survey of preceding history 36 in a fairly clear form and then this is followed by more or less obscure predictions of the arrival of the reign of a new king. 37 He was expected to re-establish the rule of righteousness 38 and order in the country, to drive out the hated foreign rulers 39 and to re-establish the ancient structures 40 . . .The parallels with the apocalyptic are clear and some dimensions of the expression of political hope of the apocalypses are analogous to similar expressions in the political oracles. Yet the hope of restoration of the Davidic Kingdom or of the rule of God goes back to Biblical sources, and the lines of connection between biblical literature and the apocalypses noted above seem much more significant than the similarities with the Hellenistic political oracles. . . Thus, although the political aspect of the apocalypses should be related to the common associations of the oriental people, the form and context of such aspirations is peculiarly Jewish in the apocalypses.” (Stone 1984, 422–23, emphasis mine)

Here we can see an articulation of the underlying Christian mythical narrative that is prevalent in scholarship. In essence, there is the construction of two, distinct categories of texts.

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Both Stone and Attridge (1979, 35–36) construct two distinct and mutually exclusive categories, where the “political” elements of the Jewish apocalypse See 2 Bar 39:5–6: Dan 7:17. A Messianic figure as in Rev 1:13, Dan 7:13, 4 Ezra 12:32 and 2 Bar 39:7. 38 Re–ordering. 2 Bar 61:7 Rev 21:6–8. 39 4 Ezra 12:32, 2 Bar 40:1–2, 72:6. 40 Rev 21:6–8. 41 Dan 7-12, Rev 4, Ezra etc. 36 37

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are somehow secondary, but where the “political” elements found in the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle are essential. Reminiscent of Albert D. Nock who envisioned Judaism as an “enclosed world living its own life, a ghetto culturally and linguistically, if not geographically” (Nock as quoted in J.Z. Smith 1990, 71), scholars like Stone and Attridge use the discourse on apocalypticism to construct the ancient Jews as somehow being both culturally quarantined from their “Hellenistic” 42 neighbours and walking around in a mythological haze that allowed them to keep “politics” and “religion” as self-evidently different discourses. Hence, there is an insistence that the “Davidic Kingdom” is far more significant than the nostalgic Egyptian kingdom found in either the Asclepius Apocalypse or the Potter’s Oracle. The only aspect, however, that makes it “much more significant” is that for Christian self-definition, the Davidic Kingdom enables an ideological linkage between ancient, nostalgic Israel and nascent Christianity. This ideological and nostalgically inspired prioritization is emphasised by the insistence that so-called “Jewish Apocalypticism” has links to—and as such is legitimated by— “biblical literature.” While the links are not surprising—this was part of the mythological bricolage that the apocalyptic writers were working with (Levi-Strauss 1995 [1978])—Stone’s statement assumes that: 1) the biblical literature was hermetically sealed from outside influence; 2) that the apocalyptic literature, composed under Hellenistic domination, remained purely “Jewish” and 3); that the non-Jewish writings were somehow less “valid” for those who wrote them than their Jewish counterparts. While all three assumptions are fundamentally flawed, they do illustrate the scholarly prioritization of the standard Christian mythical narrative. The academic re-entrenchment of such views has helped maintain the sui generis status of Judaism generally—and Jewish apocalypticism in particular—as a legitimate way of keeping the proper pedigree for sans pareil Christianity. Interestingly enough, this discursive need to segregate Second Temple Judaism from the greater Hellenistic context of the time is primarily a preoccupation of Christian or Christian-centric scholars and not an overriding concern for their Jewish or Jewish-centric counterparts. According to Daniel Boyarin, “many, if not most scholars of Judaism currently do not operate with an opposition between Judaism and Hellenism, seeing all Jewish culture in the Hellenistic period (including the anti-Hellenists) as a Hellenistic Culture.” (Boyarin 2004, 18 emphasis mine; see also Saldrini 1982; Gruen 1998). One notable exception to this is Laurence Schiffman (see Chapter 3) who constructs the Dead Sea Scrolls community as a Judaism insulated from its Hellenistic context (Schiffman 1994, 32–33, 97). 42

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2.6 HELLENISTIC SYNCRETISM AND THE FOURTH SIBYLLINE

ORACLE

The entrenchment of the standard Christian mythic narrative endemic within the scholarly discourse on apocalypticism, becomes clearer when we look at the Fourth Sibylline Oracle. While the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, unlike the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, does “have good claims to Jewish authorship” (Stone 1984, 421) and has “multiple parallels in Jewish apocalyptic texts” (Collins 1979a, 4), scholars have nonetheless discursively deployed this text as fundamentally different from the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, in particular because the Fourth Sibylline Oracle is a product of “syncretistic” or “corrupted” Judaism (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245). As with the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle is constructed in the form of a vaticinium ex eventu (4 Sib. Or 2–3; but also 125–30) that schematized history into four kingdoms and ten generations (4 Sib. Or 49–100), and expressed discontent with foreign domination by “foretelling” the Roman invasion of Judea. “An evil storm of war will come upon Jerusalem / from Italy, and it will sack the great Temple of God” (4 Sib. Or 115–16). There will also be an absence of proper religious practice, when “faith and piety perishes from among men” (4 Sib. Or 152; see also 4 Sib. 6–23), and nostalgic “Israel” will “put their trust in folly and cast off piety / and commit repulsive murders in front of the Temple” (4 Sib. Or 117–18). The result of the corruption of nostalgic Israel will result in social upheavals, such as murder, dishonesty, abuse, adultery (4 Sib. Or 31–33) and, in particular, persecution of those who hold to the true, nostalgic religious ways. “No one will take account of the pious, but they will even / destroy them all, by foolishness, very infantile people / rejoicing in outrages and applying their hands in blood” (4 Sib. Or 156–58; see also 4 Sib. Or 136). As with the Judeo-Christian and Egyptian apocalypses, these social upheavals, because of Israel’s place as axis mundi, are juxtaposed with natural disasters, in particular with the eruption of Vesuvius in 79 CE: But when a firebrand, turned away from a cleft in the earth / in the land of Italy, reaches to broad heaven / it will burn many cities and destroy men. Much smoking ashes will fill the great sky / and showers will fall from heaven like red earth. Know then the wrath of the heavenly God / because they destroy the blameless tribe of the pious. (4 Sib. Or 130–36)

The Fourth Sibylline Oracle also predicts that there will be a divine re-ordering of the world, where God first destroys “the whole earth . . . the whole race

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of men / and all the cites and rivers at once” (4 Sib. Or 175–76), and then re-orders creation along nostalgic lines: When God gives spirit and life and favour / to these pious ones. Then they will all see themselves beholding the delightful and pleasant light of the sun. Oh most blessed, whatever man live to that time. (4 Sib. Or 189–93)

Points of contact between the Fourth Sibylline Oracle and the Judeo-Christian and Egyptian apocalyptic texts cannot be ignored. However, unlike Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, which are discursively excluded because of their “foreignness,” the Fourth Sibylline Oracle is an obviously Jewish text that shares the mythological schema of ancient Judaism and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses. For example, along with the direct literarily dependence of the Fourth Sibylline Oracle on the Hebrew Bible (Isa 1:16 and 4 Sib. Or 165; Ezek 37:1–10 and 4 Sib. Or 181) and other Judeo-Christian apocalypses (4 Sib. Or 182 & 4 Ezra 7:32, 2 Bar 50:2 43 ), there are very specific apocalyptic concerns that are shared among the texts, in particular the preoccupation with the destruction of Jerusalem (4 Sib. Or 115–130; 4 Ezra 10: 20–21), Jewish religious and purity practices (4 Sib. Or 24–39; Dan 9:11) and the sovereignty of the Jewish God (4 Sib. Or 6–24; 2 Bar 14:7; 21:4–5). However, despite these points of contact, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle has been constructed by scholars as unpalatable to scholarly reconstructions of apocalypticism, not because of its intellectual significance, but because of the need to construct a sui generis Judaism. While it is proper to acknowledge the similarities between the Fourth Sibylline Oracle—and the other Jewish Sibylline Oracles in general—and the “many pagan compositions” (Stone 1983, 421) of Late Antiquity, to call these texts “legitimately” apocalyptic amounts to academic, and ideological, heresy: First, in some measure, it seems that the same springs of oriental discontent with Hellenistic Greek rule fed some of the apocalyptic political formulations and those of the Sibylline Oracles . . . in some extended political prophecies, the Sibylline books show an appreciation of the overall structure of history resembling that which can be detected in the political apocalyptic visions . . . Yet it should be stressed, in spite of such analogies, the two genres are quite different. . . .The Sibylline Oracles are written as political and religious propaganda, directed outward at the pagan world; a function difficult to attribute to the apocalypses. (Stone 1983, 422, emphasis mine) 43

See also Matt 3:1–6 and Mark 1:4.

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This is a fundamental distinction created in the service of constructing a sui generis Judaism as part of the Christian mythical narrative. Since the apocalypses are understood as essentially apolitical, the Jewish Sibylline Oracles are in turn, constructed as overtly political. Because politics is “a function difficult to attribute to the apocalypses” the overt political nature of the Fourth Sibylline Oracle cannot be used to buttress the Christian mythical narrative that requires a “pure,” sui generis Judaism, or more importantly, a universal and essentially trans-historical Christianity. The insistence on the “political” elements of the Sibylline Oracles is also entwined with conceptions of what is “purely Jewish” and what is “Hellenistic” or “syncretistic.” Because the tradition of revelatory oracles delivered via a “sibyl” is “a widely attested phenomenon in the ancient world” (Collins 1983, 317), this implied that there is an element of syncretism within the “Jewish” Sibylline Oracles and, as such, guarantees their exclusion from any list of, or use in, legitimate and “pure” apocalyptic reconstruction. However, the deployment of “political elements” is simply a red herring that obscures the value of the texts and distracts from the ideological agenda of the categoriser. Because the initial assumption is that “purely” Jewish works—by virtue of their “religious status”—cannot be political, then the Sibylline Oracles, as representing texts that are either “syncretistic” or unpalatably Jewish are therefore, by virtue of the system, overtly political. “Political” is simply a cipher for not Jewish enough. Again, as with the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, there is a need to keep the legitimate apocalyptic expression non-political to maintain ideological creditability. Hence, while the Fourth Sibylline Oracle is Jewish, it is also obviously syncretistic.

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Like the constructed stories of the ancient Israelites, who mythically cast themselves as outsiders conquering the neighbouring Canaanites in an effort to distinguish themselves from the other groups from “whom they cannot otherwise be distinguished” (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245), scholars have tried to configure the Judeo-Christian apocalypses as textual “outsiders” that are the pre-eminent expression of apocalypticism in the Ancient Near and Middle East, despite obvious parallels with extraneous texts. But as with any system of categorisation that postulates a clear-cut distinction between “this” and “that” or “us” and “them,” there are always instances and examples where the artificiality of the system is placed into a critical tension that exposes its ideological imperatives. In particular, this tension becomes critical with a comparative enterprise that involves, not a “remote other” but a “proximate other.” [W]hile difference or “otherness” may be perceived as being either LIKE-US or NOT-LIKE-US, it becomes most problematic when it is TOO-MUCH-LIKE-US or claims to BE-US. It is here that the real urgency of theories of the “other” emerge, called forth not so much by a requirement to place difference, but rather by an effort to situate ourselves. (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245)

Hence, when scholars who analyze apocalyptic discourse encounter the Persian apocalypse Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, the “uniqueness” of the JudeoChristian apocalypses as an indication of sui generis Judaism begins to fall apart.

2.7 GENRE-NESS AND ZAND-I VOHUMAN YASN—THE CENTRE CANNOT HOLD To remain an effective discursive tool for the standard Christian mythic narrative, the discourse on apocalypticism has much at stake in keeping “Jewish” and “non-Jewish” works separate. For example, apocalyptic themes found in such texts as the Asclepius Apocalypses and the Potter’s Oracle, while similar to their Judeo-Christian counterparts, are dismissed as “foreign” political expectation. Also, the various Jewish Sibylline Oracles—in particular the Fourth—are also, when compared to the apocalypses, discursively discounted as the corrupted product of syncretism. For scholars, there is an overriding need to keep “non-Judeo-Christian” texts as discursively separate from “Judeo-Christian” texts as possible in an effort to preserve ideological purity. If there is any contact between these groups of texts it is in the form of one-way cultural diffusion, where the “pure” expressions of Jewish apocalypticism are “diluted” in “foreign” texts (Boyce

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1984, 71). If any borrowing occurred, it has been taken from the prestigious sui generis Judaism (Walton 1989, 235–36). However, because there are multiple points of contact between foreign texts and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, questions are bound to arise. Hence scholars deploy the signifier of “genre” to ensure that JudeoChristian texts are recognized as the most legitimate expression of apocalypticism. Hence, while the “genre itself and its relationship to allied literary types are not yet adequately understood in all their details . . . it is usually possible to decide where a given work is an Apocalypse” (Stone 1984, 393). This deciding feature—more often than not—has been determined by a given text’s palatability for the construction of a sui generis Judaism that can serve as pedigree for sans pareil Christianity. While not designated as such by ancient writers, 46 modern scholars have nonetheless identified a distinct literary genre from Late Antiquity that has been retro-actively labelled “apocalypse.” This title is, perhaps, unfortunate, considering the confusion 47 that the use of genre has provoked within the discourse of apocalypticism as a whole. 48 For while the genre is perhaps the most recognizable expression of apocalyptic ideas, it should be noted that it is only a small fraction of the vast amount of texts from the Ancient 46 “The word ‘apocalyptic’ is a modern invention, deriving from the wish to conceptualize the field of research on the affinities between the Apocalypse of John and other works of its time” (Sacchi 1990, 26). 47 Part of the problem can perhaps be attributed simply to the genre’s designation, since not all texts that are understood as apocalypses are labelled as such (Daniel or 1 Enoch) nor do all documents labelled as such (The [Second] Apocalypse of James) fit the criteria of the genre. 48 The “[a]pocalyptic was that something that stood, or was presumed to stand, behind the apocalypses . . . The modern problem therefore started with the world ‘apocalypse’ within whose semantic field an old problem was hiding, one already old for the authors of the first century, that of the guarantee of truth. However the central problem was not grasped by modern scholarship. Attention was focused on another [issue]: the works already called apocalypses by ancient authors or early tradition had in common with each other and with other Jewish works [such as] elements of content and style that were readily visible. One knows intuitively that there would be something common to the Apocalypse of John and other Jewish works, especially contemporary ones. Thus in the research on this something whose existence was considered certain, apparent to perception even before reason, a name was given: apocalyptic. But the problem of form and literary character was not distinguished from that of history and content” (Sacchi 1990, 39).

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Near and Middle East that contain apocalyptic themes. And while the genre is a distinct literary expression, with clear-cut delineated features, 49 the accepted parameters of the genre as it stands now is also fundamentally JudeoChristian, with all the ideological imperatives this entails. However, when scholars deploy genre in academic reconstructions, rarely, if ever, are the historical circumstances of the texts, or their ideological imperatives, given consideration. Scholars have simply deployed the genre—and the JudeoChristian texts that comprise it—as a value-neutral, literary category which is “independent of historical consideration” (Collins 1979a, 1). And herein lies the problem. Despite the wide dissemination of apocalyptic material from the Ancient Near and Middle East, scholars have maintained that the texts that constitute the literary genre of apocalypses must by virtue of their special status also be the most legitimate expression of apocalypticism. Again, genre-ness has equalled apocalyptic-ness. Hence, when scholars who analyse apocalyptic discourse encounter the Persian Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, more often than not, the need to buttress the Christian mythic narrative takes over and repeatedly deflects attention away from the intellectual significance of the text. For while the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn shares, along with the Egyptian and Sibylline texts, the same structural and thematic concerns as the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, it also happens that the decidedly “non-Jewish,” “foreign” and “pagan” Zand-i Vohuman Yasn nonetheless fits all the literary criteria of the genre of apocalypse, something “that is otherwise virtually confined to Jewish texts” (Collins 1979c, 208). As with the Asclepius Apocalypse, the Potter’s Oracle, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn is a narrative cast in the form of vaticinium ex eventu with a schematization of history (chapter 1 and 3) 50 that foretells the author’s current political situation of discontent with foreign domination, in particular the Greeks (Boyce

According to John Collins, “an apocalypse is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world” (Collins 2003, 76). 50 See Daniel 2:31–34, where the four metals of the statue in Nebuchadnezzar’s dream are understood to represent four dominant kingdoms; a motif that is common in apocalyptic historical rendering. Compare with the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn’s use of the motif of four branches of a tree (Collins 2003, 73; Boyce 1984, 71). 49

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1984, 68), “the evil sovereignty of the ‘divs’ [The Greeks] having dishevelled hair and the seed of Aesam” (Zand 3:29). In a common apocalyptic motif, this foreign domination has led to social disorder, in which “all men will become deceivers . . . and great friendship will be of a different hue” (Zand 4:13), and to political upheaval, in which “the basest slaves will advance forward to the mastery of Iranian villages” (Zand 4:26). Following in proper apocalyptic fashion, the social and political crises lead to an end of proper, religious reverence— “During that most evil period, a bird will have more reverence than the Iranian religious man” (Zand 4:21)—in which even the pious lose faith. “[T]hose men of good faith, who will have professed this good Religion of Mazda-worship, will proceed in their ways and customs in disguised movements; they will not believe their own Religion” (Zand 4:55). The lack of proper piety will result in those who still practise the old nostalgic ways suffering from religious persecution under foreign domination: Men, who will have the sacred thread girdle on their waists will desire death as a boon, on account of the hurtful demands of the evil rule and the many a false regulation which they have come up to, whereby their life will not be worth living. (Zand 4:49–50)

Unsurprisingly, these social and religious calamities are not simply limited to the geo-political sphere, but resonate in the natural world as a series of both mundane and supernatural disasters, such as drought (Zand 4:42–44), the “raining of noxious creatures” (Zand 4:45), and deformities in new-born livestock, who “will be born very stunted and less skilful . . . they will have very little hair and very slender skin, their milk will not increase and they will have little fat” (Zand 4:47). As with “nostalgic” Israel in the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the Zandi Vohuman Yasn constructs Iran as an axis mundi, and as such, “the evil domination of the ‘divs’” not only affects the local area, but is felt “all over the world” (Zand 4:23), where the natural order is disrupted and inverted: [T]here will be burial of the dead and clothing of the dead. And they will hold it lawful to bury the dead, to wash the dead, to burn the dead, to carry the dead to water and fire, and to eat the dead matter and will not abstain from it. (Zand 4:23–24)

In the same manner as in the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, when the social tension reaches a crescendo, there will be a divine re-ordering, through a messianic agent named Pesyotan, who will move throughout Iran, reestablishing the proper, Mazdean religious practices and “extirpate the site

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of the idol-worshipers, that is, the seat of the ‘divs’” (Zand 7:37). In conjunction with the re-establishment of proper religious practices: [T]he illustrious Pesyotan [will] arrive to these Iranian villages which I, Auhrmazd, created, to the Arvand and the Veh rivers; when the wicked, those of the seed of darkness, the unworthy ones, see him, they will totter.” (Zand 7:39)

And so begins the apocalyptic resolution in which, at the hands of Pesyotan, “the divs [Greeks, who] are the seed of darkness [will] be smitten” (Zand 8:6) and native kingship is re-established. “May it be the good restorer of the throne of Religion and the State” (Zand 8:6). After the Greeks have been overthrown, there will also be a re-establishment of the proper religious and social order, in which “a hundred and fifty males who will be clad in sables . . . will assume the throne of their Religion and State” (Zand 8:7). The re-institution of the nostalgic society, will inaugurate a “golden age” when “Avarice, indigence, revenge, anger, lust, envy . . . will wane from the world. The wolf age will pass away and the lamb age will enter” (Zand 8:2–3). And finally, as with the Judeo-Christian texts (in particular Dan 12 and 2 Bar 51:10), this societal restoration will transcend the material world, and last into eternity. “Sosiyos will make the creatures pure again and resurrection and the final-most material existence will occur” (Zand 9:23; see also Zand 6:13). Comparing the thematic points of contact between the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the similarities are impossible to ignore. Under foreign domination and suffering religious persecution, the apocalypticist foretells that the divine will send a messianic agent who will not only overthrow the foreign invaders, but also re-establish society along nostalgic lines, giving the pious pride of place in the new order (Boyce 1984, 68). However, thematic similarities are rarely enough for scholars to treat Judeo-Christian apocalypses and other analogous texts in parity with each other. As noted, these thematic concerns can also be found in the “foreign” Asclepius Apocalypse, the Potter’s Oracle and the “syncretistic” Fourth Sibylline Oracle. No matter how telling, these thematic similarities are simply not enough to allow texts that do not service the Christian mythical narrative of a sui generis Judaism, to be considered as legitimate expressions of apocalypticism. While overt political concerns and religious syncretism are deployed as reasons for “foreign” texts to be excluded, scholars have also relied on the apparent value-neutral signifier of genre to keep non-JudeoChristian texts from being legitimate expressions of apocalypticism.

APOCALYPSES, APOCALYPTICS AND APOCALYPTICISMS

Judeo-Christian Apocalypses ↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

Judeo-Christian sui generis Judaism Apolitical Transhistorical Davidic Kingdom “Purely” Biblical Genre

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4 Sib., Egyptian Apocalypses ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

Pagan Foreign Political Historical Hellenism Syncretistic Oracle / Revelatory Dialogue

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But when one considers the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, the artificiality of the system begins to show. While sharing thematic and structural points of contact with the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn is also, by all literary criteria, part of the genre apocalypse. 51 Again, if we appeal to John Collins’ definition of the genre—arguably the most recognized and widelyused definition in scholarship—we see that: [A]n apocalypse is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another, supernatural world. (Collins 2003, 76)

As with Dan 7–12, Revelation, 1 Enoch, 2 Baruch and 4 Ezra, the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn fits—point for point—the criteria used for inclusion within the genre. 52 Collins has placed the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn as part of the “Historical” Apocalypse with No Otherworldly Journey, Type Ia; the same literary type as Dan 7–12, 1 Enoch, 4 Ezra and 2 Baruch. 52 Klaus Koch (1983 [1972], 21–23), like John Collins, understood that apocalypses as a literary type needed clarification, “which positively demand formcritical investigation and which, pending proof of the contrary, certainly convey the impression that there really was something like an apocalyptic type of writing” (Koch, 1983 [1972], 21). Hence, he developed a definition that included; 1) a discourse cycle, that extends over several chapters and involves a long dialogue between the apocalyptic seer and his heavenly counterpart; 2) Spiritual turmoil, as the result of an unexpected visual or auditory encounter with the supernatural; 3) In the form of paraenetic discourse, the apocalyptic seer draws conclusions for the reader, delineating an ethical stance; 4) The apocalypses tend to be narrated pseudonymously (an aspect that is not found in either the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn 51

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This situation has interesting consequences, in particular because scholars, who have deployed genre-ness as a cipher for apocalyptic-ness, have relied upon an understanding that the apocalypses are somehow transhistorical and universal: assumptions that nicely dovetail with the “essential” elements of the standard Christian mythic narrative. 53 So what happens when the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn occupies the same space thematically, structurally and literarily as the phenomenological genre of apocalypse? What happens to the clearly differentiated system that scholars have painstakingly built to sequester Judeo-Christian apocalypses from analogous expressions? The centre simply cannot hold.

Dan 7–12, Rev, 4 Ezra, 2 Baruch & 1 Enoch Genre Judeo-Christian Jewish Apolitical Transhistorical Davidic Kingdom “Purely” biblical / sui generis Judaism

Zand-i Vohuman Yasn ÍÎ // // // // // //

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As illustrated, by adhering to the standards used by scholars both to construct apocalypses in the service of creating a sui generis Judaism that can be appropriated for the Christian mythical narrative, the rightful inclusion of the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn in reconstructions effectively destroys the entire binary system. However, despite the intellectual significance of the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, a majority of scholars have at best minimalized its place, or at worst, utterly ignored it. The question is why? Why is the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn not assigned the same intellectually significance as the Judeo-Christian texts? The reason it appears, is the intellectual need to adhere to the standard Christian mythic narrative that requires a sui generis Judaism that can be appropriated by Christianity. or Revelation); 5) The language used within the apocalypses dictate their concealed meaning via the use of mythic images rich in symbolism. 53 This is true, even for John Collins, who, despite including the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn in the Type Ia constructions, insists that “Every individual apocalypse has some distinctive features, but this common core identifies a new macro-genre in the history of Jewish religious literature” (Collins 2003, 77 emphasis mine).

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Take for instance the few scholars who have included so-called “foreign,” “pagan” or “syncretistic” texts like the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn within their classifications of apocalypticism. For example, Mary Boyce, instead of rooting the apocalyptic symbol of bodily resurrection in a sui generis Judaism, finds its source in Persia: Among Zoroaster’s eschatological ideas was his teaching about the “future body,” that at the Last Day the bones of the dead will be clothed again in the flesh and re-animated by the soul (which has been existing apart, in heaven, hell or limbo, according to the individual judgement passed on it in death) . . . The importance which the doctrine of bodily resurrection attained in Christianity has given rise to a huge literature concerning it . . .and numerous attempts have been and still are being made to find antecedents for it in the Semitic world. These have been judged unsuccessful. (Boyce & Gernet 1990, 365–66, emphasis mine)

By finding one of the most important apocalyptic doctrines of sans pareil Christianity not within Judaism, but in Zoroastrianism, Boyce has thrown into question the whole notion of prestigious pedigree. If resurrection comes to Christianity via Zoroastrianism instead of “pure” Judaism, what does that say about the doctrine? Can Christianity be sans pareil—more than other religions—if one of its foundational doctrines does not have the required pedigree? Within the framework of the standard Christian mythical narrative, the answer is a resounding no. This idea of various aspects of Judeo-Christian apocalypticism finding antecedents outside of a sui generis Jewish context is also taken up by Norman Cohn, who states that: Ever since the days of Sumer, Mesopotamia had been renowned for its professional class of “wise men.” In Babylon some of these sages specialized in “cosmological wisdom”—astronomy, meteorology, the geography of the known world and mythical geography of paradise; while others specialized in “mantic wisdom,” the art of interpreting dreams. Thanks no doubt to the Babylonian Diaspora, the men who first created and established the genre of Jewish apocalyptic were able to draw on these traditions. It is surely no coincidence that . . . both the dreaminterpreter Daniel and the encyclopaedic Enoch have strong Babylonian associations. (Cohn 2001, 165–66)

Here, Cohn draws textual and class links between the “unique” Jewish religion specialists and those of their neighbours, throwing doubt on the understanding of a sui generis Judaism. And finally, Anders Hultgard draws a direct influence between the Judeo-Christian apocalypses and texts such as the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE One may say that the emergence of an apocalyptic eschatology among the Jews and Christians in the Hellenistic and Roman periods was propelled by the fruitful encounter with [Zoroastrianism], a religion deeply concerned with the struggle of good and evil and formally assured of the ultimate restoration of the world. (Hultgard 2003, 60)

The correlation is obvious. When scholars treat “foreign” texts like the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn in parity with other “authentic” apocalyptic expressions, there is not—nor can there be—a prioritization of the Christian mythic narrative, in particular of a sui generis Judaism that constructs “legitimate” apocalypticism. As shown, when “foreign” texts like the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn are included in historic classifications of apocalypticism, not only does the binary system used in the standard Christian mythic narrative framework break down, but the prioritization of Judeo-Christian apocalypses, that has dictated apocalyptic discourse, is thrown into question. However, the scholars who include the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn in apocalyptic reconstructions are far from the norm. “While some scholars have traced this idea to the teaching of Zoroaster in Ancient Iran [Cohn, 2001] a clearer line of transmission can be traced to the Hebrew Prophets” (Collins 2003, 64). While a statement such as this does acknowledge the thematic links between the texts, in essence it still constructs a pristine, JudeoChristian expression that is grounded on a unique and sui generis Judaism. Despite the negative or limited value this construction gives to texts like Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, the stance taken by Collins is nonetheless in the minority. The majority of scholars who study apocalyptic discourse simply refuse to engage these texts. Despite thematic, structural and conceptual similarities between Judeo-Christian texts and other “pagan” expressions, there is an overriding need to prioritize texts that are palatable to the standard Christian mythic narrative. And when texts such as the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn—that fit all the criteria of legitimate apocalypticism—are encountered, scholars, more often than not, simply ignore it in the service of maintaining ideological orthodoxy. Hence, if texts like the Potter’s Oracle, the Asclepius Apocalypses, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle and the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn are included in academic reconstructions, it calls into question the Christian mythical framework that has dictated how apocalyptic discourse is understood; an ideology that appears to be more significant to modern scholarship than it was to the authors of the apocalyptic writings of antiquity.

3 THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS AS A CIPHER FOR JUDAISM 3.1 INTRODUCTION In any discussion on apocalypticism of Late Antiquity, the texts discovered in 1947 at Khirbet Qumran—collectively known as the Dead Sea Scrolls 54 —can hardly be ignored. Even more than the non-canonical apocalypses of 1 Enoch, 4 Ezra or 2 Baruch, the Dead Sea Scrolls represent a kind of apocalyptic Shangri-la, a discursive potential both in regard to the type of Judaism they could represent and how that Judaism could in turn be deployed as a method of shoring up the sans pareil claims of the Christian mythic narrative. This potentiality, however, has caused problems for scholars when they have tried to deploy the Dead Sea Scrolls within the same framework as has been constructed for the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, particularly in regard to both the kind of apocalypticism within the Scrolls, and reciprocally, the “legitimacy” or sui generis nature of their source. As noted in Chapter 2, scholars have used the genre apocalypse as a final litmus test of apocalyptic authenticity. In other words, as a strategy for parsing off texts that are “foreign” (the Asclepius Apocalypse) or “syncretistic” (Fourth Sibylline Oracle) from those Judeo-Christian texts (Daniel or Revelation), genre-ness has equalled apocalyptic-ness. However, despite the undeniable thematic similarity between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Judeo-Christian texts, the actual apocalyptic-ness of the Scrolls is not rooted in the genre apocalypse. Beyond a few copies of both known apocalypses (Daniel and 1 Enoch) and unknown examples (the Vision of Amran 4Q543–548 and The 54 Following convention, I will refer to collected texts discovered at Khirbet Qumran as the Dead Sea Scrolls. However, this is not to imply that the library was collected as a single unit, nor was it necessarily read as one. “The scrolls may represent physically one archive but their contents cannot be analysed as if constructing a single system. The texts reflect different perspectives, histories, however much these are related to each other” (Davies 2002, 84).

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Vision of Daniel 4Q243, 4Q244, 4Q245), the bulk of apocalyptic material is found in a variety of other literary genres (Collins 1979b, 48) such as serekim (Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association 1QS, 4Q255–64a, 5Q11; War Scroll 1QM, 4Q491–496), pesharim (A Commentary of Habakkuk 1QpHab) and hodayot (The Coming of Melchizedek 11Q13). 55 Yet unlike various “pagan revelatory dialogues” (the Potter’s Oracle) or “syncretic Jewish oracles” (the Fourth Sibylline Oracle) the “legitimacy” (i.e., the discursive potential for establishing a sui generis pedigree for the standard Christian mythical narrative), of the “non-genre” apocalypticism within the Dead Sea Scrolls is accepted (Garcia Martinez 2003, 89–90). While this does not mean that the community of the Dead Sea Scrolls was not apocalyptic, it does raise the issue of how scholars—considering the “clear-cut” binary system used to sequester legitimate (Judeo-Christian) apocalyptic texts from other expressions (Chapter 2)—rationalize the “non-genre” apocalypticness of the Dead Sea Scrolls. If for scholars genre-ness has equalled apocalypticness, and this distinction has been used to illustrate the “inherent” differences between texts such as Daniel and the Asclepius Apocalypse, or Revelation and the Potter’s Oracle (Stone 1984, 422; Attridge 1979, 160), how can the Dead Sea Scrolls represent a legitimate “apocalyptic community” (Collins 1997, 10; Cross 1995 [1961]) when there is no broad adherence to the genre? To address this incongruity, two questions must be asked: first, what is it about the Dead Sea Scrolls, despite their “clumsy” 56 fit with the model that used Jewish apocalypticism as a method as establishing a sui generis Judaism that has necessitated their acceptance as a legitimate apocalyptic expression? And second, how have scholars—despite the various “proofs”

55 As the titles of the various Dead Sea Scrolls change depending on the translation used, this book will use both the numeric label and the text designation from Wise, Abegg Jr. and Cook. 1996. The Dead Sea Scrolls: a New Translation. 56 Due to the binary nature of the discourse used in parsing off “authentic” apocalyptic expressions from “foreign” texts, scholars—in the interest of maintaining the Scrolls’ Judeo-Christian legitimacy—have been forced to deploy the Scrolls outside of the system, designating the texts as either the “Qumran Literature” (Stone 1984, 423) or “the sectarian literature” (Dimant 1984, 487). In either case, the reality that the Dead Sea Scrolls are both apocalyptic yet without apocalypses, both Jewish and syncretistic, and “religious” with strong political overtones, essentially shatters the arbitrary binary discursive system that has been erected by scholars to deploy “legitimate” apocalyptic-ness.

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offered to discount non-genre texts as illegitimate apocalyptic expressions (Chapter 2)—rationalized this a priori acceptance? The answer to the first question appears to be based primarily on the potential the Scrolls have to construct a sui generis Judaism that can act as pedigree for the standard Christian mythical narrative (see Figure 1). Beyond what is actually written in the Dead Sea Scrolls themselves, there is another level of meaning based on an overriding mystique and value that is attached to the corpus (Wise, Abegg, Jr. and Cook 1996, 3). Since the Dead Sea Scrolls’ discovery, their value has not only been measured in how they can help reconstruct the various Judaisms of Late Antiquity in the intertestamental period, but also in how they could potentially function as a Jewish stamp of legitimatization for a variety of Christian claims (J.Z. Smith, 1990, 83). Much like the genre apocalypse, there is a potential in the Dead Sea Scrolls for a sui generis stamp of Jewish legitimacy, in particularly as “proof texts” for Christian self-identification, by verifying the validity of motifs found within the New Testament (VanderKam and Flint 2002), reinforcing some essential characteristics about Jesus (Fitzmyer 2000), or by acting as pedigree for nascent Christianity (Allegro 1984). 57 While the legitimacy of a given apocalyptic text has been based on its conformity to generic markers this is only one facet of the overriding enterprise of deploying apocalypticism as a means of establishing a sui generis Judaism to serve as pedigree for a “pure” Christianity. In other words, while literary features and thematic compatibility have served as ways of distinguishing “legitimate” apocalypticism from illegitimate, the actual raison d'être for establishing these distinctions has always been the construction a pure and “authentic” Judaism that can act as prestigious pedigree for Christianity (J.Z. Smith 1990, 83). Therefore, in answer to the second question regarding scholarly rationalizations, because of the Scrolls’ lack of adherence to the model of “genre-ness equals apocalyptic-ness,” there has been a concerted effort by scholars—to preserve the apocalyptic potential of the Dead Sea Scrolls—to identify the author(s) of the Scrolls as adherents of a recognizably “pure” and “authentic” Judaism. 58 And while there are a number of recognizable Judaisms of Late Antiquity to choose from, it is the Essenes who have been overwhelmingly identified as the authors of the Scrolls (VanderKam and See also Thiering. 1983; Eisenman. 1996. As opposed to the syncretistic Jews who wrote the Fourth Sibylline Oracle (Stone 1983, 422). 57 58

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Flint 2002, 240), an identification that is so persuasive that it has been essentially canonized as one of the “three legs” of the “Standard Model,” 59 the most widely used theoretical framework for understanding the origins of the scrolls. But what is it about the Essenes that makes them so congenial for scholarly reconstructions of the people responsible for the Dead Sea Scrolls? 60 This congeniality is a result of the potential Essene identification has for constructing a sui generis Jewish link with nascent Christianity and the standard Christian mythical narrative. Because the Essenes are understood as an “authentically” 61 Jewish group—one of Josephus’ “three philosophical sects among the Jews” (War 2, 8:2)—they are also, when compared to other Judaisms of the time, essentially anonymous. Unlike the Pharisees and Sadducees who are known to modern scholarship through a vast amount of ancient literature, 62 there are no positively identified Essene texts that specify their theology, organization or relationship to the other Second Temple Judaisms of late antiquity. In fact, what is supposedly known about the Essenes only comes from a smattering of secondary sources, such as Josephus, Philo of Alexandria or Pliny the Elder. Hence as both an unknown and yet still “authentic” Jewish group, the Dead Sea Scroll Essenes have the potential to be a Judeo-Christian tabula rasa that can be manipulated any number of ways, to offer prestigious pedigree for a sans pareil Christianity. But the Essene hypothesis, despite its ideological attractiveness, is facing serious challenges. 59 The “Standard Model” of Dead Sea Scroll origins is based on three interconnected “legs” or suppositions. The first “leg” is the “Essene Hypothesis,” which designates the authors of the scrolls as Essenes. The second leg is the “Mother House Hypothesis,” which posits a connection between the caves in which the scrolls were found and the ruined settlement of Khirbet Qumran. And finally the third leg postulates (based on the sectarian nature of the texts and their rather isolated location) that the Scroll group was strongly anti-Hasmonean (Wise, Abegg, Jr. and Cook 1996, 17–18). 60 While there are points of contact between what is known from ancient sources (in particular Josephus) about the Essenes and the Scroll group (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 242) the case for their authorship is far from airtight, in particular when one considers the points of divergence between what Josephus says and what is found in the scrolls on such issues as celibacy or slavery not to mention Josephus’ silence on the Qumran “Teacher of Righteousness.” 61 “Authenticity” or “legitimacy” in this context should be understood as that which is palatable to the Christian mythic narrative. 62 References to the Sadducees and Pharisees can be found in Josephus, the New Testament and rabbinic literature.

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In particular, Lawrence Schiffman has rejected the Essene hypothesis and the subsequent “Christianization of the scrolls” (Schiffman 1994, 16), and, by focusing on the legal elements of the collection, has determined that the authors were disenfranchised Sadducees. In rejecting the Essene hypothesis and de-emphasising the “apocalypticism” of the scrolls, Schiffman is attempting to re-claim them as a unique expression of Second Temple Judaism that is “legitimate” in its own right, and not simply the crucible of nascent Christianity (Schiffman 1994, 18–19). 63 However, because of Schiffman’s agenda to reclaim the Scrolls, 64 his deployment of the texts as “uniquely” Jewish (Schiffman 1994, xxiv, 32–33) actually constructs the texts as representing a phenomenon that, if not sui generis, is nonetheless a Judaism insulated from its Hellenistic context (Schiffman 1994, 97). Ironically, instead of distancing the Scrolls from their deployment in the service of a normative Judeo-Christianity, this construction so cleanly dovetails with a construction of a sui generis and “pure” Judaism, that it is almost as discursively malleable as that of the anonymous Essenes. By first looking at how scholars have construed the “apocalyptic community” of the Dead Sea Scrolls, this chapter will explore how the a priori assumptions used in the identification of the Scroll group (such as the accuracy of Josephus’ cleanly demarcated “Jewish philosophical schools”) constructs the community of Qumran as an insulated, non-Hellenized and hence “authentic” form of Judaism that can in turn be used to buttress Christianity’s claim of a prestigious “Jewish” pedigree. And second, this chapter will offer an alternative “source” for the Dead Sea Scrolls, one that is neither Essene nor Sadducean, but that is derived from one of the community’s own (overlooked) terms of self-definition and does not carry the implication of an isolated Judaism: the yahad.

Schiffman rightly claims that scholars “all too [often] describe the [Dead Sea Scrolls] in Christian terms, never really confronting the Jewish character of the corpus . . . [Instead scholars have looked at the texts] as though they were precursors of Christianity. These studies largely ignore the legal material such as A Sectarian Manifesto [4QMMT, 4Q394–399), instead placing emphasis on notions of eschatology—the doctrine of the End of Days” (Schiffman 1994, 17–18). 64 “The scrolls help us clarify our own relationship to the Land of Israel . . . the discovery of the scrolls binds contemporary Jews to their past through the land. For it was there that so much of ancient Jewish history took place. And it is there that the future of the Jewish people is being shaped” (Schiffman 1994, xxv). 63

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3.2 APOCALYPTIC-NESS OF THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS As noted above, the apocalyptic-ness of the Dead Sea Scrolls is not based on the corpus’ overwhelming adherence to the genre. In addition to four examples of the genre, 65 the most overt apocalyptic material in the Dead Sea Scrolls is found in the Damascus Document (Geniza A+B, 4Q266–272), the War Scroll (1QM, 4Q491–496) and the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association (1QS, 4Q255–264a, 5Q11). 66 Within these three texts, much like the genre apocalypse and their “foreign” counterparts, there is an adherence to the series of interconnected themes that have been used to indicate legitimate apocalypticism (see 2.4). 1) Vaticinium ex eventu is a narrative technique used within a number of Dead Sea Scrolls as a way of reinterpreting past Hebrew prophesies so that they can be read as anticipating the present “wicked age” and the coming punishment of God. For example, after re-interpreting Isaiah 7:17, Amos 5:27, 9:11 and Numbers 21:18, 24:17 in terms of his present context, the author of the Damascus Document states that oppression of Israel “is the verdict on all members of the covenant who do not hold firm to [God’s] laws: they are condemned to destruction by Belial. That is the day on which God shall judge” (Geniza A. 8:1–3. See also Geniza A. 1:1–2 and various pesherium, such as A Commentary on Habakkuk 1QpHab). 2) Nostalgic Israel: As with the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, various Dead Sea Scrolls have a nostalgic understanding of Israel that is either a special land or “state” (Geniza A. 1:3; 1QM Col. 19:3–8) or a people who “shall establish a foundation of truth . . . those of Israel that belong to truth and for Gentile proselytes who join the community” (1QS Col. 5:5–7), who stand in proper religious continuity with “the covenant of the fathers” (Geniza B. 8:18) and with God. “They shall [not] turn aside from His [God’s] unerring laws neither to the right nor the left” (1QS Col. 1:15). 3) Israel Compromised: The Dead Sea Scrolls also understand that this “special” or nostalgic Israel has been somehow compromised; either While there are copies of the apocalypses of Daniel and 1 Enoch in the Dead Sea Scrolls, the remaining two examples—the Vision of Amran 4Q543–548 and the Vision of Daniel 4Q243, 4Q244, 4Q245—are only preserved in fragmented form, and at best can only be tentatively identified as belonging to the genre. 66 Considering the number of copies of both the Damascus Document (7) and the Charter (13) that were found within the Qumran caves, plus the centrality of the War Scroll to the overall eschatological hopes of the group, scholars have determined that these works are “central in any attempt to understand the phenomenon of the scrolls” (Wise, Abegg Jr., and Cook 1996, 123). 65

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from within, by “the children of Israel, all their guilty transgressions and sins committed during the time of Belial’s domination” (1QS Col. 1:17–18) or from without: [w]hen the Man of Mockery appeared, who sprayed on Israel lying waters. . . [h]e brought down the lofty heights of old, turned [Israel] from paths of righteousness and shifted the boundary marks that the forefathers had set up to mark their inheritance. (Geniza A 1:14–16; see also Geniza B.8:13–18)

4) Societal Collapse: Unsurprisingly, because of the disregard of the Mosaic laws (1QS Col. 5:12; 4Q266 Frag. 1:15–16) and due to the influence of foreigners (1QM, Col. 1:1–2), the fabric of Jewish society has begun to collapse: For [Israel] sought flattery, choosing travesties of true religion; they looked for ways to break the law; they favoured the fine neck. They called the guilty innocent and the innocent guilty. They overstepped the covenant, violated the law; and they conspired together to kill the innocent, for all those who lived pure lives they loathed from the bottom of their hearts. (Geniza A. 1:18–21)

5) Cosmic Calamities: Due to the state of corruption that is in “Is-

rael” and because of its central position as an axis mundi, the world has fallen under the sway of not just a foreign hegemonic power such as the Romans, but the demonic “Sons of Darkness . . . the Kittim” (1QM) and their Demiurgical ruler “Belial [who] is unrestrained in Israel” (Geniza A. 4:13) and throughout the world (1QS Col. 1:17–18). 6) Divine Re-ordering: This present age of Belial is limited, however. “In his mysterious insight and glorious wisdom God has countenanced an era in which perversity triumphs, but at the same time appointed for [His] visitation He shall destroy such forever” (1QS Col. 4:18–19). During this divine re-ordering God shall intervene, “refin[ing] some of humanity so as to extinguish every perverse spirit from the inward parts of the flesh, cleansing every wicked deed with a holy spirit” (1QS Col. 4:20–21). This will not simply be a spiritual re-ordering, however. As with the genre apocalypses and the various “foreign” or “syncretistic” texts, there will also be a political and military re-ordering guided by God himself: [and in the seven]th [lot], when the great hand of God shall be lifted up against Belial and against all the forces of his dominion for an eternal slaughter . . . And the shout of the holy ones when they pursue Assyria. Then the sons of Japheth shall fall, never to rise again, and the Kittim shall be crushed without [remnant and survivor. So] that God of Israel

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After the defeat of Belial and his forces, God shall re-establish Israel 67 along nostalgic lines, and Israel will then dominate the world for an eternity: O Zion . . . Open [your gates forever, so that] the wealth of the nations [might be brought to you, and their kings shall serve you. All they that oppressed] you shall bow down to you, and [they shall lick the dust of your feet. O dau]ghters of my people, burst out with a voice of joy. Adorn yourselves with ornaments of glory, r[ule] over the kingdom of the . . .] [. . . ]. Your [. . .] and Israel for an [et]ernal dominion. (1QM, Col. 19:15–16. See also A Vision of the New Jerusalem 1Q32, 2Q24, 4Q544–555, 5Q15, 11Q18)

Much like the genre apocalypses and the various “syncretistic” and “foreign” texts explored in Chapter 2, the Dead Sea Scrolls adhere to the various themes of apocalypticism, showing the authors’ discontent with GrecoRoman rule. However, because of their “piety,” God will intervene on their behalf and will help establish the apocalyptist’s goal of a new, nostalgic Israel. As noted in Chapter 2, adherence to these apocalyptic themes is rarely enough to countenance identifying non-Jewish texts as apocalyptic. Normally the litmus test of apocalyptic-ness has been genre-ness. So how can the Dead Sea Scrolls discursively function as “legitimate” apocalyptic expression? It appears that the Dead Sea Scrolls function as legitimately apocalyptic because of their discursive potential. While scholars are aware of the “foreign” authorship of the Potter’s Oracle, Asclepius, and the process of “Hellenization” that produced the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, the authors of the Dead Sea Scrolls are, despite claims to the contrary, essentially unknown. And because they are unknown, there is great potential for the Dead Sea Scrolls to be a transitional link between an “authentic” Second Temple Judaism and nascent Christianity.

3.3 LET’S TALK ABOUT SECTS—THE ESSENES AND SADDUCEES Since the time of the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, “scholars have attempted to identify the Qumran sect with one of the groups known to have Within the Damascus Document this political re-ordering will not include the re-instalment of the Davidic line, but “[w]hen the total years of the present age are complete, there will be no further need to be connected to the house of Judah, but instead each will stand on his own tower” (Geniza A. 4:10–12). 67

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existed in Second temple times” (Schiffman 1994, 81). The problem has always been, however, which Second Temple group the scrolls belonged to. Therefore, much like Adam gained power over the world’s creatures by naming them (Gen 2:20) so too have scholars gained a discursive power 68 over the Dead Sea Scrolls by identifying the community that produced and collected the texts. Considering the discursive potential the Dead Sea Scrolls have for shoring up the standard Christian mythical narrative that requires a sui generis Judaism for pedigree, it is unsurprising that their identity has been the focus of so much scholarly discussion. 69 Because of the scholarly insistence on the lack of a recognizable title of self-definition within the Dead Sea Scrolls, 70 identification of the group— either the authors of the texts, or their collectors—has been based primarily on descriptions found in secondary sources. And while the works of Pliny the Elder and Philo of Alexandria are often cited, it is two texts by the Jewish historian Flavius Josephus, Antiquities of the Jews and Jewish War that have been the models for designating the group affiliated with the Dead Sea Scrolls. For example: At this time [the rule of King Jonathan 152–142 BCE] there were three different sects among the Jews who had different opinions concerning human actions; the one was called the sect of the Pharisees, another the sect of the Sadducees and the other the sect of the Essenes. (Ant 13. 4:10; see also War 2. 8:2)

Although a few scholars have insisted that the scroll group was derived from the Pharisees, 71 the two main contenders from these “three philosophical sects among the Jews” (War 2. 8:2) for Scroll authorship have been the Essenes and the Sadducees. A) Essenes From the first press release in April, 1948, announcing the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 240) the favoured authors / “For in naming something one is able to deploy the subject within a given context” (Foucault 1972, 44–45). 69 “Classification, then, is hardly mere jargon. Neither is it simply the passive recognition of already existing values and identities. Instead, it is evidence of both prior interests and upcoming consequences” (McCutcheon 2007, 176). 70 This is simply not the case. See 3.5. 71 For example, Ginzberg (1979) has proposed that the Dead Sea Scrolls are of Pharisaic origin. 68

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collectors of the texts in academic reconstructions has been the Essenes (Wise, Abegg Jr. and Cook 1996, 14). Based primarily on the writings of Josephus, the Essene hypothesis does have multiple, if not conclusive, points of contact with the texts. For example, Josephus states that those who wish to enter the Essenes “must let what they have be common to the order” (War 2. 8:3), an idea that is echoed in the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association which states that those joining the group must “take steps to incorporate his property, putting it under the authority of the Overseer together with that of the general membership” (1QS Col. 6:19–20). According to Josephus the Essenes also only allowed a new member to join after “he is prescribed the same method of living which they use, for a year.” If the novice shows aptitude he then serves an additional two-year probationary period, “and if he appears to be worthy, they then admit him into their society” (War 2. 8:7). Again, in the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association, it states that new initiates must also pass a trial period of one year, with oneyear probation (not two) before becoming a full member of the community (1QS Col. 6:13–23). Josephus also tells us that the Essenes, as opposed to both the Pharisees and Sadducees, emphasize that “fate governs all things, and that nothing befalls men but what is according to its determination” (Ant 8. 5:9). Likewise, throughout the Dead Sea Scrolls there is a strong emphasis on pre-destination: “Before things came to be, He [God] has ordered all their designs, so that when they do come to exist—at their appointed times as ordained by His glorious plan—they fulfil their destiny, a destiny impossible to change” (1QS Col. 3:15–16). Finally, there are also some striking agreements between Josephus and the Dead Sea Scrolls in the finer details. For example, Josephus mentions that the Essenes “avoid spitting in the midst of them, or on the right side” (War 2. 8:9), a prohibition that is echoed in Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association which stipulates that “anyone who spits into the midst of a session of the general membership is to be punished” (1QS Col. 7:13). However, despite the similarities between parts of Josephus’s depictions of the Essenes and the information found in the Dead Sea Scrolls, the “Essene hypothesis” is far from airtight. For example, Josephus makes it quite clear that the majority of the Essenes, “while they do not absolutely deny the fitness of marriage,” are nonetheless celibate. “They [the Essenes] neglect wedlock . . . [and] guard against the lascivious behaviour of women, and are persuaded that none of them [women] preserve their fidelity to one man” (War 2.8:2). However, within the entire corpus of Dead Sea Scrolls, there is no explicit command

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to be celibate (Wise, Abegg Jr. and Cook 1996, 25). On the contrary, numerous passages seem to presuppose either that group members will be married (Geniza B. 6:6–9, 4Q27. Frag.1 Col. 1, The Temple Scroll 11Q19–20, Col. 6, 3:10–15), or that women can be initiated into the sect (Charter for Israel in the Last Days Col. 1:3–11). Moreover, Josephus seems to assume that the Essenes did not practice slavery (Wise, Abegg, Jr. & Cook 1996, 25). However, both Ordinances (4Q159, 4Q513–514) and the Damascus Document (Geniza A+B, 4Q266– 272) have rules for governing the treatment of slaves. And while these inconsistencies have been rationalized to maintain the Essene hypothesis, 72 Josephus nonetheless is completely silent on what seem to be central elements of the community. For example, one concept that “unifies the scrolls more than any other sectarian element” (Wise, Abegg Jr. and Cook 1996, 25) is God’s commandment to Israel to follow a 364 day solar calendar instead of a 354 day lunar calendar (11Q19–20, A Sectarian Manifesto 4QMMT; 4Q394–399). Yet Josephus makes no mention of this issue. The scrolls also emphasise the role of the priestly class in group leadership (Geniza A. 3:21), but Josephus who, by his own admission, was both a member of a priestly family (Life 1) and had spent three years in his youth with the Essene community (Life 2), says nothing of this. Finally—and perhaps most importantly—Josephus fails to mention one of the most distinctive elements of the Dead Sea Scrolls: the pseudonym of the mythic / historical founder of the sect, the Teacher of Righteousness (Geniza A. 1:11; Commentaries on Psalms 4Q171, 4Q173, 1Q16 Col. 3:15–17; 1QpHab 2:1–2; Thanksgiving Psalms 1QH, 1Q35, 4Q427–432). Despite these inconsistencies, the majority of scholars nonetheless still view the Dead Sea Scrolls as a collection of texts affiliated with the Essenes (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 250). However, there is still a vocal minority who do not accept it.

72 To rectify various inconsistencies, scholars have constructed two groups of Essenes, those that live in the city and marry (Geniza A 12:19) and those that live in the camps such as in Qumran and do not marry (Geniza A 12:22–23). However excavations of a graveyard at the Qumran site have found the bones of children (Schiffman 1994, 51).

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B) Sadducees The second candidate for the authorship of the Dead Sea Scrolls—as proposed by Lawrence Schiffman—is an offshoot of the Sadducees. According to Schiffman, after the Maccabean revolt, while some of the Sadducean party remained in Jerusalem as part of the official temple priesthood, “a small devoted group of Sadducee priests probably formed the faction that eventually became the Dead Sea sect” (Schiffman 1994, 75). This conclusion is based on two pieces of information: the linguistic link between the Hebrew “[sons of] Zadok” and the Greek word Sadducee, and the text A Sectarian Manifesto (4QMMT, 4Q394–399). Within many of the Scrolls (for example, the Damascus Document), there are references both to the Zadokite priesthood as leaders of the community and the “sons of Zadok; they are the chosen of Israel” (Geniza A. 3:3–4) as a common term of self-definition of the group. According to Schiffman, the Greek Σαδδουκαˆιος or “Sadducee” is derived from the name Zadok, the high priest of the Jerusalem Temple in the time of Solomon (Schiffman 1994, 74–75; Main 2000, 812). And while the linguistic connection between “Zadok” and “Sadducee” is seen by some scholars as tenuous (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 251) this link is reinforced by a text entitled A Sectarian Manifesto (4QMMT, 4Q394–399), 73 a “position paper” juxtaposing three conflicting points of view: a “we” representing the author, a “you” representing the intended audience, and a “they” who are not in accordance with what “we” think. One passage in particular, however, has drawn Schiffman’s attention. [C]oncerning streams of liquid, we have determined that they are not intrinsically [p]ure. Indeed, streams of liquid do not form a barrier between the impure and the pure. For the liquid of the stream and that in its receptacle become as one liquid. (4QMMT 16:55–58)

This statement, while in and of itself may seem unremarkable, nonetheless has striking parallels with the Mishna Yadaim: a record of the disagreements between the Sadducees and Pharisees of the Second Temple period. “The Sadducees say, ‘We cry out against you, O ye Pharisees, for ye declare clean an unbroken stream of liquid’” (Yad 4:7). This similarity, combined with the Greek transliteration of “Zadok,” has lead Schiffman to claim that the “we” of 4QMMT are a group of Sad73 Schiffman commonly designates A Sectarian Manifesto as the Halakhic Letter (Schiffman 1994).

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ducees or Sadducean sympathizers who, after the Maccabean revolt, left Jerusalem in protest of Pharisaic control of the Temple in 152 BCE, and established the Dead Sea Scroll community. Even after leaving Jerusalem, the Dead Sea Sect continued to refer to its side or its leader as the ‘Sons of Zadok.’ Our text [the Dam Doc] makes clear that the designation ‘Sons of Zadok’ is to be taken at face value. These were indeed Sadducees who protested the imposition of Pharisaic views in the Temple under the Hasmonaean priest. (Schiffman 1994, 87–88)

There is a certain elegance to Schiffman’s conclusions, one that has allowed it to survive in the teeth of the overwhelming scholarly agreement with the Essene hypothesis. 74 With only a slight variation—simply switching Essene with Sadducee—Schiffman is essentially able to maintain the other two “legs” of the “Standard Model,” in particular the Scroll group’s antiHasmonean tendencies. 75 However, as with the Essene hypothesis, the argument for a Sadducee source is far from conclusive: The fact that the Qumranites and the Sadducees agreed on some important legal views, means that they belonged to a similar legal tradition . . . but when one turns to the theological 76 beliefs of the Qumran community and those assigned to the Sadducees by ancient texts, one meets a number of fundamental contradictions. (VanderKam & Flint 2002, 251)

For example, Josephus states that the Sadducees rejected notions of predestination (Ant 8. 5:9), a stance that contradicts the strong elements of preFor example, scholars who have proposed alternative theories for the origins of the Dead Sea Scrolls (such as Barbara Thiering and Robert Eisenman) tend to get dismissed in scholarly circles. “But this is hardly peculiar to Qumran, though somehow the sectarianism of the texts seems to transfer itself more easily to the sectarianism of scholarship than in many other cases” (Davies 2000, 84). 75 However, a text entitled In Praise of King Jonathan (4Q448) throws into question the anti-Hasmonean leg of the Standard Model and seriously challenges its validity as a theoretical template for the Scroll Group, for as the title implies, the text appears to be a psalm of praise for “Jonathan, the king” (4Q448. Col. B 2, Col. C 8), the first Hasmonean monarch. 76 It is interesting to note the distinction made between the “legal” and the “theological” which assumes that there was a significant difference between the discourses of “politics” and “religion” in Late Antiquity (See Said, 1994 [1978]; Arnal, 2000). 74

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destination within the Dead Sea Scrolls (1QS Col. 3:13–Col. 4:26). Also, according to the New Testament, “The Sadducees say that there is no resurrection, or angel, or spirit; but the Pharisees acknowledge all three” (Acts 23:8). However, various scrolls seem to indicate that the author(s) believed in some form of resurrection (Redemption and Resurrection 4Q521 Frag.2 + Frag. 4 Col. 2:12), “spirit” (1QH Col. 4:17) and angelic beings (1QS Col. 3:20–22; Col. 3:13–Col. 4:26; 1QM). As with the Essene hypothesis, Schiffman’s Sadducean model, while having points of contact with the scrolls, nonetheless also diverges from them significantly, suggesting that the scroll group was neither fully Sadducean or Essene, but perhaps something in between. Yet, despite the inability to place the Scroll group firmly in any of the “three Jewish sects,” scholars are still ready to accept Josephus’ oversimplification of Judaism in First century Palestine. The question is: why? Why do scholars repeatedly insist on upholding Josephus’ simplistic rendering of the various Second Temple Judaisms when it is obvious that it is, at best, an incomplete history? 77 The reason for this appears to be that, for scholars, Josephus not only offers a convenient and recognizable label of identification, but by ascribing the scroll group to one of the “three philosophical sects among the Jews” (War 2. 8:2) it also offers a means of both insulating the texts from their environment and in essence keeping their discursive viability authentically “Jewish.”

3.4 THE JUDEO-CHRISTIANISATION OF THE SCROLLS Because the Dead Sea Scroll group has predominantly been understood as a “legitimate apocalyptic” community—with all the ideological inferences this entails 78 —there has been a reciprocal need for the scrolls to fulfill the requirements of the scholarly discourse on apocalypticism. And while they do contain genuinely apocalyptic themes (see 3.2), the lack of any overwhelming example of a “Qumran apocalypse” places the scholarly model of apocalypticism in tension because an essential and unique “Jewish-ness” is 77 In the Second Temple period, there were more than three Jewish groups, including some that are even mentioned by Josephus, if only in passing, such as the Zealots (War 4. 3:9) and the sicarii (War 7. 6:1). 78 “Until Jewish scholars entered the conversation about the scrolls contents, an entire genre of Christianizing studies was being published, interpreting the material as if it were a collection of proto-Christian rather than Jewish texts” (Schiffman 1994, 16).

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required in order to insulate the origins of Christianity from “ordinary” or “impure” religiosity (see Figure 1). For many scholars, identifying the Essenes with the Scrolls assures both the essential “Jewish-ness” of the texts and, through the points of contact with various elements of Christianity, acts as a way to authenticate the Christian mythical claims with a stamp of Jewish legitimacy. For example, when comparing some of the Dead Sea Scrolls with parts of the New Testament, VanderKam and Flint have stated that: The overall effect of several such texts (see 4Q246, 4Q521 and 4Q525) is to authenticate the words and actions of Jesus and the New Testament account in several instances. By the term authenticate we do not mean that certain scrolls prove that Jesus said the words or performed the actions reported in the Gospels. Such conclusions are beyond the scope of evidence of this kind. What we do mean is that specific saying and actions attributed to Jesus in several Gospel passages may now reasonably be viewed as authentic, since similar sayings or actions are recorded in certain key scrolls that predate him. (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 344 emphasis mine)

The key theme here is “authentication.” This is not simply a comparative enterprise where the intellectual significance of the New Testament and the Dead Sea Scrolls are juxtaposed and contrasted. That kind of comparison could just as easily be done between the New Testament and any number of texts, such as the “pagan” Asclepius Apocalypse or the Potter’s Oracle. “Authentication” implies a whole other level of evaluation, one that not only draws similarities but also offers validation for one text because of its links to another prestigious source. So in the same way that apologists have deployed Christianity as deriving its legitimacy from Judaism, so too have VanderKam and Flint deployed the New Testament as gaining authenticity by its similarities to the Dead Sea Scrolls. And while VanderKam and Flint are not promoting a Christian origin of the Scrolls—such as Thiering or Eisenman—their deployment of the Dead Sea material as “a Jewish stamp of authenticity” for the New Testament nonetheless nicely dovetails with the Christian mythical narrative that needs to construct a malleable “eschatological” community from the Dead Sea Scrolls (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 237) to serve as prestigious pedigree. Drawing a discursive link between Judaism, Christianity and the Scrolls is also used to authenticate the christological identity of Jesus. While Thiering and Eisenman are the best examples of this enterprise, their relatively marginal status in Dead Sea Scrolls scholarship has kept their constructions on the periphery (Davies 2000, 84). Even so, more “mainstream” scholars like Joseph Fitzmyer still find a Jewish stamp of authentication within the

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Dead Sea Scrolls for the christological claims of Jesus. For example, in reference to the Gospel use of “Son of God,” Fitzmyer has used the Scrolls as a way of giving this christological title a purely “Jewish” stamp of authenticity. Hence, despite comparable titles found in so-called “Hellenistic texts” (Fitzmyer 2000, 32), Fitzmyer has maintained that because the title can be found within the Dead Sea Scrolls (A Vision of the Son of God 4Q246 Col. 2:1) this acts as “Jewish” insulation of the christological claims of Jesus, superseding all other comparisons and, as with VanderKam and Flint, 79 authenticates New Testament concepts by assuring their pedigree. “Hence there is little reason to seek to explain the New Testament usage [of the Son of God title] as derived from Greco-Roman or Hellenistic sources” (Fitzmyer 2000, 33). 80 Here Fitzmyer not only grounds Jesus as “legitimately” Jewish, but also gives the christological claims made of Jesus the same stamp of authenticity. Finally, this Jewish stamp of authenticity has also been applied to nascent Christianity. In particular, John M. Allegro maintains that the Essenes, after the failed Jewish revolt of 68–70 CE, converted en masse to the Christian “Church.” 81 In the ultimate adoption of Jewish pedigree, Allegro constructs the Essenes as an essentially proto-Christian group that “incorporated Jews and gentiles, Romans and Greeks, slaves and freeman” (Allegro 1984, 202). 82 Basing his assumption on literary points of contact between the New Testament and the Dead Sea Scrolls (Allegro 1984, 18), 83 but also

79 “These [concepts] include Jesus’ claim to be Messiah in Luke 4:16–21. . .in light of 4Q521; Son of the Most High and Son of God as Jewish terms. [This] evidence runs counter to the views of some scholars. . .who view what Jesus is reported to have said and done against the backdrop of Greco-Roman philosophy (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 344, emphasis mine). 80 See also Raymond Brown (1979, 30–31) for an analogous argument for Dead Sea Scrolls offering a prestigious Jewish pedigree for Johannine dualism. 81 Allegro assumes that the early Christian movement was uniform, when in fact there were many Christianities of Late Antiquity (see Chapters 4 and 5). 82 See Romans 10:12. 83 In essence, Allegro maintains that the Pauline and Johannine texts of the New Testament can find literary precedents within the Dead Sea Scrolls which, in turn, authenticates them. “So in the continuum of religious tradition, we must now count the Pauline and Johannine writings more ‘authentic’ witnesses to the earliest beliefs of the Church, and the first three so-called synoptic ‘single-viewed’ Gospels, for all their easier reading and seemingly realistic portraits of the man

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on the “historic accounts” of both Acts and Church tradition, Allegro traces the rapid spread of the nascent Church to a mass conversion of disenfranchised Essenes to Christianity. [How else could one explain the] well-developed system of intercommunication, [the] cells around the Mediterranean, [the] highly organized funding arrangements and an accepted structure of authority ... [elements that can only be explained by] the Essenes who so swelled the number of converts to Christianity?” (Allegro 1984, 16)

According to Allegro, because the nascent Church borrowed so heavily from the Dead Sea Scrolls, when Qumran was overrun by the Romans the Christian Church was able to absorb the survivors because the Essene “messianic expectations were very much closer to those of their Christian mentors than anything that appears on the surface of the scrolls” (Allegro 1984, 16 emphasis mine). In a comparative enterprise worthy of Herodotus—one that ignores a whole series of methodological issues 84—Allegro deploys the Dead Sea Scrolls to provide a Jewish stamp of authenticity for not just elements of the New Testament, but for the entirety of Christianity. In other words, by having the Essenes convert to Christianity en masse after the failure of the Jewish revolt, Allegro manages to construct nascent Christianity as not only rooted in proper Judaism, but that which quite literally transcends and fulfils ancient Judaism (J.Z. Smith 1990, 83). While each of the above-mentioned scholars focused on a different element of Christianity to be authenticated via the Dead Sea Scrolls, what is perhaps most interesting is that in all three cases the Essenes are assumed a priori to be the authors of the texts (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 8; Fitzmyer 2000, 8; Allegro 1984, 16). Unless, of course, the Essenes were the actual precursors of nascent Christianity, these three deployments nicely illustrate the malleability the Essene hypothesis has in establishing prestigious Jewish Jesus and his friends, will command less confidence as factual records” (Allegro 1984, 15). 84 Barring the unsubstantiated claim of reading below what “appears on the surface of the scrolls” Allegro also assumes that the “traditional chronology” (Allegro 16, 1984) of both Acts and of Church tradition is accurate in presenting the “Church” as spreading out in ever widening circles from Jerusalem to Rome, from Jew to Gentile, as if it unfolded by divine plan. However, this construction of Christian history is “a fiction so well done that it has been read as factual history for nearly two thousand years” (Mack 1995, 230; see also 225–38 and Snyder 1991 [1985], 163–69).

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pedigree for the Christian mythic narrative. As an essential unknown, the Essenes can (to a greater or lesser degree) be convincingly deployed both to offer a Jewish pedigree for a variety of Christian claims and to sequester these sans pareil elements from the anathema of a “foreign” or “syncretistic” source. This agenda of maintaining the “authenticity” of the Dead Sea Scrolls, however, is not limited to the Essene hypothesis. Even scholars such as Lawrence Schiffman, whose agenda is clearly not to buttress Christian claims of legitimacy 85 and who is reacting to the scholarly “[c]hristianizing of the Scrolls” (Schiffman 1994, 16–18), still uses the Dead Sea Scrolls to construct an insulated Judaism that was segregated from its historical context. In essence Schiffman has created a non-Hellenised 86 and by implication more discursively authentic Jewish tradition with his deployment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. For example, using a series of binary contrasts (Schiffman 1994, 68– 69), Schiffman constructs the various Second Temple Judaisms before the Maccabean revolt as consisting of two groups: Hellenised and nonHellenised or Palestinian Jews. Palestinian Jews Hellenized Jews ↓ ↕ ↕ ↑

Rural Peasant / “Middle-Class” Hebraic Speaking Monotheistic

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Urban Aristocratic Greek Speaking Pagan

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85 In Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls, Schiffman states in his preface that “[t]his book sets before the public the real Dead Sea Scrolls, our most important collection of Jewish texts from the century before the rise of Christianity . . . At last, the Dead Sea Scrolls can be recognized for what they really were and are: the documents of various groups of Second Temple Jews [from] about 135 BCE–68 CE” (Schiffman, xiii, emphasis original). 86Through the scrolls “we gain a glimpse of an era characterized by several competing approaches to Judaism, each claiming a monopoly on the true interpretation of the Torah. All these approaches, with the exception of the extreme Hellenizers, demanded observance of the Torah’s commandments. They differed only on certain theological issues, in particular rulings of the Law and its interpretation” (Schiffman 1994, xxv, emphasis mine).

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According to Schiffman, while a majority of the Sadducees “had been involved in the extreme Hellenization leading up to the Maccabean revolt, most of the Sadducee lower clergy had remained loyal to the Torah and the ancestral way of life” (Schiffman 1994, 75). It is this Torah-friendly, lower tier, “middle-class” of priestly Sadducees, who broke away from Jerusalem in protest and who set up their own “authentically Jewish” sect near Qumran that produced the Dead Sea Scrolls. This anti-Hellenistic (i.e. “authentically” Jewish) tendency of the group is illustrated for Schiffman by the fact that: [m]ost of the [Dead Sea] texts are in Hebrew, with some 20 percent in Aramaic and a few in Greek . . . [t]his picture indicates that the community that collected and used these manuscripts was only minimally affected by Hellenism—the influence of Greek Culture. (Schiffman 1994, 32–33, emphasis mine)

However, as with those who hold to the Essene hypothesis, Schiffman is constructing a nostalgic Judaism, one that—even under Greek domination since the fourth century BCE—remained insulated from the influence of Hellenization. And while his construction has radically different aims from that of such scholars as Fitzmyer or Allegro, it still dovetails with the same agenda that needs a sui generis Jewish expression to serve as pedigree for nascent Christianity. This is not to say that the Dead Sea Scrolls are not “Jewish.” The texts are (as opposed to Greek, Egyptian or Roman) thoroughly “Jewish” in the sense that they were written by eastern Mediterranean Jews who were familiar with Torah and other Jewish ideologies found between 160 BCE–68 CE. However while scholars cannot agree on which type of nostalgic Judaism the Dead Sea Scrolls represents—either the Essene pedigree of Christianity, or the non-Hellenised, authentically “Jewish” Sadducees—there still appears to be a consensus that the Judaism of the Scrolls was somehow isolated from the Greco-Roman hegemony over the Eastern Mediterranean (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 340; Schiffman 1994, 32–33). While the various recognisable categories of Josephus have been used as a strategy for maintaining the “Jewish-ness” of the Dead Sea Scrolls, even those who do not follow either the Essene or Sadducee models still conceive of the Scrolls as representing a unique Judaism. For example, Shemaryahu Talmon maintains that, because of the lack of cohesion between Josephus’ account and the texts, the Scroll group should not be designated via Josephus, but should be rightly designated by the name they gave themselves.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE I insist on viewing the Community of the Renewed Covenant as a socioreligious phenomenon sui generis of Judaism at the height of the Second Temple Period . . . The Covenanters’ community is another tessera in the mosaic-like composition of the Jewish people at the turn of the era, in addition to Samaritans, Hasidim, Sadducees, Boethusians, Zealots, Essene, Pharisees and nascent Christianity, to name only the more prominent factions. (Talmon 1994, 6–7, emphasis mine)

This is a huge step in constructing the identity of the Scroll group. By rejecting the categories of Josephus, Talmon establishes “the Community of the Renewed Covenant” as one of many overlapping and divergent Judaisms of First century Palestine. Also, by insisting on a term of selfdesignation that is actually found in the texts (Geniza A+B 4Q266–272; Charter for Israel in the Last Days 1QSa, 1Q28a) Talmon also brings the Scroll group out of the ideological shadows cast by either the Essene hypothesis or the Sadducean model. However, Talmon, like Schiffman, Fitzmyer and Allegro, still constructs a Judaism that is somehow insulated from the influences of Hellenism. For example, while stating that the Scroll group was a product of “the Second Temple Period,” which could imply that the realities of Hellenistic hegemony had influence on them, his insistence that the Scrolls were also “sui generis of Judaism” explicitly constructs the “Community of the Renewed Covenant” as an insulated cultural phenomena. This insistence, however, does not take into account both the sectarian and dialectical nature of the texts. [T]hough the Qumran community was a sectarian group, its discourse cannot be thought of as a sort of mumbling to itself. Nothing that was said at Qumran can be understood without reference to the larger discursive context of second Temple Judaism. 87 (Newsom 2004, 3)

This dialectical context not only included contact with other Second Temple Judaisms, but also, within the Hellenised cultural context of First cen-

87 This is of course true for other configurations of Second Temple Judaism. “Rabbinic Judaism can be seen as a nativist reaction, a movement that imagines itself to be a community free of Hellenism, and therefore it is itself no less Hellenistic precisely because of its reaction. Inscriptions of purity against some ‘other’ hybridity are the bread and butter of heresiological discourses” (Boyarin 2004, 18).

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tury Palestine, must have encompassed “foreign” and “syncretistic” influences. 88

3.5 THE YAHAD AND THE CRUCIBLE OF APOCALYPTICISM As noted, the majority of scholars have attempted to designate the Dead Sea Scrolls group—based on the lack of any recognizable term of selfdefinition—as one of two “schools” found within the writings of Josephus. And while there are points of contact with what is known about both the Essenes and Sadducees, neither source convincingly fits with what the texts themselves say. However, because of the potential the Dead Sea Scrolls have for providing an “authentic” expression of Second Temple Judaism, scholars seem to have ignored the many terms of self-designation used within the texts in favour of the recognizable categories of Josephus. While a few scholars have used these terms (such as Talmon) they have nonetheless construed the scrolls as representing a nostalgic Jewish expression that was insulated from any “foreign syncretism,” an agenda that has more to do with issues of identity for the now, than it does with the historic realities of then. 89 But this still leaves the identity of the scroll group in question. If they are not the Essenes or Sadducees of Josephus’ description, who were they? The various influences that helped shape the Dead Sea Scrolls must also include the hegemonic power that ruled Judea before the Greeks or Romans. “Not an inch of territory [in the eastern Mediterranean] conquered by Alexander had not been held before him by the Achaemenians, so that wherever Hellenistic culture established itself in his wake it was on soil where Persians had been living, as members of the ruling people, for generations and where accordingly their religion had been long represented” (Boyce & Grenet 1990, 361). We find this indelible mark of cultural hegemony in Judaism via the strong links between Persian and Jewish apocalyptic texts, such as Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, Daniel and 1 Enoch (Boyce and Grenet 1990, 401). In the Dead Sea Scrolls evidence of this “foreign” influence can be found within the Book of Giants (4Q203, 1Q23, 2Q26, 4Q530–532, 6Q8) where Gilgamesh, as one of the children of the Enochic Watchers, laments about his struggle against the forces of Heaven. “[Gilgamesh said] I have made war against [the angles of God]; but I am not [. . .] able to stand against them, for my opponents [. . .] reside in Heaven, and they dwell in holy places” (4Q531 Frag. 1. 4–6). 89 “The scrolls help us clarify our own relationship to the Land of Israel . . . the discovery of the scrolls binds contemporary Jews to their past through the land. For it was there that so much of ancient Jewish history took place. And it is there that the future of the Jewish people is being shaped” (Schiffman 1994, xxv). 88

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In the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association—a charter or “constitutional statement” for the Scroll Group (Wise, Abegg and Cook 1996, 123)—we find one of the most common terms of self-definition used in the Scrolls: A text belonging to [the instructor, who is to teach the Ho]ly Ones how to live according to the book of the Yahad’s Rule . . . All who volunteer for His Truth are to bring the full measure of their knowledge, strength and wealth into the Yahad of God. . .All who enter the Yahad’s Rule shall be initiated into the Covenant before God, agreeing to act according to all that He has commanded and not to backslide because of any fear, terror, or persecution that may occur during the time of Belial’s domination. (1QS Col. 1 1–18, emphasis mine)

While the group at various times refers to itself as “Sons of Zadok,” “The Renewed Covenant” or “Israel”, the yahad (Heb. “Unity”) is not only one of the most commonly used terms of self-definition, but also helps dictate the nature of the group by distancing it from previous constructions. The yahad, for all their points of contact with what is understood as purely a “Jewish” schema, was still, as with all Second Temple Judaisms, fully immersed within the Hellenized context of first century Palestine. 90 For example, by the time the Scrolls were written, Judea (except for the Hasmonean period between 165– 63 BCE) had been under foreign rule 91 —be it Roman, Macedonian or Achaemenian—for nearly 500 years. It is from this context of foreign rule that the so-called “legitimate Jewish” apocalypse were produced. It has been argued that historical and sociological changes in the postexilic period, particularly the end of native kingship and the related “office” of prophecy, encouraged the development of apocalyptic writing. (Clifford 2003, 23)

Therefore, instead of “legitimate apocalypticism” being an indication of a sui generis expression, it must be understood that the Jewish apocalyptic texts—and all apocalyptic literature in general—requires for its very forma90 Matthias Klinghardt has shown that virtually every structural element of the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association has analogues with the charters of other guilds and religious associations from across the Ancient Near and Middle East (Klighardt 1994, 251–70). 91 The Northern Kingdom of Israel was destroyed in 721 BCE by the Assyrians and the Southern Kingdom of Judah was destroyed, along with the Temple, in 586 BCE by the Babylonians.

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tion the crucible of foreign domination, syncretism and the cessation of native kingship (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 115): “But as for you, O sons of His covenant, take courage in God’s crucible, until He shall wave His hand and complete His fiery trials; His mysteries concerning your existence [under Belial’s domination]” (1QM Col. 17:9, emphasis mine). Therefore the yahad, like any other “apocalyptic community” that was both marginalized and literate, expressed their disenfranchisement with foreign rule in the best way they knew how. They wrote. And while at times the sectarian nature of the texts has been the prime focus of scholarly constructions, what appears to have been the overwhelming concern of the yahad was the overthrow of their foreign enemies and the establishment of a nostalgic “Israel,” an aspiration that is remarkably similar to those found in the Potter’s Oracle, the Asclepius Apocalypse or Zand-i Vohuman Yasn.

4 GNOSTICISM AS THE HERETICAL BOOGEYMAN 4.1 INTRODUCTION While the category of apocalypticism has discursively served to link the “pure” pedigree of sui generis Judaism with an otherwise incomparable Christianity, this construction is only one half of the standard Christian mythic narrative. For while apocalypticism is used to insulate the “purity” of Judaism as the source for Christianity, there is a reciprocal need for scholars to erect boundaries around this final Christian product and segregate it from other analogous Hellenistic traditions. This need has been fulfilled in scholarship by the construction of the category of Gnosticism. 92 While there are a series of models used to designate “legitimate” apocalypticism from that which is unpalatable to Judeo-Christian claims, scholars have been unable to come to any consensus on what the discursive borders of Gnosticism are. For example, while it is easy to pinpoint what would certainly be considered Gnostic-esque themes, such as “Demiurgical” creation, an overt spiritual / material dualism, and soteriology through gnosis, none of these factors alone or together, have been sufficient to define categorically the so-called “Gnostic phenomenon.” This is especially true since many of these Gnostic-esque themes are also found in a wide-range of what are understood to be non-Gnostic sources, ranging from Plato’s Timaeus to the New Testament. 93 And while many scholars have assumed that this dissemination of Gnostic-esque themes is due to the “syncretistic,” “Hellenistic” or “contaminative” nature of Gnosticism (King 2003, 4), the problem is that scholars have been trying to rationalize an entity that simply did not exist in history: 92 While writing to express the inadequacy of the category Gnosticism (or variants thereof) I have still elected to use the term, without the sanitizing effect of “quotes.” The reason for this is to not construct an unified ancient religion or group of texts, but to employ the term as it has been used in 20th century scholarly discourse. 93 See John 1:14, Col 1:16, etc.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE Gnosticism has been constructed largely as the heretical other in relation to diverse and fluctuating understandings of orthodox Christianity. This means that modern historical constructions of Gnosticism reflect many of the characteristics and strategies used by early Christian polemics like Irenaeus and Tertullian to construct heresy . . . Indeed, it is largely apologetic concerns to defend normative Christianity that make Gnosticism intelligible as a category at all. (King 2003, 2–3)

Hence, the scholarly deployment of Gnosticism is not an examination of anything that is inherently “Gnostic” but a construction of what ideologically cannot be Christian. Gnosticism (or variants thereof) should therefore be understood as nothing more than a discursive strategy used to safely quarantine material that is both analogous, yet unpalatable, to the purity claims and sans pareil status of nascent Christianity. 94 Christianity Gnosticism ↓ ↕ ↑

sui generis Jewish source Judeo-Christian Singular

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Hellenistic or Foreign source Pagan Multiple

↓ ↕ ↑

For example in Chapter 2, it was argued that the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle, which adhere to the model of “legitimate” apocalypticism, are nonetheless marginalized in scholarly constructions because they are apparently “closely related to . . . the Gnostic revelatory dialogues” (Attridge 1979, 160). However, this categorization has nothing to do with the texts’ intellectual significance or relevance as examples of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern apocalypticism. Because the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, the Asclepius Apocalypse and the Potter’s Oracle are on the one hand analogous to the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, and on the other— because of their dependence “on the tradition of Egyptian prophecy” (Attridge 1979, 160)—cannot be deployed in constructing a sui generis Judaism, 95 there is a scholarly need to safely “sanitise” these texts by confining

94 “[W]hile difference or ‘otherness’ may be perceived as being either LIKEUS or NOT-LIKE-US, it becomes most problematic when it is TOO-MUCHLIKE-US or claims to BE-US. It is here that the real urgency of theories of the ‘other’ emerge, called forth not so much by a requirement to place difference, but rather by an effort to situate ourselves” (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245). 95 In fact, their adherence to the model, yet their obvious “foreign” source, not only makes these texts useless for constructing a sui generis Judaism, but as

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them within the category of Gnosticism in order to maintain JudeoChristian ideological purity. Hence, any “qualities” that make up Gnosticism are not indicative of, or inherent to, any Gnostic text or group but can only be found in contrast to other texts or groups that have been deemed “orthodox” or “normatively Christian.” And because “orthodox” or “normative Christianity” is a subjective and fluid concept depending on the discourse deployed, Gnosticism as the opposite binary term, must therefore also have a degree of fluidity, 96 with one very important exception. Since “legitimate” apocalypticism must always be deployed as essentially “orthodox,” Gnosticism as the negative wing of the mythical narrative framework that is used to define normative Christianity, must also always be deployed as “heretical.” “The line between heretical and orthodox cannot be drawn by simply using the term Gnostic . . . Rather; this is a question of theological evaluation” (Koester 1971, 116). Therefore, while the Gospel of John (1:14) and Colossians (1:16) may have Gnostic-esque elements they lack—unlike the Gospel of Thomas 97 — the discursively-deployed qualifier of “heresy” which would equate them

“proximate” others they are a serious threat to both the purity claims of sui generis Judaism and sans pareil Christianity. 96 Hence, “Gnostic” can encompass a wide range of phenomena and still remain relatively recognizable within scholarly discourse. For example, in The Gnostic Bible (Willis Barnstone & Marvin Meyer [eds.] 2004), there are textual samples from a wide spectrum of so-called “Gnostic” groups, including Valentinianism, Sethianism and Hemeticism, as well as Mandaean, Cathar and Islamic mystical Gnosticism. However, what has been overlooked by the editors of The Gnostic Bible, is that—while there might be some superficial similarities between the various groups—these Gnosticisms are not “Gnostic” by virtue of their adherence to an overriding “tradition” but because of their relative position to what is considered normative or “orthodox” Christianity (or Islam). Hence the Cathars are “Gnostic” because of their position as heretics, much as Valentinus was Gnostic to Irenaeus or the Islamic Mystical groups were Gnostic in relation only to other “orthodox” Muslims. 97 It should be noted that not all sources which have been deemed Gnostic contain the same amount of Gnostic-esque elements. For example, the Gospel of Thomas contains no Demiurgical speculations whereas the Gospel of John (12:30–31; 14:30) implies that negative entities are in control of creation. For more see Chapter 5.

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with Gnosticism and place them into the position of proximate boogeyman to “normative” Christianity. 98 Hence, within scholarly discourse, apocalypticism and Gnosticism should not be understood as discrete or self-contained units, but only as two inter-dependant discourses that frame the borders of what is understood to be normative Christianity. In essence, apocalypticism is what should or could be legitimately Christian and Gnosticism is what should not nor can not be legitimately so (Figure 1). By arguing that Gnosticism is an artificial category based upon the ancient theological politics of “heresy” and “orthodoxy,” this chapter will claim that the various fluid understandings of “normative” Christianity have essentially constructed a “historical” entity—the so-called Gnostic religion—whose sole purpose is to remain the “other” to shore up the fluid conceptions of “normative” Christianity.

4.2 IRENAEUS AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF HERESY While the designation “Gnosticism” was not used until after the Protestant Reformation, 99 the basic premise for its modern construction can be found within the polemics of the Church Fathers, such as Tertullian and Irenaeus who wrote about the Gnostic’s “deceitfulness of . . . procedure, and the wickedness of their error” (Haer 1, 11:1). For the “Church Fathers,” 100 the Gnostics represented a wide range of “heretical” Christianities that deviated from their own supposedly single conception of “orthodox” piety and the “pure” interpretation of the “Gospel.” 101 It is through their theological proGnosticism has been discursively deployed to refer to: 1) all forms of early Christianity that are thought to have too little or too negative an appropriation of Judaism and that 2) contain an outside contamination of pure Christianity (from an independent religion) or a form of Christianity that has deviated from the “pure” gospel (King 2003, 4). 99 While Gnosticism seems to be a modern construction, the use of gnosis and gnostic are actual Greek terms that are used in ancient sources. “However when used for the modern category [of] ‘Gnosticism,’ ‘Gnosis’ or ‘Gnostic Religion,’ none of these terms has an ancient equivalent” (Williams 1994, 7). 100 While “heresy” was deemed in part by Tertullian to be based on the rejection of what he understood as the authoritative list of scripture, he ironically neglects to give his own list, “perhaps because that was still an open question, even for him” (King 2003, 29). 101 “Gospel” in this sense should not be thought of as the established canon of the New Testament. At the time of Irenaeus, the “New Testament” as the 98

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ject that the understanding of the Gnostics and later, Gnosticism, finds its basis in modern renderings (Murphy 2000, 398). 102 For example, Irenaeus’ polemics against the Gnostics (or more specifically, Valentinianism) does not represent any objective qualities, or any inherently “corrupt” Gnostic elements, but is purely a theological and subjective discourse of self-definition, one that needed to exclude a dangerous and proximate “them” in order to construct a well defined “us.” “The power relationship implied in the discourse of orthodoxy and heresy are firmly embedded in struggles over who gets to say what the truth is: orthodoxy is the winner; the heretics, the losers” (King 2003, 24). Much like other selfdefining binary pairs—Jew / Greek, Christian / Atheist or Canadian / American—Irenaeus was trying to construct his own theological identity within a wide-range of Christianities of Late Antiquity. Irenaeus Valentinus and others ↓ ↕ ↑

Orthodoxy The one “right” version Orthodox

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Heresy The many “wrong” versions Gnostic

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The deployment of “heresy” in this case should not be understood in terms of outsider categories of “pagan” or “Jewish,” 103 but implies that “Gnostic” Valentinianism occupied a position of proximity to Irenaeus’ version of Christianity (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245). Naming a group or person that has legitimate claim to your own tradition as “heretic” places discursive boundaries around what the categorizer deems as “orthodox” 104 and therecanon of Christianity had not been established. Ironically, the only Christians of Irenaeus’ time that did have set canon was the “heretical” Marcionites (Tyson 2006, 121-34). 102 “The texts [polemics of Irenaeus] cannot be seen as a self-contained system of signifiers and signifieds, for its system of meanings draws upon a series of pre-existent meanings, meanings of formulae, tropes, clichés, conventions, genres, taxonomies, myths, characters, histories, ideologies and other historical-culturalsemantic items” (Murphy, 2000, 398). 103 “Judaism,” in the construction of Christian self-identity, refers to a suspended “truth” whereas “pagan” is simply understood as that which is in error (King 2000, 38). 104 A similar usage in modern parlance would be the term “cult.” For example, a Catholic could define a Mormon as belonging to a “cult,” but that would say more about their Catholicism and the borders they have constructed than anything about the Latter Day Saints.

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fore says more about the categorizer, than the categorized. In other words, “heresy”—the basis for the modern construction of the term Gnosticism— is a term that is empty of anything but subjective valuation and is all but useless when trying to define a historical subject. It is simply an exercise in the construction of self, “of a finger pointing at the moon, not the moon itself” (Trinh 1989, 61). For the polemicists, however, construction of “self” equalled the construction of the one eternal “truth.” For writers such as Irenaeus, “normative” or “true” Christianity could not be a multiplicity. It could only contain a single pure core (derived from a sui generis Judaism) with various “heresies” arrayed around it. 105 However, as later deployments of Gnosticism have shown, there is a problem in assuming the accuracy of the polemicist rhetoric of “heresy.” In the context of Late Antiquity, when Christianity was one of a wide range of Greco-Roman mystery religions, the polemicists sought to define “heresy” not as that which was incorrect, yet had a legitimate claim to Christianity, but as an assertion that the “Gnostics” were a contamination of “true” Christianity and this divergence of belief was not as a matter of reasonable disagreement among many Christianities. “Their rhetoric contains both implicit and explicit calls to secure the borders and shore up the internal order, to ‘restore’ (or rather create) purity by exclusion” (King 2003, 33). It is through the lens of these polemical and selfdefinitional categories that the modern construction of Gnosticism has come into focus.

4.3 ADOLPH VON HARNACK AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF HELLENISM It is with respect to this “orthodox / heresy” binary that the first systematic deployment of the term “Gnosticism” 106 was formulated by Adolph von Harnack. Borrowing levels of meaning from the heresiologists’ critiques, While “true” Christianity could be thought of located within the revelation of Jesus, there was no one “orthodox” version at the time of Irenaeus. Outside of the heretical Marcionites, no canon had been created and no councils convened to determine “orthodoxy.” However, this use of “orthodoxy” has been used by Christianity—and scholars—to construct a monolithic “Orthodox Church” that functioned in antiquity. 106 The actual term “Gnosticism” was thought to have been first used by Henry Moore in 1669 to describe Roman Catholicism as a religion that contained “a spice of the old abhorrent Gnosticism” (King 2003, 7). 105

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Harnack linked Gnosticism with philosophical sophistication (Harnack 1957, 221, 267). For example, it seems in Gnosticism [there is] a series of undertakings, which in a certain way [are] analogous to the Catholic embodiment of Christianity, in doctrine, morals and worship . . . From this point of view the position to be assigned to the Gnostics in the history of dogma, which has hitherto been misunderstood, is obvious. [The Gnostics] were, in short, the theologians of the First Century. (Harnack, 1961, Vol.1, 227–28, emphasis original)

Considering that the little which was actually known of the “Gnostics” at the time of Harnack’s writings came from their opponents, 107 this linking of philosophy with Gnosticism is simply a rhetorical strategy used to adopt the syncretising connotations of the ancient heresiologists’ polemic. In particular, Harnack borrowed from Tertullian the notion that various Hellenistic and “pagan” elements had corrupted nascent Christianity and caused heretical deviations. 108 For Harnack, this “acute Hellenization of Christianity” (Harnack 1961, Vol. 1, 226, 230) could be found in both the orthodox and Gnostic traditions. And it is probably no accident that Harnack used the term “Catholic” to describe developing orthodoxy. Harnack, while borrowing levels of meaning, nonetheless did not adopt Tertullian’s broad-based anti-philosophical or anti-Hellenistic stance. “Harnack meant something at once much broader in influence, more precise in effect, and more complex in its interactions with Christianity” (King 2003, 55). While “acute Hellenization” was obviously a corrupting influence if left unchecked, it was nonetheless the “general spiritual atmosphere creHarnack wrote History of Dogma between 1886–1898, almost 50 years before the Nag Hammadi documents were discovered. 108 In Chapter 7 entitled “Pagan Philosophy: The Parent of Heresies” of Prescription Against Heretics, Tertullian wrote that “‘the doctrines’ of men and ‘of demons’ produced for itching ears of the spirit of this world's wisdom: this the Lord called ‘foolishness,’ and ‘chose the foolish things of the world’ to confound even philosophy itself. For (philosophy) it is which is the material of the world's wisdom, the rash interpreter of the nature and the dispensation of God. Indeed heresies are themselves instigated by philosophy . . . The same subject-matter is discussed over and over again by the heretics and the philosophers; the same arguments are involved . . . Whence spring those ‘fables and endless genealogies,’ and ‘unprofitable questions,’ and ‘words which spread like a cancer?’ . . . What indeed has Athens to do with Jerusalem? What concord is there between the Academy and the Church? What between heretics and Christians?” (Praescr 7, emphasis mine) 107

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ated by Hellenism” (Harnack 1961, Vol.1, 48 n.1) that facilitated the flowering of the nascent Christian message of the Gospels to grow from “the advancing decomposition [of] the Jewish Nation” (Harnack 1961, Vol.1, 47). If the “Gospel Spirit” 109 was to find a voice that was beyond “the spirit of the Old Testament (Psalms and Prophets) and of Judaism” it required a catalyst. 110 And this catalyst was a fruitful encounter with the “Greek Spirit.” Israel, no doubt, had a sacred treasure which was of greater value than all the treasure of the Greeks—the living God; but in what miserable vessels was this treasure preserved, and how much inferior was all else possessed by this nation in comparison with the riches, the power, the delicacy and the freedom of the Greek spirit and its intellectual possessions. A movement like that of Christianity, which discovered to the Jew the soul whose dignity was not dependant on its descent from Abraham . . . could not continue in the framework of Judaism however expanded [by Hellenistic influence] but must soon recognize in the world which the Greek Spirit had discovered and prepared, the field which belonged to it. (Harnack 1961, Vol.1, 47)

109 “The Gospels did not come into the world as a statutory religion, and therefore none of the forms in which it assumed intellectual and social expression—not even the earliest—can be regarded as possessing a classical or permanent character . . . As Christianity [via the Gospels] rises above all antithesis of Here and the Beyond, life and death, work and shunning of the world, reason and ecstasy, Hebraism and Hellenism, it can also exist under the most diverse conditions; just as it was originally amid the wreck of the Jewish religions that it developed its power” (Harnack 1957, 191). 110 Instead of distancing the New Testament from its Hellenistic context, Harnack wrote that “[t]here is no single writing of the New Testament which does not betray the influence of the mode of thought and general conditions of the culture of the time which resulted from Hellenising of the East: even the use of the Greek translation of the Old Testament attests to this fact. Nay, we may go further, and say that the Gospel itself is historically unintelligible, so long as we compare it with an exclusive Judaism as yet unaffected by foreign influence” (Harnack 1961, Vol.1, 48 n.1). However, this was not to say that “Hellenism” was a constituent component of the Gospel message. Like Tertullian, Harnack believed that the message of Christianity was essentially sui generis: “But it is just as clear that specifically Hellenistic ideas form the presupposition neither for the Gospels, nor for the most important New Testament writings” (Harnack 1961, Vol.1, 48 n.1).

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This characterization served two rhetorical purposes for Harnack. First, Harnack was able to adopt what he understood as the “positive” elements of the Hellenistic matrix of Late Antiquity and apply them to his construction of “true” Christianity. “Fully a man of the Enlightenment, Harnack valued universalism as a great good and applauded [nascent] Christianity’s appropriation of the rational universalism of ancient [Greek] philosophy” (King 2003, 68). Second, and perhaps more importantly, this adoption of the positive elements of Greek thought gave Harnack a vector for constructing a Christianity that, while initially rooted within Judaism, was nonetheless fundamentally superior to it (J.Z. Smith 1990, 83). Much like the ancient heresiologists who were able to adopt the salvation history of ancient Israel without adopting the religion of “Judaism,” Harnack was able to co-opt for his rendering of authentic Christianity the “general spiritual atmosphere created by Hellenism” (Harnack 1961, Vol 1. 48, n.1), without actually incorporating what he felt were any Hellenistic religious elements. It is out of this construction that Harnack developed his rendering of the essence of “true” Christianity: “the Enthusiastic and Apocalyptic, that is, the sure consciousness of an immediate possession of the Divine Spirit, and the hope of the future conquering the present” (Harnack, 1961, Vol.1, 49; see also Harnack 1957, 199). It is this “Enthusiastic and Apocalyptic spirit” that gave Christianity and the Gospels their original orthodoxy, one that is also found (unsurprisingly) in Harnack’s own Protestant Christianity (Harnack 1957, 191). Considering Harnack’s need to equate Protestantism with purity, this deployment of Hellenism was not all positive. While Harnack was willing to adopt what he saw as the positive elements of Hellenism for his version of Christianity, he was also just as willing to reject what was unpalatable to his understanding, and deploy these elements within the singular category of “Gnosticism,” and apply them to inappropriate ecclesiastical developments. “It is therefore no paradox to say that Gnosticism, which is just Hellenism, has in Catholicism obtained half a victory” (Harnack, 1961, Vol.1, 228). In particular, Harnack envisioned these Gnostic elements of Hellenism as a “pagan” contamination of irrational superstitions, such as dogmatic cultic practises and polytheistic mythology that had corrupted the true “essence” of nascent Christianity through, e.g., the Roman Catholic worship of the saints. It is this kind of “pagan” corruption that “contrasted Christianity as a living experience in true Protestantism with Christianity as a moribund superstition tied to cult, sacraments, ceremony and obedience to Catholicism” (King 2003, 68). For Harnack, the major difference between Gnosti-

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cism and emergent orthodoxy was a matter of the degree of Hellenism, and the relative position of the Hebrew Scriptures within each tradition. [The difference between the two] consist essentially in the fact that the Gnostic systems represent the acute secularizing or Hellenising in Christianity, with the rejection of the Old Testament; while the Catholic system, on the other hand, represents a gradual process of the same kind with the conservation of the Old Testament. (Harnack, 1961, Vol.1, 227– 28)

By linking Catholicism with “pagan” Hellenism, Harnack could adopt the levels of association within the writings of the heresiologists. “Even as Irenaeus . . . had treated heresy, so Harnack characterized [Roman] Catholicism as the contamination of pure Christianity by paganism, while Protestantism occupied the ancient polemicists’ position of original orthodoxy” (King 2003, 69). Catholicism Adolph Harnack’s Protestantism ↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

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4.4 HISTORY OF RELIGIONS SCHOOL AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF ORIENTALISM At the same time that Harnack was writing, “another group of scholars had begun to reconsider the long-established consensus that the roots of Gnosticism lay in a Christianity that had gone awry” (King 2003, 71). This group was the religionsgeschichtliche Schule or the History of Religions School. Begun in 1903 by a group of German Protestant theologians including Hermann Gunkel, Wilhelm Bousset, Johannes Weiss, Wilhelm Wrede and Heinrich Hackmann, the History of Religions School was methodologically distinct from the predominant modes of scholarship as it incorporated new developments in historical science, Orientalism, and ethnology that were then applied to biblical texts. And while the goal of History of Religions scholars was to study the “Orient” (Mills 1991, 48–49) in order to demonstrate its value and contribution to the West, particularly with respect to Christianity, these attempts “were burdened by an inadequate sociological model of cultural interaction (syncretism) and by the Orientalist framework in which

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their work was embedded. These limitations are particularly evident in the scholarship dealing with Gnosticism” 111 (King 2003, 77–78). For History of Religion scholars, Gnosticism was not simply a Hellenistic aberration of “pure” Christian faith as constructed by Harnack, but was an independent Oriental religion that pre-dated the nascent Church and only manifested itself within Christianity through the adoption of “Eastern” myth and cultic piety. This construction radically altered how scholars conceptualized the phenomenon of Gnosticism. For instead of being a simple aberration of the “true” faith, Gnosticism could now be understood as a tradition which “may have exerted a formative influence on Christianity at its very origin” (King 2003, 71). Growing out of the colonist anxieties of the West from the 18th –20th centuries (Said 1994 [1978], 209) History of Religions scholars were preoccupied with discovering the unitary and historic “root” behind various religious phenomena, charting an “evolutionary” model of religious expression that progressed from the primitive to the sophisticated, with Christianity, more often than not, representing the pinnacle of human religious experience (King 2003, 73). Unlike the constructions of Harnack and Tertullian and Irenaeus, History of Religion scholars did not require a pristine source from which “pure” religious expression could begin. Instead, being based on an evolutionary-teleological model, they were able to construct the Western (Christian) expressions of religion as on one hand being rooted in the “Orient,” but essentially more sophisticated than their predecessors. “Truth does not precede error, as Tertullian would have it; rather Christianity was the culmination of scattered and half-successful attempts at reaching the highest stages of religions.” (King 2003, 105) However, “these theories conceded no historical dimensions to those being classified but rather froze each ethnic unit at a particular ‘stage of development’ of the totality of human religious thought and activity” (J.Z. Smith 1998, 277). As such, they essentially constructed Gnosticism as the product of primitive Oriental pi“What . . . notions of the Orient depended on was the almost total absence in . . . Western culture of the Orient as a genuinely felt and experienced force. For a number of evident reasons the Orient was always the weak partner for the West. To the extent that Western scholars were aware of the contemporary Orientals or Oriental movements of thought and culture, these were perceived either as silent shadows to be animated by the Orientalist, brought into reality by him, or as a kind of cultural and intellectual proletariat useful for the Orientialist’s grander interpretive activity, necessary for his performance as superior judge, learned man, powerful cultural will” (Said 1994 [1978], 208). 111

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ety, which was described as static, backwards and inferior to that of “true” Western Christianity (Kwok, 2002, 71). Again, based on the a priori negative value of Gnosticism as established by Irenaeus and perpetuated by Harnack, History of Religions scholars constructed a system of binary oppositions that used a self-defining version of “normative” Christianity that was recognizable at the expense of the “other” of Gnosticism. Religions of the Orient Western Colonial Protestantism ↓ ↕ ↑

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And while more known for his work on form criticism and the “demythologization” of nascent Christianity than his affiliation with the History of Religions school, it was Rudolph Bultmann’s adoption of their results on the origins of Gnosticism that has all but canonized the History of Religion position. For example, in Primitive Christianity in Its Contemporary Context, Bultmann offers a description of Gnosticism as a religion of “pre-Christian origin, invading the west from the Orient as a competitor to Christianity” (Bultmann 1956, 162). However, when the two competing traditions where compared, the eventual victory of the ancient Church “demonstrated the superiority of Christianity” (King 104, 2003). While there are some serious problems with the History of Religions construction, it did challenge the argument that Gnosticism was simply a heretical deviation from “true” Christianity. As a pre-Christian religion, it could now be conceptualized as a formative influence on the nascent Church. “And yet, normative definitions of Christianity remained strangely unaffected by this radical assault” (King 2003, 107). Because the History of Religions scholars’ refused to question the a priori superiority of Christianity, their results, while innovative, could nonetheless only construct Gnosticism as Christianity’s older and uglier heretical sibling. 112 112 “It is the undeniable merit of the so-called ‘religionsgeschichtliche Schule’ of German Protestant theology to have done pioneering work [on Gnosticism]. One of the most important results was the proof that the Gnostic movement was originally a non-Christian phenomenon which was gradually enriched with Christian concepts until it made its appearance as independent Christian Gnosis. This development of Gnosis . . . is equivalent to the development of Gnosis from a relatively independent Hellenistic religion of later antiquity to a Christian ‘heresy.’

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Unlike Harnack, who devalued Gnosticism as that which was “acutely Hellenistic,” History of Religions scholars required a different starting point for evaluation: a colonialistic and teleological framework that deployed Gnosticism not only as the heretical other, but also as the “other” of Europe, the “esoteric, mythic religion of the Orient, incapable of historical consciousness and thus of higher religions sensibilities” (King 2003, 108).

4.5 HANS JONAS AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE GNOSTIC RELIGION The essential “otherness” of Oriental Gnosticism reached its peak in academic constructions with the work of Hans Jonas. Realizing that the previous methodologies used to describe Gnosticism were inadequate, Jonas advocated a shift towards a phenomenological delineation of the “essential” characteristic of Gnosticism as a way both to define the phenomenon and to explain its existential meaning (King 2003, 115). Throughout his work (most notably The Gnostic Religion), Jonas proposed that the various elements of Gnosticism (myth, ontology, soteriology, etc.) could not be conceptualized as a simple conglomerate of diverse (Oriental or Hellenistic) elements, but must be conceived of as a unified system (Jonas 1963 [1958], 33). And the seed of this unifying system “must be sought in the peculiarly Gnostic experience of self and world that lay behind the ordering of those elements (King 2003, 117, emphasis original; see also Jonas 1963 [1958], 48–55, 73–86). In other words, while it was relatively easy to identify various “foreign” or “syncretistic” elements within Gnosticism, such as Babylonian myth, Christian soteriology of the redeemer, or Jewish conceptions of the Supreme God, the Gnostic meaning of these concepts was not rooted in their original form, but could only be understood in the framework of Gnosticism’s overt sense of alienation (Jonas 1963 [1958], 326–27). “For Jonas, Gnosticism was [despite its parts] still a single phenomenon; however its unity lay not in a common origin or genealogy but in a common attitude to existence” (King 2003, 117–18). Despite this unifying stance on Gnosticism Jonas still relied on the conclusions of the History of Religions scholars, agreeing on their model of an Oriental source for the phenomenon. Its link with Christian ideas . . . produced on the one hand a fruitful symbiosis which greatly helped its expansion, but on the other hand contained a deadly germ to which sooner or later it was to succumb in competition with the official Christian Church” (Bultmann quoted in King 2003, 108).

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE [Since in] the material of its representation Gnosticism actually is a product of syncretism, each of [the theories of origin] can be supported from the sources and none of them is satisfactory alone; but neither is the combination of all of them which would make Gnosticism out to be a mere mosaic of these elements and so miss its autonomous essence. On the whole, however, the oriental thesis has an edge over the Hellenic one. (Jonas 1963 [1958], 33 emphasis mine)

However, unlike History of Religions scholars, “origin” did not carry the same weight for Jonas. While “origin” for History of Religions scholars assumed the stance of a first geographical or primitive source, Jonas instead looked for the existential experience that gave a given Gnostic expression meaning. The deprecation of man’s natural status and powers which we found as a general feature under the new dispensation of transcendental religion is in Gnosticism connected with the dualistic metaphysics and the problematical status of the soul in the system . . . The cosmos is here by itself a demonic system . . . [Hence, against] the proud and somewhat superficial confidence of Stoic psychology in the self as complete master in its own house . . . the terrified gnostic glance views the inner life as not controlled by our will, since this will itself is the instrument and execution of those powers. This is the basic condition of human insufficiency . . . Abandoned to the demonic whirl of its own passions, the godless soul cries “I burn, I blaze . . . I am consumed, wretch that I am, by the evils that posses me. . .” (Jonas 1963 [1958], 281–283)

The impact of Jonas’ work on the study of Gnosticism was revolutionary and can still be felt today, “for while Gnosticism remained a religion in its own right, now scholars could perceive that its deepest religious impulses and feelings were rooted in existential alienation and revolt” (King 2003, 135). But as noted, Jonas nonetheless insisted on conceptualizing Gnosticism as a whole, as a “Gnostic religion” that was an independent, singular and monolithic phenomenon (Jonas 1963 [1958], 33), a “legacy [that] continues to haunt the study of Gnosticism” (King 2003, 135). For example, the negative nuances in Jonas’ construction and its nihilistic psychological component has helped in the conception of Gnosticism as an essential “sick sign” (Williams 1994, 4), a monolithic construct that can only be conceptualised—as it always has—as the negative “other” of normative Christianity.

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“Normative” Christianity

Jonas’ Gnostic Religion 113 ↓ Oriental ↕ Anti-cosmic Dualism ↕ Pessimistic ↕ Degrading Old Testament God ↕ Polytheistic ↕ “Perverts” Scripture via exegesis ↑ Libertine Ethics

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As Karen King has noted, Jonas’ claims “are not impartial descriptions of the phenomena, but evaluative judgments based largely on unarticulated assumptions about what constitutes true religion and piety” 114 (King 2003, 136). Again, it is these negative evaluative assumptions that construct what Gnosticism must be. It is that which “proper” Christian “Religion” cannot be.

4.6 ELAINE PAGELS AND THE INVERSION OF THE GNOSTIC RELIGION One of the first attempts to shift the negative value associated with Gnosticism was offered by Elaine Pagels in her book, The Gnostic Gospels (1989). Instead of using Gnosticism as the anti-Christian “other,” Pagels tried to “normalize” the Gnostics as a legitimate and authentic expression of nascent Christianity. By discursively rendering Gnosticism within a “heroic” or romantic narrative (White 1973, 8), Pagels inverted the traditional hegemonic and andocentric (i.e. “orthodox”) constructions of “legitimate” Christianity, and by incorporating selective readings from both the Nag See Jonas 1976. For Jonas, these unarticulated notions of “true religion and piety” seem rooted in retrojecting back into antiquity Hegelian philosophical notions of how the created world acts as a vector for human recognition of the divine (Hegel 1988 [1827], 98). In other words, unlike the “evolutionary” progression of religion via Hegel, in Jonas’ Gnosticism “[w]hat is lower is later; this ontological axiom, so very contrary to Hegel and modern evolutionism. . . [While shared] with all the ‘vertical’ schemes of Late Antiquity . . . [is] unlike the harmonistic one of the Neo-Platonist, [due to its] catastrophic character. The form of this progress is crisis, and there occur failure and miscarriage. A disturbance in the heights starts off the downward motion which continues as a drama of fall and alienation. The corporeal world is the terminal product of this epic of decline” (Jonas 1967, 92-93, emphasis mine. See also Jonas 2001 [1958], 327-28). 113 114

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Hammadi Library and the heresiologists, constructed a parallel Christian tradition in which “women were considered equal to men; some were revered as prophets; others acted as teachers, traveling evangelists, healers, priests, perhaps even bishops” (Pagels 1989, 60). While maintaining that this inclusive role was not universal within all Gnostic traditions, 115 Pagels did emphasize that many Gnostic groups appeared to have been open to women, as shown by the Gnostic feminization of God (Pagels 1989, 49), the use of feminine images within Gnostic myth and the importance of Mary Magdalene within Gnostic circles (Pagels 1989, 64–67). In fact, it was because of this feminine-friendly stance that the budding Orthodox / Catholic Church initially suppressed Gnosticism (Pagels 1989, 68–69). While Pagels does construct Gnosticism as “other” in relation to “normative” Christianity, it must be stressed that this “otherness” does not contain the negative values found in previous deployments of Gnosticism. By assuming a feminist hermeneutical stance that gains nothing from any legitimization derived from “orthodox” Christianity, Pagels’ construction of the Gnostic “other” gains its strength as a method for critiquing the patriarchal Church (Pagels 1989, 102–119). By drawing links between the texts of the Nag Hammadi Library and woman-friendly texts of the New Testament 116 and juxtaposing these with the misogynistic rhetoric of the Church Fathers 117 and the andocentric readings of both the canonical texts and the history of Christianity, Pagels has produced a heroic reconstruction of Gnosticism that gains legitimacy as “other” in regards to “normative” Christianity, because the Gnostics reflect the “true” Gospel. “Normative” Patriarchal Pagels’ Hermeneutical Christianity Discourse ↓ ↕ ↕ ↑

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It is absent, e.g., in Thomas the Contender. Such as the authentic letters of Paul (Gal 3:28) and the Gospel of John (4:1–

“These heretical women—how audacious they are! They have no modesty; they are bold enough to teach, to engage in argument, to enact exorcisms, to undertake cures and, it may be, even to baptize” (Pagels’ translation of Tertullian’s Prescription Against Heretics, Chapter XLI, in Pagels 1989, 60). 117

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According to Pagels, while “normative” Christianity has been dominated by men, the “true” Christianity practiced by the Gnostics required a place for the feminine, both in practise and in myth. However, “[b]y the year 200, the majority of Christian communities endorsed as canonical the pseudo-Pauline letter of Timothy, which stressed (and exaggerated) the antifeminist element in Paul’s view” (Pagels 1989, 63). By using Gnosticism as both an “other” and a critique of “normative” Christianity, Pagels has promoted a new perspective on the history of Christianity as an enterprise that properly contains women’s voices (Gilbert 1986, 489, 492; Robinson 1986, 576). 118 This is the strength of Pagels’ work, in comparison to that of the previous discourses. By inverting the value of “heresy” from a negative into a positive signifier, the subjective basis for other reconstructions of Gnosticism as negatively “syncretistic,” “foreign,” etc., is called into question. Also, by drawing attention to how the Gnostic texts parallel the canonized Christian scripture, Pagels also questions the authority of both the andocentric readings of the Bible, and the Biblical canonization process that only represents a fraction of Christian expressions from the first to third centuries CE (Wisse 1999, 180). Pagels rightly maintains that this process was thoroughly elite, andocentric and reflected only a limited spectrum of Christian texts which, in turn, have only been read and constructed to propagate the domination of a particular type of “normative” Christianity (Pagels 1989, 107). Despite this huge shift in the valuation of Gnosticism, however, Pagels still constructs the Gnostics, like Jonas, as a coherent religion, one that is both “other” compared to “normative” Christianity, and “a powerful alternative to what we know as [the] orthodox Christian tradition” (Pagels 1989, 151). In this sense, she has constructed two parallel faiths that vied for the souls of Christendom: the non-hegemonic Gnostic religion 119 against the hegemonic and static orthodox Church (Pagels 1989, 114). The question that needs to be asked, despite the major changes her work has made for the evaluation of Gnosticism, is whether or not Pagels constructs a Gnostic religion that is fundamentally different from the dis118 Male domination of the western Christian tradition has been justified by women’s non-spiritual “natures,” ideas that have been reinforced by such New Testament texts as 1 Tim 2:11–15. 119 One that unlike the orthodox or budding Catholic Church drew lots among both men and women to determine who would be priest or bishop (Pagels 1989, 41–43).

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courses of Irenaeus, Harnack, Bultmann or Jonas. The answer, unfortunately, is no. Despite the leaps made by Pagels, she still conceives Gnosticism as that which is primarily “other.” Even though Pagels’ construction is “counter-taxonomic” because of its inversion of the value of Gnosticism, it still functions within the same parameters established by Irenaeus.

4.7 ALASTAIR LOGAN AND THE GNOSTIC CULT One of the most recent attempts to construct Gnosticism as a coherent category from antiquity has been by Alastair H. B. Logan in his book The Gnostics: Identifying an Early Christian Cult (2006). Building upon his previous work Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy (1996) and reacting to the critique of the academic use of the term Gnosticism and its variants as proposed by both Michael Williams (1996) and Karen L. King (2003), Logan reaffirms a traditionalist position, observing; the use and understanding of the of the term γνωστικός by contemporary critics and opponents such as Irenaeus, Pseudo-Hippolytus and Porphyry, as well as their targets [and] arguing that the term, however vague in its use by critics, did seem to apply to an identifiable group or groups who claimed to be Christian. (Logan 2006, 3)

Using the sociological model of “cult” as put forth by Rodney Stark and William Sims Bainbridge in The Future of Religion (1985), Logan reconstructs what he sees as the “classic” Gnostic myth (Logan 2006, 6) from its most “original form” in Against Heresies 1.29–30 (Logan 1996, 1; 2006, 11) and subsequently “confirmed” in the Apocryphon of John and Gospel of the Egyptians, 120 concluding that the Gnostics, unlike other “non-Catholic” groups, 120 This “classic” myth for Logan consists of “the virgin birth, chrismation, and elevation of the heavenly son as Christ as the paradigm of [the Gnostic] experience of salvation, and pioneering or developing a rite of water baptism followed by chrism with myrrh. When charged with novelty by mainstream Christians like Irenaeus, [the Gnostics] seized on the growing interest in the figures of and traditions about Adam and Seth in the late second to early third century, to claim decent from the heavenly Seth” (Logan 2006, 24-25). For Logan, also key to this “classic” myth is notions of the body, particularly “the Apocryphon of John’s understanding of the origin of sexuality and of the salvation of the soul. Thus sexual intercourse is interpreted negatively as introduced by the chief archon, the Old Testament Creator God, as a further device to imprison Adam . . . Another key feature that I had not noticed is the existence of an interest in healing and the rite of exorcism such as is suggested both by the long list of angels associated with the

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were not so much a Christian sect [or] a schismatic movement seeking to return to a supposed primal purity, like the Marcionites, or a ‘church’ movement such as the Valentinians, seeking greater accommodation with both Catholic and pagans, as [they were] an innovatory cult movement emerging within Christianity. (Logan 2006, 4–5)

While Logan should be commended for deploying Valentinianism and Marcionism outside of the confines of “Gnosticism” and at least acknowledging that the “Gnostics” were a legitimate (if deviant) expression of nascent Christianity, 121 his reconstruction contains many of the serious methodological problems found in previous scholarship, 122 not the lest of which are his assumptions that the content and order of the 4th century Nag Hammadi Library has any bearing on the beliefs of those who wrote or read the texts in the 2nd –3rd centuries 123 or that heresiological references to αἵρεσις are accurate rather than simply efforts in the construction of an “other.” 124 creation of the earthly body in the Apocryphon and by Tertullian’s comments, and attested by pagan critics such as Celsus and Plotinus” (Logan 2006, 25). 121 “[T]he Gnostics were an innovatory cult movement arising within mainstream Christianity though a visionary figure but then increasingly deviated, particularly attractive to lapsed, secularized Jews and to educated, well-off citizens, both female and male, in some tension with society. . .[and] emerging within mainstream Christianity in Antioch in the early second century” (Logan 2006, xii). 122This is surprising, considering that many of these issues were addressed by Karen King’s What is Gnosticism? (2003); a source that Logan claims to be in dialogue with, and at times, refuting (Logan 2006, 1–6). However, Logan’s rejoinder to King is not to engage her methodological critique in any meaningful way, but to simply avoid it. “Despite appeals to the sheer variety of the texts and lack of correlation with the heresiologists’ accounts, despite appeals to the multitude of approaches and multiform religious movements of antiquity and to the paucity and incompleteness of our knowledge, perhaps in this case the simplest hypothesis. . .is most likely to be the right one” (Logan 2006, 6). 123 For more on the “canon” of the Nag Hammadi Library, see Chapter 5. 124According to Logan “we should be more prepared to accept the evidence of the heresiologists, particularly Irenaeus and Epiphanius, about the existence of Gnostic communities (1) where they appear to have first-hand information either from texts or personal knowledge . . . and (2) where they have no personal axe to grind and are primarily concerned to describe rather than refute (more true of Irenaeus)” (Logan 2006, 29, emphasis mine). This claim, however, must be understood as naïve at best, especially when one considers that in the preface to Against Heresies, Irenaeus openly bears his axe and whetstone: “Insomuch as certain men have set the truth

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In essence, as with previous reconstructions, Logan has simply created a lamprey-like entity that required a specific type of “normative” (or in this case, “Catholic”) Christianity 125 in which this Gnostic cult “became increasingly deviant, increasingly independent of its original host” (Logan 2006, 71). Indeed, it seems in constructing this cult and then showing what it is not or how it was deviant, Logan is reciprocally negotiating what (Catholic) Christianity must have been and how it must have been normative. For instance, according to Logan; If asked what made them Christian, members of the early [Catholic] Church would probably have said accepting Jesus Christ as their Lord and Saviour. They would have summed this up by crying ‘Jesus (or Christ’) is Lord!. . .That they were assigning to Jesus the title of God in their scriptures, the Septuagint. . .Of course, they had and treasured the sayings of Jesus together with narratives of his life and miracles, above all the passion narrative of his last days. They ransacked the LXX for suitable titles for and references to Jesus Christ . . . particularly the prophets (including Moses, of course, and David), but also the historical books and the poetic and Wisdom literature. (Logan 2006, 61)

While the ubiquitousness or even the accuracy of this “classic ‘Catholic’ myth” is highly questionable, 126 what is critical is that when Logan’s aside, and bring in lying words and vain genealogies, ‘which, as the apostle says minister questions rather than godly edifying which is in faith’, and by means of their craftily-constructed plausibilities draw away the minds of the inexperienced and take them captive, [I have felt constrained, my dear friend, to compose the following treatise in order to expose and counteract their machinations.] These men falsify the oracles of God, and prove themselves evil interpreters of the good word of revelation.” (Haer Pref. 1, emphasis mine) Irenaeus’ discourse is not a non-biased or objective project, despite Logan’s desires to the contrary, but “amounts to a string of caricatures that not only tend to be vague and somewhat indefinable themselves but are in the first place of questionable validity as characterization of the constructed category of sources usually called ‘Gnostic’” (Williams 1994, 4. see also Murphy, 2000, 398). 125 “To describe the Gnostics as a cult movement is perhaps still to define them in terms of their relationship to Christianity and remain vulnerable to [Karen] King’s strictures” (Logan 2006, 5). 126 For example, part of this “classic Catholic myth” is the centrality of the Passion and its salvific function in early Christianities. But even within the “Catholic” canon there is simply not one Christological rendering of Jesus –“lord” or otherwise—but at least 7 different Jesus-es. For instance, the Pauline salvific Christ (Rom 6:1-14) is very different from Q’s envoy of wisdom (7:31-35) who

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model is compared to its cultic and deviant cousin, the nebulousness of his Catholic Church rhetorically becomes more stable and most importantly, more normative. [O]ver against [churches such as] the Valentinians and the Catholics, clearly the primary authority and criteria [of the Gnostics] was the figure of the heavenly Christ (or equivalent) of their myth and cult, in the characteristic genre of revelation discourse, if presented with the help of the synoptic and apocryphal gospels. Pseudepigraphical works in various genres (apocalypses, gospel, letter, treaties, hymn) helped to confirm and develop the picture and message thus presented. Such as picture and message, as is characteristic of cult movements, became increasingly deviant, increasingly independent of its original host, hence the relative absence of New Testament citations and allusions. . .However, apart from their “scripture”, the classic myth, they do not seem to have felt the need for or developed the idea of a Christian canon. Thus the Old Testament was accepted as a privileged book, even as “scripture”, nevertheless, like the holy books of other nations, it remained the unsuspecting vehicle of hidden truth to be unlocked by the proper hermeneutical key supplied by the heavenly Christ of the myth. The New Testament [also] served mainly as a repertoire of proof-texts to confirm the Gnostic message. (Logan 2006, 71) suffers no passion. These in turn can be compared to the Messianic Son of Man in Mark (2:10) whose post-resurrection appearance is a later addition (16:9-20), the “Rabbi” of Mathew (5:17-20), the noble philosopher of Luke who conducts symposia (5:17) and dies—like Socrates—a noble death (22:66-23:43), the “Gnostic” revealer of John (9:35-40) and the cosmic ruler and judge of Revelation (1:5). Complicating matters, this multiplicity in the literary evidence is further nuanced when one considers that, despite the centrality given to the passion in much of canon, this seems to have not been the case in early Christian cultic spaces. “Many of the scenes [of Jesus of the pre-Constantine era] portray him as a deliverer, the heroic Jesus, who conquers disease . . . Later Jesus appears as a boy wonder-worker who miraculously multiplies the loaves and the fishes or changes the water into wine . . . This all fits well with the observations made here. Jesus did not suffer or die in pre-Constantine art. There is no cross symbol, nor any equivalent . . . [Christian] faith in Jesus Christ centres on his delivering power. More, their Christology fits more the heroic figure of Mark (without the cross) than the self-giving Christ of the Apostle Paul” (Snyder 2003, 109-110). In summary and contrary to the “classic Catholic myth” Snyder claims that “from 180 to 400 [CE] artistic analogies of selfgiving, suffering sacrifice, or incarnation are totally missing. The suffering Christ on a cross first appeared in the fifth century, and then not very convincingly.” (Snyder 2003, 298)

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While this contains the normal litany of academic clichés about what Gnosticism must have been—derivative, syncretistic, docetic, etc.,—what is most salient for this discussion is that by affirming the “revolutionary” nature of the Gnostic cult (Logan 2006, 64) with “its emergence out of its host [Christian] body” (Logan 2006, 60) Logan is constructing what normative Catholic Christianity must have been. 127 The Gnostic Cult “Catholic” Christianity ↓ Cultic ↕ “Heavenly” / Docetic Christ ↕ “Classic Myth” ↕ Pseudepigraphical ↕ Syncretism from “other nations” ↕ “Loose” canon ↑ Deviant

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Church Christ of the Passion Appealed to “scripture” Canonical Judeo-Christian sources Strict canon Normative

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

And while this model is no more than theological wish fulfilment and functionally no different that those of Harnack, Jonas and to a lesser extent Pagels, who require Gnosticism to be the “other” of normative Christianity, what is striking is that embedded within Logan’s dogmatic insistence on the derivative nature of the Gnostic cult and how it must have preceded Catholic Christianity (pace Koester, 1971) there is a reciprocal investment in protecting Christianity’s Jewish pedigree from Gnostic contamination. On my hypothesis the Gnostic movement does not proceed Christianity, but arose within it as an innovatory cult, developing by interaction with contemporaries, who would have included rootless Jewish intellectuals who had abandoned their ancestral faith, hence the unmistakable prevalence of Jewish elements and ideas in the Nag Hammadi texts”. (Logan 2006, 64 emphasis mine)

Indeed, despite the Gnostic interest in the nostalgic traditions of Israel such as “elements from the Old Testament, [such as] Psalms, Prophets and Wisdom literature. . .[and] such as the books of Enoch from Jewish apocalyptic, and early speculations about Adam from the pseudepigraphical Adam literature” (Logan 2006, 64) and the existence of “Jewish-Gnostic” 127 Indeed, by affirming that “the host culture [of which the Gnostics deviated from] was Christianity rather than paganism” (Logan 2006, 59) Logan not only assumes that paganism was somehow a distinct cultural entity—one that apparently had no overlap with sans pareil Christianity— but he also re-entrenches, by virtue of the deviance of the cult, the normative status of his “Catholic” Church.

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texts like the Apocalypse of Adam, 128 which do not appear to be secondarily “Christianized” 129 Logan insists that that this can not be an indication of a pre-Christian Gnosticism (Logan 2006, 84; see also 1996, 37–41) but can only be explained as a “post-Christian” innovation. But where as the Valentinians, with their obvious founder. . .betray the hallmarks of a sect, appealing to the past, to their interpretation of common authority, but breaking away from Catholic Christianity to form a church, the Gnostics, with no named founder but a powerful myth and cult practice, introduced novel elements while not consciously breaking away, if diverging more and more from their Catholic host, are recognizably a cult movement of a subculture-evolutionary kind [as per Stark and Bainbridge] with little concern for canon, structures and hierarchy. (Logan 2006, 72) 130

By fully adopting both the analytical apparatus and conclusions of Stark and Bainbridge regarding Jewish adherence to modern cults, 131 Logan can explain how the Gnostic interest in a variety of Judaisms is not an indication of pre-Christian Jewish Gnosticism, but by default must be the product of “lapsed, secular Jews” (Logan 2006, xii) who “had abandoned their ancestral faith” 132 (Logan 2006, 64). However, while it is perfectly reasonable for Logan to use a model such as Stark’s and Bainbridge’s to provide a hermeneutical wedge in look128 “[The author] of this material is therefore not only dependant on early Jewish Adam traditions. . .[but The Apocalypse of Adam] represents a very early type of Gnosticism in which the Jewish components are central. . .[and] represent[s] a form of Jewish Gnosticism which resisted the kind of Christianization we have noted in the case of the Apocryphon of John” (Pearson 1986, 29, 33). 129 As opposed to the Christianization found in such texts as the Apocryphon of John (King 2006, 244-57). 130 Also see Edwin Yamauchi (1983, 132) for a similar argument. 131 “Jewish overrecruitment by cults would seem primarily to reflect that, in contemporary America, Judaism has been more greatly eroded than Christianity by the process of secularization. Evidence abounds. A smaller proportion of Jews than gentiles has a formal religious affiliation . . . [and] even those who do belong to a synagogue display low levels of commitment . . . to have been born into a Jewish home has, for many years, meant a high probability of being raised in secularity, as only a cultural, not a religious, Jew” (Stark and Bainbridge 1985, 402– 403). 132 Indeed, it appears for Logan that the “Gnostic” Demiurgical speculation is not only unJewish, but paradigmatically anti-Jewish (Logan 1996, 37).

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ing at Gnosticism, it is another thing when this modern categorical system is retrojected back into the past as if it could have any intrinsic explanatory meaning in antiquity. 133 Because Logan has not only appropriated the apparatus of Stark and Bainbridge in regards to cults, but also their conclusions that Jews who participate in such have “deviated” from their “religion” 134 he has allowed this modern observation to dictate the terms in which his ancient data is interpreted, and anachronistically makes the leap that what might be said for some contemporary Jews could have any bearing on what constituted a Jew in antiquity. Indeed, it seems that this conflation of “modern cultic deviance” with the variety of cultural and literary options that were available to Jews in antiquity, is dependant on the assumption that the Gnostic cult must not only be preceded by Christianity but that they can not be “authentically” Jewish (Logan 1996, 37–41; 2006, 114). 135 While Logan is not only deploying “Gnosticism” as a method of buttressing “orthodox / Catholic” notions of Christianity, it seems that Logan’s insistence that the Gnostic cult’s use of Jewish tropes is simply an importation by “rootless”, “intellectual” and “secular” Jews—as opposed to the caricature of “traditional” and “religious” Jews who “read only the Law 133 While modern categories arrayed around the rubric “religion” (such as “secular” or “cult”) are “constructions created and applicable to the western and modern religions of Europe and North America, but inapplicable to . . . ancient [culture]” (Arnal 2005a, 35), this does not foreclose on using such modern categorical systems being employed as a hermeneutical lens to examine objects in antiquity. “Thus if I am interested in beliefs and activities that I, as a modern, would classify as religious, there is no particular reason not to lump these together and analyse how they were treated in a culture. . .in which they were not lumped together. Hence, trying to reconstruct, for instance, ‘the politics of Jesus’ is perfectly legitimate even though Jesus, presumably, would not have set these particular views aside as ‘political.’ But scholars who do this should recognize that these classificatory schema are their own, not those of the persons they analyze, and so should very rigorously refrain from drawing any conclusions that assume, for instance, the emic systematicity or unity of such classes of practices” (Arnal 2005a 62: see also J. Z. Smith 1982a, xi). 134 Stark’s and Bainbridge’s model of what constitutes a “religion” is a highly simplistic caricature— “[A] religion lacking supernatural assumptions is no religion at all” (Stark and Bainbridge 1985, 3)—and should be compared with the more sophisticated models of J. Z. Smith (1982), Braun (2000), Arnal (2000), Asad (2001) and McCutcheon (2007). 135 For more on what constitutes “normative” Judaism in antiquity see Chapter 6.

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and corresponding sections of the Prophets in their synagogues” (Logan 2006, 61)—is an indication that he is not just interested in constructing a normative “Catholic” Christianity but is also invested in preserving the purity of its Jewish pedigree from the contamination of the Gnostics and all that entails. 136 Indeed it seems that if something can be categorized as Gnostic, by default it can not then be understood in any way as legitimately “Jewish.” 137

4.8 THE SCHOLARLY INVESTMENT IN KEEPING GNOSTICISM AS “OTHER” According to Bruce Lincoln, “taxonomies are socially determined [and as such] hegemonic taxonomies will tend to reproduce the same hierarchic system of which they themselves are the product” (Lincoln 1989, 8). Considering that what is understood as “normative” Christianity underwrites large portions of Western discourse (Blumenberg 1983, 30), it is not surprising that Harnack, Jonas, Logan or even Pagels have created a pseudo-entity called the Gnostic religion. By working within a discourse whose sole purpose is to shore up the boundaries of “Western” religion, scholars can only construct Gnosticism as that which is “other.” Despite having the Nag Hammadi Library, the scholarly construction of Gnosticism needs “normative” Christianity (in particular the New Testament) to have any contextual 136 For a more detailed study of the construction of a pure Judaism for Christian mythical purposes, see Chapters 2 and 3. 137 A surprisingly similar stance has been bluntly articulated by Birger Pearson. “Given the massive Jewish influence discoverable in Gnostic texts, how does one interpret the Gnostics’ attitude vis-à-vis their roots? It is obviously not enough to speak of “Jewish Gnosticism” for once the Gnostic hermeneutical shift has occurred one can no longer recognize the resultant point of view as “Jewish”. One finds, instead, an essentially non-Jewish, indeed anti-Jewish, attitude, and one must interpret this attitude on its own terms as a radically new hermeneutical program, giving birth to a radically new religious movement. . .The Gnostic attitude to Judaism, in short, is one of alienation and revolt, and though the Gnostic hermeneutic can be characterized in general as a revolutionary attitude vis-à-vis established traditions, the attitude exemplified in Gnostic texts, taken together with the massive utilization of Jewish traditions, can in my view only be interpreted historically as expressive of a movement of Jews away from their own traditions as part of a process of religious self-redefinition. The Gnostics, at least in the earliest stages of the history of the Gnostic movement, were people who can apply designated as “no longer Jews” (Pearson 1990, 125,130 emphasis mine. See also Williams 1996, 218).

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meaning. No matter how Gnosticism is conceptualized—as “heretical” or “foreign” in Protestant and Colonialist discourses or as “legitimately Christian” within a feminist hermeneutic or as a deviant post-Christian innovation—questions pertaining to it can only be asked in one way: how it related to “orthodoxy” as Christianity’s “Other.” And while the exact shape of the subject created is fluid and based on “idiosyncratic factors [that are] dependent on individual biography and personality [of the scholar]” (T. Kuhn 1989, 388), the construction of Gnosticism is still based upon the ideology of the discourse that produces it: Therefore, to define Gnosticism, one needs to have a “normative” Christianity to juxtapose it to. Gnosticism is, rather, a term invented in the early modern period to aid in defining the boundaries of “normative” Christianity . . . . So long as the category of Gnosticism continues to serve as the heretical other of orthodox Christianity, it will be inadequate for the interpretation of the primary material and for historical reconstruction. (King 2003, 2–3)

This is the problem with the whole concept. The Gnostics and the Gnosticism constructed by scholarship requires and is based on a theological discourse of “orthodoxy” and “heresy”: a discourse which has remained fairly stable from antiquity to the modern period, exerting its power beyond religion to pervade other spheres of identity formulation. The strategies devised by the early heresiologists to define orthodoxy and heresy are alive and well in the politics of religious normality in the modern world, albeit in modified forms to suit new and shifting situations (King 2003, 24). Gnosticism, if anything, is the “other” par excellence, the proximate and heretical boogey-man of Western religious discourse that is evoked only to help shore up Christianity’s shifting identity. And while the nature of Gnosticism has changed with each new construction of “normative” Christianity—such as “orthodox” Protestantism vs. Gnostic Catholicism, Western Christianity vs. Oriental Gnostic piety, the exclusively patriarchal Church vs. inclusive Gnostic groups, or cult vs. church— its status as other has remained constant Hence, this concept of “Gnosticism” has become so imbedded in scholarly discourses that its meaning extends far beyond any notion of disinterested objectivity and has become a protean label, despite the intentions of individual scholars (King 2003, 219). “Of course, discourses are composed of signs; but they do more than use these signs to designate things. It is this more that rendered them irreducible to language and to speech. It is this ‘more’ that we must reveal and describe” (Foucault 1972, 49).

5 THE ANTI-CANON OF THE NAG HAMMADI LIBRARY 5.1 INTRODUCTION When the Nag Hammadi Library was discovered in 1945, its potential to radically alter the study of Gnosticism and its relationship to ancient Christianity was staggering. 138 Before Nag Hammadi, scholarly constructions of Gnosticism were limited to a few fragments of primary texts, 139 and the polemical works of the Church Fathers who accused “the multitude of those Gnostics” (Haer 2. praef, 1) of a variety of heresies such as “disregard [for] the order and the connection of the Scriptures, and . . . dismember[ing] and destroy[ing] the truth” (Haer 1, 8:1). As part of the nascent Church’s self-defining polemic of “orthodoxy” and “heresy” these descriptions, while interesting, could not reasonably serve as reliable or objective accounts of the “Gnostics” 140 (Wisse 1986, 177). With the discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library, however, this exclusive reliance on the heresiologists could finally come to an end. No longer would scholars be forced to sift through the rhetoric of Irenaeus, Hippolytus or Tertullian, looking for clues about the nature of these “Gnostics.” Finally, through their own primary texts, these “heretics” could speak for themselves. Unfortunately, scholars were not listening. While the discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library has dramatically increased the number of “Gnostic” primary texts available to scholarship, the

While discovered around the same time as the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Nag Hammadi Library did not garner the same public attention or mystique as the Qumran documents (Rudolph 1987 [1977], 34). 139For example a fragment of the Gospel of Thomas was found among the Oxyrhynchus papyri in 1897. 140 While “[t]he information supplied by the polemicists is historically significant . . . it must always be read with a mind to their goal of detraction, and intent to malign . . . Although the polemicists’ objections have become basic to the modern repertoire used to describe Gnosticism, their portrayals of heresy seriously distort their opponents’ views” (King 2003, 26–27). 138

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discursive categories inherited from antiquity—like any bad habits—die hard: So far, however, the [Nag Hammadi Library has] served more to highlight the problems than to resolve them . . . [due to] the continued entanglement of heresiological discourses in the scholarly study of Gnosticism. (King 2003, 150)

Instead of being used to help reconstruct the multiplicity of the various Christianities of Late Antiquity, the Nag Hammadi Library has been simplistically deployed by scholars within the parameters of the ancient polemic of “orthodoxy” and “heresy” (King 2003, 1), and subsequently used to help construct a secondary “Gnostic religion(s)” whose sole purpose is to function as Christianity’s “other.” In particular, this has been accomplished by constructing the Nag Hammadi Library as a Gnostic “anti-canon,” ” a body of work that by virtue of its “heretical” status is secondary in comparison to the authority and orthodoxy of the New Testament (Arnal 2005a, 63–67). Since Gnosticism is the discursive “other” that constructs the borders of “normative” Christianity, so too is the Nag Hammadi Library the heretical “anti-canon” which shores up the legitimacy and orthodoxy of the New Testament. New Testament Nag Hammadi ↓ Judeo-Christian ↕ sui generis from pristine source ↕ Unique ↕ Unified ↕ Superficially dualistic ↕ Transhistorical ↑ “Orthodox”

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Gnostic multiple “foreign” sources Syncretistic Multiple Radically dualistic Historical “Heretical”

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

This does not mean, however, that the Nag Hammadi Library is not syncretistic, that it does not consist of multiple “groups” or it does not contain examples of dualism. As a product of the Hellenistic matrix of Late Antiquity, the Nag Hammadi Library contains a variety of theologies, influences and texts that are heavily dualistic. However, because of the binary relationship constructed between it and the New Testament, to emphasise a quality in one, is a way to minimalize or ignore that same quality in the other. By emphasising the Nag Hammadi Library as syncretistic, containing multiple traditions that are dualistically Gnostic, scholars—intentionally or not—have in turn constructed a contrastive New Testament as minimally dualistic, sui generis and containing a single “Gospel tradition” that “from

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start to finish is formed by their faith that the crucified Jesus was raised from the dead and will come in glory to judge the world” (Meier 1987, 41). As part of the overall Christian mythical narrative framework, the “heresy” of the Nag Hammadi Library acts to highlight the “orthodoxy” of the New Testament by establishing a quarantine around those analogous texts which should not nor cannot be legitimately Christian (Figure 1). As with the scholarly discourse on apocalypticism, this simplistic binary is far from airtight. Instead of the Nag Hammadi Library being the “heretical anti-canon” in comparison to the New Testament, careful study has “exposed the implausibility of [these kinds of] explanatory frameworks that may be elegant but are too simplistic to deal with the historical complexity of the pluralistic religious life of the ancient social world” (King 2003, 150). Instead of being the “radical other” as decades of New Testament scholarship has assumed, it appears that the Nag Hammadi Library is the “proximate other” (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245), one that at times is so close to the New Testament and normative Christianity as to be all but indistinguishable outside of hermeneutical apologetics. 141 By examining how scholars have deployed the Nag Hammadi Library to be the radical “other” or “anti-canon” in comparison to the New Testament, this chapter will explore how the Nag Hammadi’s so-called “dualistic,” “syncretistic” and essentially “Gnostic” texts are constructed to represent multiple, heretical Gnosticisms. This construction, as part of the prioritization of the Christian mythical narrative, is used to preserve and emphasise the authority and orthodoxy of the New Testament as the literary expression of an incomparable Christianity. Because this a priori authority is based, not on each collection’s intellectual significance, but on the typological binary of “heresy” versus “orthodoxy,” a comparison between the Gospel of Thomas and the Gospel of John will illustrate the artificiality of these categories when used in scholarly constructions.

For example, this apologetic hermeneutic has been used to reinterpret the dual use of Sophia in 1 Corinthians; “Now we have received not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit that is from God” (1 Cor 2:12). Instead of this “splitting” of Wisdom being an indication of proto-Valentinianism (Rudolph 1987[1977], 76) within the Pauline letters, scholars have apologetically constructed 1 Cor 2:12 as an orthodox indictment of Gnosticism. Hence, the “positive” use of the “Spirit of God” is the Pauline adoption of legitimate Jewish wisdom, but the negative “spirit of the world” is actually an anti-Gnostic polemic (H-W. Kuhn 1998, 241–53; see also Bultmann 1971 [1964], 8–9). 141

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5.2 VARIETY IS THE SPICE OF HERESY Even a quick perusal of the New Testament shows that it is not a unified body of texts, but contains a “variety of theologies” (Robinson 1971b, 69). Despite being collected together within the Bible in a way that gives the illusion of a coherent, historical progression (Mack 1995, 5 and 276) the New Testament (comprising of documents written between 40 CE and 150 CE) contains a variety of genres, such as gospels, epistles and apocalypses, and the literary expressions of at least six different Christianities (Pauline, Lukan, Matthean, Markan, Johannine, and the people responsible for Revelation). This multiplicity of expression has been subsumed under a hermeneutic that seeks to “group all the facts into a harmonious whole” (Meier 1987, 194 n.66). Despite the variety of material, ideologies, and internal contradictions 142 within the New Testament there is a “religious” imperative for the collection to represent, not a variety of Christianities, but the [singular] “orthodox Christian Scriptures” (Meier 1987, 41). This blurring of the multiple into the singular, however, is inverted with constructions of the Nag Hammadi Library. The Nag Hammadi Library as the “heretical Gnostic scriptures” must express the exact opposite qualities as the “orthodox” New Testament. Instead of the uniformity of the New Testament, the Nag Hammadi library must be “scandalously heterodox [in] character” and represent “Gnostic syncretism” (Williams 1996, 108). Unlike the New Testament (or the “Old Testament” for that matter), both the multiplicity of the material and the variety of Gnostic messages (Williams 1996, 246–47) must be an essential element in scholarly analysis of the Nag Hammadi Library (King 2003, 77–78, 104; Williams 1996, 214, 245). The question is why? Why must variety be a defining characteristic of the Nag Hammadi Library when the variety in the New Testament is, if not ignored, deemphasised? Taking their lead from the ancient polemic of self-definition that constructed competing “Orthodox” and “Gnostic” Christianities, modern scholars have created two classes of literature in ancient Christianity: that which is “orthodox” or palatable to the standard Christian mythical narrative (such as the New Testament and “legitimate” apocalyptic literature), and that which is “heretical” and unpalatable for which the Nag Hammadi Library is a paradigmatic type. One of the best ways to demarcate this dif“The writings now bound together in the New Testament ‘canon’ emerge as conflicting witnesses . . . they often contradict each other or appear as theological compromises” (Robinson 1971a, 18). 142

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ference is to juxtapose the one right and “orthodox” view 143 with the many incorrect and heretical views (King 2003, 23). Hence, the Judeo-Christian deployment of “heresy” and “orthodoxy” implies, not just “right” or “wrong” but also a singular and correct rendering based on a prestigious pedigree, over against multiple incorrect renderings that are the products of syncretism, illegitimate sources, or the “corruption” of authentic JudeoChristian material (Meier 1987, 130). New Testament Nag Hammadi ↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

Judeo-Christian

sui generis from pristine source Unique Unified Superficially dualistic “Orthodox”

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Gnostic multiple “foreign” sources Syncretistic Multiple Radically dualistic “Heretical”

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Based upon both the categories of the heresiologists and the points of contact between various texts, scholars have constructed a variety of Gnosticisms, such as Valentinian, 144 Sethian, 145 Hermetic 146 and Thomas 147 Chris-

143 After his criticism of a variety of heretics such as Valentinus, Ptolemy and Marcus, Irenaeus then constructed “proper” Christianity as a monolithic and singular “Church, though dispersed throughout the whole world, even to the ends of the earth, which has received from the apostles and their disciples this [singular] faith” (Haer 1, 10:1). 144 The Gospel of Truth, The Prayer of the Apostle Paul, The Treaties on the Resurrection, The Tripartite Tractate, the Gospel of Phillip, The Interpretation of Knowledge, A Valentinian Exposition are all thought to belong to the Valentinian school of Gnosticism, with the tentative inclusion of I and II Apocalypse of James, the Letter of Peter to Phillip, The Testimony of Truth and the Apocryphon of James (King 2003, 154). 145 The Apocryphon of John, the Hypostasis of the Archons, the Gospel of the Egyptians, the Apocalypse of Adam, the Three Steles of Seth, Zostrianos, the Thought of Norea, Marsanes, Allogenes and from the Bruce Codex, The Untitled Treaties are all through to belong to Sethian Gnosticism, with tentative inclusion of Trimorphic Protennoia, On the Origin of the World, Melchizedek and Hypsiphrone (King 2003, 157). 146 Hermetic Gnostic texts of the Nag Hammadi Library are thought to be Asclepius, the Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth and the Prayer of Thanksgiving (King 2003, 162).

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tianities out of the Nag Hammadi Library. (King 2003, 154–62, see also Williams 1994, 34–35) 148 As with the singular construction of the Dead Sea Scrolls from the categories of Josephus, there is a similar danger in using the heresiologists categories to construct multiple Gnosticisms. Irenaeus, like Josephus, should not be understood as a non-biased observer who had nothing at stake (Wisse 1986, 180), but as a writer who was conducting a polemical discourse of self-definition and needed to differentiate his vision of Christianity from the various other analogous Christianities of Late Antiquity. Against Heresies was not written as a non-biased examination of the intrinsic elements of “Gnosticism” or “orthodoxy” but as a way for Irenaeus to shore up his understanding of what authentic Christianity should be. 149 And here is the problem. Taking their lead from Irenaeus, scholars have incorporated not only his descriptions, but also his negative polemical rhetoric against the Gnostics in scholarly constructions of the Nag Hammadi Library. Instead of using Irenaeus to help reconstruct the obvious multiplicity of all Christianities of Late Antiquity, scholars have essentially created two distinct groups out of his rhetoric: the unified and singular Orthodox Church and a multiplicity of heretical Gnostics (Wisse 1986, 180). While the Nag Hammadi Library does consist of a “wide variety of ethical orientations, theological and anthropological views, spiritual disciplines and ritual practices” (King 2003, 213), the same can be said for the New Testament. Does not the New Testament contain at least six different and at times conflicting Christianities (Robinson, 1971a, 18)? Is the New Testament, by virtue of its canonization at least 200 years after the last of its texts was written, a unified whole? Or is this “unity” simply the product of hermeneutical preference that has prioritized the Christian mythical narrative of a unified “Church” (Hedrick 1986, 7–8)? Despite the variety of the New Testament materials, “is there a fundamental unity behind all the diversity? Does primitive Christianity contain a single, new and unique doctrine The Nag Hammadi texts that are thought to represent Thomas Christianity include the Gospel of Thomas and the Book of Thomas, along with the Acts of Thomas (King 2003, 162). 148 A number of texts, such as the Gospel of Thomas, Gospel of Mary, Dialogue of the Savior and Gospel of the Savior do not fit any of the various gnosticisms that scholars have constructed (King 2003, 163). 149 The tendency of polemical discourse is to “portray one’s own position as that of the majority as being in keeping with the apostolic tradition, while that of the opponent is by definition aberrant and isolated” (Wisse 1986, 180). 147

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of human existence?” (Bultmann 1956, 179, emphasis mine). Considering the binary discourse used in comparing the Nag Hammadi Library 150 to the New Testament, many scholars, like Bultmann, would answer yes (Bultmann 1956, 180; Meier 1987, 123).

5.3 THE NAG HAMMADI’S “ANTI-CANONS” The variety of the texts in the Nag Hammadi Library has not only been used to indict various heretical Gnosticisms of Late Antiquity, but it has also been constructed as containing various Gnostic “anti-canons.” In Rethinking Gnosticism, Michael Williams proposed that the internal arrangement of the texts within the various codices of the Nag Hammadi Library indicate two pre-determined rationales. The first grouping which can be found in Codices III, IV and VIII, VII, and IX, is a “History of Revelation” arrangement and the second grouping, found in Codices I and II, is an “anticanonical” reflection of the “basic pattern in several New Testament canonical lists and some New Testament manuscripts” (Williams 1996, 253). A) “History of Revelation” Arrangement According to Williams, the Nag Hammadi Codices III, IV and VIII (combined), VII, and IX, are arranged in what “might be called a ‘history of revelation’ pattern” (Williams 1996, 249). Each codex begins with tractates that detail the mythical origins of the world and of humanity, followed by a testimony or “revelation” given by a prestigious “Gnostic” figure, and culminates with a specific text for the new Christian era that details various revelations or applications, such as homilies (Codex IX) or visions (Codex VII). For example, consider the order of Codex III: -Apocryphon of John: Primordial origins and overview (essentially a rewritten Genesis). -Gospel of the Egyptians: Primordial origins (the divine Seth’s autobiography as copied by the figure of Eugnostos). -Eugnostos: Ancient testimony from Eugnostos (concerning the transcendent realm and the coming revealer).

Meier insists that, unlike the “canonical gospels,” the Nag Hammadi Library “was truly a ‘library’ since the codices embrace everything from a fragment of Plato’s Republic through pagan moral works like the Sentences of Sextus” (Meier 1987, 123). 150

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-Sophia of Jesus Christ: Christ’s revelation to the disciples (confirmation of Eugnostos’ testimony). -Dialogue of the Saviour: Christ’s revelation to the disciples (Williams 1996, 250). While this pattern is not consistent throughout the selected codices (in particular Codex VII, which lacks any “ancient testimony”), this chronological arrangement of mythic history seems plausible and gives a logical rationale for the ordering of some codices of the Nag Hammadi Library. B) Anti-canonical Format The second possible internal ordering for parts of the Nag Hammadi Library, as postulated by Williams, can be found in Codices I and II. In these, there appears to be an “imitation of commonly attested patterns in the ordering of Christian Scripture” (Williams 1996, 253), such as a Jewish “Old Testament” followed by the Christian “New Testament,” which consists of Gospel accounts, Epistles and finally eschatological documents such as an Apocalypse(s). 151 For example, Codex II consists of: -Apocryphon of John: Overview / rewritten Genesis (“Old Testament”). -Gospel of Thomas: Sayings of the Living Jesus. -Gospel of Philip: Meditations on various doctrines (Gospels). -Hypostasis of the Archons linked with Origin of the World: Exposition on the letters of the “great apostle” (86:22–25) Paul 152 concerning the Rulers (Epistles). -Exegesis of the Soul: Eschatology (Apocalypses). -Thomas the Contender: Concluding dialogue about the “spiritual struggle” (Williams 1996, 254). As with the “History of Revelation” arrangement, this “anti-canonical” ordering seems plausible and imposes a rational ordering on the texts for parts of the Nag Hammadi Library. For example, considering that Codex II, like the New Testament, expresses definite Christian mythological concerns, it follows that they both would have a similar logical ordering, consisting of the salvation history of nostalgic Israel, the advent of Christ, the authority of Paul and a final eschatological reordering (Mack 1995, 275). Even con-

No example given by Williams fits within the literary criteria of the genre apocalypse (See Chapter 2). 152 See Col 1:13 and Eph 6:12. 151

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sidering the placement of Thomas the Contender, 153 what Williams has postulated is intriguing. What needs to be considered, however, are the implications of these arrangements for our historical understanding of the “unified” canon 154 of the New Testament. 155 For example because of the secondary status of the Nag Hammadi Library, when scholars encounter a text like the Gospel of Thomas, the a priori authority given to the New Testament seriously distorts any historical reconstructions. The effects of the subordination of the Gospel of Thomas to the canonical gospels are especially pernicious, in that Thomas is not taken seriously as a gospel worthy of study in its own right, but is reduced to the status of a textual variant in the history of the synoptic tradition. (Cameron 1999, 238)

It is this idea of “textual variant” that has implications for Williams’ constructions, in particular how the Nag Hammadi Library is often presented as derivative of the New Testament (Meier 1987, 123–24; Tuckett 1986, 3). By describing the Nag Hammadi codices as consciously derived from the ordering of the New Testament, Williams essentially constructs, not a parallel canon, but a secondary or anti-canon, which implies that texts like the 153 Williams maintains that while the placement of Thomas the Contender “admittedly departs from the Gospel-Epistle-Apocalypse model,” this model is still arguable for the first six tractates in Codex II (Williams 1996, 255). 154 “The term canonical loses its normative relevance when the New Testament books themselves emerge as a deliberate collection of writings representing various divergent convictions which are not easily reconciled with each other” (Koester 1971, 115). 155 While the New Testament has been understood as the paradigm of the origins of Christianity (Cameron 1999, 293), the finished product was not codified until the 4th century; a full 300 years after the beginning of the nascent Christian movement. Until then, while there were a variety of lists of “orthodox” Christian literature (Mack 1995, 386–389), there was no universally accepted Christian “canon”, orthodox or otherwise, as was the case with the “heretic” Marcion. However, the subsequent 4th century canonization of the texts has been equated by scholars with a textual authority that is retrojected back to the various Christianities of the 1st –3rd centuries. Hence, what was authoritative for some (whether a minority or majority) Christians in the 4th century, has been understood as that which was authoritative for all Christianities from the beginning of the Christian movement. “[I]t is important to distinguish between the historical situation which [the canonized New Testament] reflects and the historical situation [it] created” (Wisse 1986, 179).

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Gospel of Thomas are also secondary in theological and intellectual significance. And while Williams’ claims may be correct, his description of the Nag Hammadi Library as an “imitation of commonly attested patterns in the ordering of Christian Scripture” stresses the a priori authority and intellectual significance commonly given to the New Testament over other, non-canonical Christian texts. 156 Hence, the canonical Gospel of John is understood to be more significant than the non-canonical Gospel of Thomas, or the “orthodox” Gospel of Matthew is understood to be more authoritative than the “heretical” Gospel of Phillip; a construction that may be contrary to the actual historical reality (Wisse 1986, 178). What must be stressed is that whether or not a text is found either within the “orthodox” New Testament or the “heretical” Nag Hammadi Library says nothing about its importance or intellectual significance since “there is no historic basis for the traditional claim that orthodoxy preceded heresy logically and chronologically” (Wisse 1986, 182). A text’s inclusion in either the New Testament or the Nag Hammadi Library does not tell us One of the best examples of this kind of prioritizing of the New Testament is illustrated by John P. Meier who insists that the Nag Hammadi Library, when compared to the New Testament, is intellectually insignificant for constructions of Christian origins. For example, “even such a key work [from the Nag Hammadi Library] of Christian gnosticism as the Gospel of Truth turns out to be a theological tract or homily, completely different from the narrative form of the four canonical Gospels. Some of these tracts-called-gospels (e.g., the Gospel of Phillip) do contain words or deeds of Jesus, some paralleled in the canonical Gospels, some not. In the case of the Gospel of Phillip, these words and deeds are scattered throughout a rambling document that seemed to have as its main object instruction on Christian Gnostic sacraments. The material about Jesus is sometimes on the level of the fanciful gospels seen above. For example, Jesus goes into the dye works of Levi, takes 72 different colors, and throws them into a vat; they all come out white (Gos. Phil 63, 25–30). Still more bizarre, Joseph the carpenter grows a tree from which he makes the cross on which Jesus is later hanged (Gos. Phil 73, 8–15). This is the stuff of The Last Temptation of Christ, not the historical Jesus”(Meier 1987, 123–24 emphasis mine). Consider however, that the New Testament also has its share of (conflicting) theological tractates, sacramental instructional passages (Matt 26:26–29, Luke 22:14–23, 1 Cor 11:23–26), extremely rambling arguments (1 Cor 11:1–16) and a variety of fanciful (Matt 21:6–7 as fulfilment of Zech 9:9) and bizarre images—such as turning water into wine (John 2:6–9), walking through walls, (Luke 24:36), walking on water (Matt 14:22–33), curing the blind with saliva (John 9:9–12) or (when compared to the irrational use of 72 dyes) the very reasonable action of raising the dead (Luke 7:11–17, John 11:1– 44). 156

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what was “orthodox” or “heretical” for every group of early Christians of the first three centuries CE. Inclusion in either collection only tells us the preferences or interests of two groups of fourth century Christians: the men who convened the Council of Nicea and the group of orthodox Pachomian monks (King 2003, 163) living near the modern settlement of Nag Hammadi.

5.4 THE SYNCRETISM OF THE NAG HAMMADI LIBRARY While the number of groups that have been subsumed under the rubric of Gnosticism has been used as an indication of their inherent heresy, 157 another strategy for defining Gnosticism in relation to normative Christianity is the charge of syncretism. Sitting on the opposite discursive pole as the pristine, sui generis source, syncretism is a pejorative term used to explain the act of religious and cultural “borrowing” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 45–46). The assumption . . . that heresies always derive from undue foreign influences is misleading, since Christianity as a whole, whether labelled heretical or orthodox, has assimilated and absorbed a staggering quantity of outside influences. (Koester 1971, 115)

Scholars have had a much easier time proving that the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library is a product of syncretism (Jonas 1963 [1958], 33). No complicated hermeneutics are required simply because the Nag Hammadi Library is syncretistic. Containing a wide variety of texts that are derived from Christian, Jewish, Greek and Persian mythologies, there is no doubt that the various writers and codifiers of the Nag Hammadi Library were comfortable mining several religious sources for their inspiration (Williams 1996, 246–47). But again, because of the binary relationship between the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library and the “orthodox” New Testament, 157 “Modern scholars have tended to group together a wide variety of ancient persons, ideas and texts described in the writings of the ancient Christian polemicists [as Gnostic]. With a few significant exceptions [see Against Heresies 2, preface. 1] early Christian polemicists did not call such groups Gnostics; rather, they labelled them heretics” (King, 2003, 6–7). In other words, the category of Gnosticism should not be understood as a real or historical phenomenon present in Late Antiquity. It is simply a modern theological position used to conveniently clump together a variety of ancient Christian sects. The fact that one can find a variety of Gnosticisms in relations to a singular orthodox Christianity is only a matter of selective hermeneutics. This variety is simply a function of the categorizer’s need to construct a unified orthodoxy.

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what is found in one must not be found in the other. Hence, to emphasise the syncretism of the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library is to reciprocally emphasise the sui generis pedigree and unity of the “Christian” New Testament.

New Testament ↓ Judeo-Christian ↕ sui generis from pristine source ↕ Unique ↕ Unified ↕ Superficially dualistic ↑ “Orthodox”

Nag Hammadi ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

Gnostic multiple “foreign” sources Syncretistic Multiple Radically dualistic “Heretical”

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

Syncretism, like Gnosticism, is a term that is not only loaded with negative connotations, but is also difficult to define. What exactly do scholars imply when they claim that the Nag Hammadi Library is syncretistic? Are they speaking of the cultural synthesis of the Ancient Near and Middle East under Greco-Roman rule? Or is it simply the borrowing of one group from another? If that is the case, is not Christianity, as borrowing from Judaism, by any definition, syncretistic? Is it the act of “borrowing” that is the problem, or is it the source? Where does pedigree end and syncretism begin? Should the fact that a work was found within the Nag Hammadi cache . . .be a factor in determining whether it is Gnostic? For example, what about the badly mangled translation of a section of Plato’s Republic . . . or the collection of Jewish wisdom sayings, The Sentences of Sextus 158 . . . Have they become Gnostic in much the same way as the Hebrew Scriptures became Christian—by hermeneutical appropriation? (King 2003, 163)

Sadly, the answer to King’s final question is yes. If Christianity is understood a priori to be unique, it cannot be syncretistic. Christian borrowing can come only from the prestigious and pristine source of sui generis Judaism. If Gnosticism and the Nag Hammadi Library are understood to be intrinsically heretical, then they must be a syncretistic product of a plethora of foreign sources. Hence, with respect to the Herodotean discourse of Antiquity, where “the Egyptians are dependant on no one for their customs and bor158 Meier claims that this is not a Jewish text but is in reality a “pagan text” (Meier 1987, 123).

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row no foreign practices [as opposed to] the Persians [who are] objects of scorn for both the Greeks and Egyptians [and] borrow from everyone” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 45), modern scholars have simply changed the names, but kept the model. In place of the Greeks, we have sans pareil Christianity, in place of the Egyptians we have an “autochthonic” Judaism and for the Persians who are “so ready to adopt foreign ways” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 46, quoting Herodotus), we have the “scandalously heterodox” (Williams 1996, 108) and syncretistic Gnostics.

5.5 THOMAS, JOHN AND DUALISM One of the most pervasive methods of establishing the “heretical” nature of the Nag Hammadi Library (and by proxy, the orthodoxy of the New Testament) is to construct the so-called “Gnostic” texts as radically dualistic.

New Testament ↓ Judeo-Christian ↕ sui generis from pristine source ↕ Unique ↕ Unified ↕ Superficially dualistic ↑ “Orthodox”

Nag Hammadi ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

Gnostic multiple “foreign” sources Syncretistic Multiple Radically dualistic “Heretical”

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

This invocation of dualism as part of the hermeneutical binary between the Nag Hammadi Library and the New Testament requires a great deal of apologetic finesse when one considers that most religions of Late Antiquity were are at some level inherently dualistic; delineating between right / wrong, male / female, heaven / earth, etc. (King 2003, 123). Also, considering that “dualism,” like “syncretism,” is an imprecise term loaded with negative connotations, positing it as an essential characteristic of the Nag Hammadi Library is highly problematic. While some texts in the Nag Hammadi Library do contain dualistic tendencies (Thomas the Contender, Apocryphon of John, etc.), there is also a similar degree of dualism in a variety of “orthodox” texts, such as Revelation, the Gospel of John and the Charter for a Jewish Sectarian Association. But because Gnosticism cannot and should not be legitimately Christian, Gnostic dualism must be radically different from what is palatable to the standard Christian mythical narrative. Unlike normative Christianity that, while superficially dualistic, still allows for an apocalyptic restoration, “radical” Gnostic dualism is understood as “anti-cosmic” and as such offers no apocalyptic resolution.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE The Gnostic dualism is distinguished from [other types] in the one essential point, that is it is “anti-cosmic”; that is its conception includes an unequivocally negative evaluation of the visible world . . . it ranks as a kingdom of evil and darkness (Rudolf 1987 [1977], 60; l.c. also Hawkin 2005, 13 and King 2003, 192).

It is from this “radically” dualistic starting point that scholars have established a few key “essentials” as a means of differentiating Gnosticism from Christianity (Jonas 1963 [1958], 42; Rudolph 1987 [1977], 52). While there is no overwhelming consensus on what exactly these Gnostic dualistic tendencies are, to a greater or lesser degree, most constructions would include: -Material / Spirit Split that identifies “evil” with “matter” (Rudolph 1987 [1977], 60); -Gnosis or knowledge as a means of redemption for a select group of people whose spiritual essence is from the supreme god; -A Docetic Christology that maintains that Jesus is the emissary of the supreme god; -Demiurgical speculation that constructs the supreme god as remote and separated from the corrupted “ruler” or “creator” deity who is responsible for the degraded state of the world (Bowker 1997, 367). Because Gnosticism is only recognizable as the binary other of Christianity, it is unsurprising that these Gnostic “dualistic tendencies” only have meaning insofar as they are contrastive to normative or orthodox Christianity. For example, New Testament Christianity does not devalue the Creator God (King 2003, 186–87), it does not practice a select gnosis (Pagels 1989, 105) and, while dualistic, it is not radically and irrevocably so because it allows for an apocalyptic restoration. It is not surprising that any textual comparisons between the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library and the “Christian” New Testament have generally been in relation to their differences. If points of contact between the New Testament and the Nag Hammadi Library are stressed, it is because of the Gnostic borrowing from the orthodox sources (Tuckett 1986, 149; Meier 1987, 130–31). However, careful comparisons of the Nag Hammadi Library and the New Testament have “challenged scholars to reconfigure the boundaries of orthodoxy and heresy and indeed to rethink the usefulness of that distinction for reconstructing the history of the early period” (King 2003, 152). Take for example the Gospel of Thomas from the Nag Hammadi Library and the Gospel of John from the New Testament. Growing out of the constructed difference of heresy and orthodoxy, comparisons have tended to present both texts as products of communities in conflict (Cameron 1999,

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239). What is perhaps more interesting is that by applying the “essential” categories of Gnosticism to both texts, an interesting inversion occurs. Despite the a priori assumptions that John, as part of the New Testament, is orthodox, and Thomas as part of the Nag Hammadi Library, is heretical and Gnostic (Meier 1987, 139) when one applies the same categories scholars have used to define Gnosticism, the reverse is true. In essence, canonical John is more “Gnostic” than Thomas, and Thomas is more “Orthodox” than John. A) Thomas and John: Material / Spirit Split One of the most prominent features of “Gnostic” dualism is the understanding that, because “the Gnostic cosmos [is] an object of hate, contempt and fear” (Jonas 1963 [1958], 250–53), there is a radical de-valuation of all matter, in particular an overt “hatred of the body” (Williams 1996, 118). While this kind of dualism can be found in such texts as Thomas the Contender (138:36–139:12) or On the Origin of the World (99:2–34), the Gospel of Thomas, while constructing the physical body as inferior to the spirit, does not construct the body as antithetical to the spirit. Jesus said, “If the flesh came into being because of the spirit, it is a wonder. But if spirit came into being because of the body, it is a wonder of wonders. Indeed, I am amazed at how this great wealth has made its home in this poverty. (Gos Thom 29)

It appears that in Thomas, because the spirit makes its home within the flesh, there is a reciprocally positive relationship in which the material body gains some benefits from its spiritual inhabitant (King 2003, 196). This kind of positive spiritual presence in the material is also found within Thomas’ presentation of the created world. As opposed to the so-called “Gnostic” anticosmic dualism that understands all physical creation to be in a degraded state, within Thomas any extreme devaluation of the cosmos is lacking. In fact, the world is not antithetical to the divine, but it is “clear that the world itself is capable of communicating God” (King 2003, 197). His disciple said to him, “When will the kingdom come?” “It will not come by waiting for it. It will not be a matter of saying “here it is” or “there it is.” Rather, the kingdom of the father is spread out upon the earth, and men do not see it.” (Gos. Thom 113)

In the Gospel of John, however, there appears to be a more radical split between the spiritual / heavenly realm and the earthly / fleshy realm.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE Jesus answered, “Very truly, I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born of water and Spirit. What is born of the flesh is flesh, and what is born of the Spirit is spirit.” (John 3:5–6)

This spirit / matter split is only one aspect of the overall Johannine binary opposites between “Light” and “Dark,” and their analogues such as above and below (John 8:23, 3:31), life and death (John 3:36), and truth and lies (John 8:44). And while at times this binary is negated—“God so loved the world that he gave his only Son” (John 3:16)—the overall structure of John seems to indicate “that the whole system of religious thought presented in the Fourth Gospel hangs within a dualistic framework” (Kysar 1993, 60). Considering this binary context, it is unsurprising that in John, in contrast to Thomas, there is a negative value attached to the world; so much so that the Johannine community understands itself as utterly alienated and “no longer belong[ing] to the world” (John 17:14–15) B) Thomas and John: Gnosis. Scholarly constructions of gnosis do not refer to knowledge that can be derived empirically or philosophically. While gnosis does deal with religious ideas—the true nature of humanity and the hidden identity of God—it has more of an esoteric character. It is in essence “a knowledge that has been given by revelation, which has been made available only to a select few who are capable of receiving it” (Rudolf 1987 [1977], 55). Gnosis is a kind of mystical key that unlocks the secrets of creation, allowing the beneficiary “to see” the truth behind the world. It is through the mechanism of gnosis that the Gnostic can discover the nature of—then escape from—the entirety of creation and achieve salvation / enlightenment. It is in this category that the Gospel of Thomas comes the closest to fulfilling the criteria for Gnosticism. For example in Thomas, Jesus teaches the disciples that salvation is achieved, not as a result of faith or the salvific function of the Cross, but in “knowing” one’s true identity. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty. (Gos. Thom 3)

This kind of self-knowledge has been seen by some scholars as an indication of Gnosticism’s elitism, which creates two classes of humanity: those with the gnosis and those who are ignorant [T]he classic stereotype of “Gnostic determinism,” [is that] individuals are simply born into fixed classes with different destinies, with no hope

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for those unlucky enough to be in the inferior group and no possible jeopardy for those fortunate enough to be born in the superior [Gnostic] group. (Williams 1996, 208)

However, the Gospel of Thomas explicitly states that salvific “knowledge” is not something that is inherent or pre-determined, but is something that must be learned. Simon Peter said to them, “Let Mary leave us, for women are not worthy of life.” Jesus said “I myself shall lead her in order to make her male, so that she too may become a living spirit resembling you males. For every woman who will make herself male will enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Gos. Thom 114, emphasis mine)

Androcentrism aside, this saying clearly indicates that while the key to salvation may be the knowledge of “self,” it is nonetheless something that is initiated by the recipient. Hence, while Mary is led by Jesus, the impetus and the choice are nonetheless hers to make. And while there appears to be a demarcation of predestination along gender lines, 159 with the claim that “women are not worthy of life,” Thomas does allow a mechanism for women to transcend this boundary and find salvation by becoming “male.” 160 Unlike the Gospel of Thomas, which roots salvation within the self, the Gospel of John encapsulates salvation within the Johannine Christological understanding of “knowing” Jesus, which equals “knowing” God. “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also believe in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me” (John 17:21). Unlike previous prophets and teachers, Jesus does not simply speak about God, but facilitates a direct experience of the divine (Meeks 1972, 68). Much like the 159 “Jesus answers according to Neoplatonic and Gnostic gender typology, in which the female is considered inferior to the male because it is associated with earth and matter, whereas the superior male is associated with heaven and spirit . . . Though the symbolism sounds strange and offensive to the modern reader, Mary here exemplifies the transformation, according to Gnostic belief, that is necessary for all human believers whether women or men. She is the prototype of humanity” (Osiek 122, 2000). 160 “Jesus said to them, ‘When you make the two one, and when you make the inside like the outside and the outside like the inside, and the above like the below, and when you make the male and the female one and the same, so that the male not be male nor the female female . . . then will you enter [the kingdom]’” (Gos. Thom 22).

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scholarly construction of gnosis, the Johannine “knowing” and “seeing” of God is not necessarily something that can be learned or even recognised by everyone. “Whoever is from God hears the words of God. The reason you do not hear them is that you are not from God” (John 8:27). While this understanding is not consistent throughout, 161 there is still a sense that only those who are of God 162 or who are chosen by him (John 6:39) will be open to the revelatory message of Jesus’ identity. “And he said, ‘For this reason I have told you that no one can come to me unless it is granted by the Father’ (John 6:65; see also 12:37–40; 17:2). C) Thomas and John: Docetic Christology and the Gnostic Redeemer Myth In most scholarly constructions of Gnosticism there is a strong emphasis on a docetic Christology in which Jesus only appeared to have had a physical body, but never suffered the humiliation of the cross, or that Jesus the man may have suffered and died, but Jesus the Christ remained unaffected (King 2003, 208). In particular, this docetic Christology finds its clearest “Gnostic” rendering in the construction of the so-called “Gnostic redeemer myth.” (Rudolph 1987 [1977], 121). 163 First conceptualized by Richard 161 “You may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name” (John 20:31), seems to imply a choice. See also “‘Do you believe in the Son of Man?’ [Jesus said and the Blind Man replied] ‘And who is he, sir? Tell me so that I may believe in him.’ Jesus said to him, ‘You have seen him, and the one speaking with you is he.’ He said ‘Lord, I believe.’ And he worshipped him” (John 9:35–39). 162 “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end” (John 13:1). 163 “History of Religions scholars left an influential legacy of innovative misconceptions and misleading characterizations of Gnosticism. Of these, possibly the greatest mischief was done by the invention of the Gnostic redeemer myth, that staple of two-page summaries of Gnosticism. This stirring narrative is the product of motif history viewed synthetically. It was constructed by taking bits and pieces of particular motifs from a variety of historical and literary contexts, and combining them into a single, coherent narrative. The impression that this artificial narrative actually existed gained support from the fact that so many literary artifacts could be interpreted to fit at least some part of the myth. They then appeared as evidence for the whole story—even though in reality there is no single existing ancient literary source that gives ‘the Gnostic redeemer myth’ as scholars have ‘reconstructed’ (i.e., invented) it” (King 2003, 109, emphasis original).

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Reitzenstein, but canonized by the scholarship of Rudolph Bultmann, Kurt Rudolph and Hans Jonas, the docetic redeemer myth is the Gnostic soterological construction par excellence. In this model, humanity, as the bearers of a divine spark from the heavenly realm of light, are held in thrall—either kept “asleep” or ignorant—by the demonic or demiurgical powers of the world. [T]he supreme deity takes pity on these imprisoned sparks of light and sends down the heavenly figure of light, his Son, to redeem them. The Son arrays himself in the garment of the earthly body, lest the demons [or demiurgical rulers] should recognize him. He invites his own to join him, awakes them from their sleep, reminds them of their heavenly home and teaches them about the way to return. His chief task is to pass on the sacred passwords which are needed on the journey back . . . The Gnostic redeemer delivers discourse in which he reveals himself as God’s emissary: “I am the Shepard,” “I am the truth” and so forth. After accomplishing his work he ascends and returns to heaven again to prepare a way for his own to follow him, from the prison of the body . . . When the process [of all the “sparks” returning to heaven] is complete, the world will come to an end and return to its original chaos. The darkness is left to itself, and that is the judgement. (Bultmann 1956, 163–64 emphasis mine)

In the “Gnostic” Gospel of Thomas, however, there is no construction of either a Gnostic redeemer 164 whose “chief task is to pass on the sacred passwords” to the Gnostic elite, nor, considering the lack of a crucifixion account, 165 any understanding of a docetic Christ. While Thomas’ Jesus does Many scholars have referred to Thomas 50 as an indication of the Gnostic redeemer myth, in particular when it is rendered in terms of the trapped “divine spark.” However, because of its placement between Thomas 49 and 51, “the emphasis is not so much on the soul’s ascent back to the world of light at death as on the existing presence of the kingdom for those who understand their identity as children of the living Father. Even the future saying ‘to it you will return’ [Thomas 49] implies ‘as soon as you recognize that what you look forward to has already come’” (King 2003, 198). 165 The term the “living Jesus” (Gos. Thom 1a) has been interpreted by many scholars, such as Gregory Riley (1995) as an indication of a spiritually “resurrected” Christ. However, the line in question, naei ne !nsaje e;yp enta!i!c etonh joou or literally “These are the hidden words which Jesus who lives spoke [them],” is more an indication of the “enlightened” or “heavenly” nature of Jesus than any kind of inferred resurrection. This conclusion becomes clearer when one considers that there is no crucifixion account within Thomas, and the same term etonh, is used in Thomas 3 to describe the “sons of the living [heavenly] father” 164

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originate from the heavenly realm (Gos. Thom 77), he is also wholly present and fully engaged within the world. He is not aloof and concerned only with the “divine sparks” contained among the Gnostic elite (Williams 1996, 208), but offers a strong social critique (Gos. Thom 45, 54, 63, 64, 78, 81) that calls all humanity to “look inward and outward (in creation) to achieve enlightenment, not upward toward the world of light” (King 2003, 197). If those who lead you say to you, “See the kingdom is in the sky,” then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say, “It is in the sea,” then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty. (Gos. Thom 3)

This self-knowledge that is the key to the kingdom is not a “secret password” that is hoarded or the “divine spark” that the Gnostic elite keep hidden from the rest of the world. Instead, Thomas’ Jesus seems to be advocating a general dissemination of this divine knowledge for all humanity. Jesus said, “Preach from your (pl.) housetops that which you will hear in your ear. For no one lights a lamp and puts it under a bushel, nor does he put it in a hidden place, but rather he sets it on a lamp stand so that everyone who enters and leaves will see its light.” (Gos. Thom 33)

Again, in Thomas there is no elitist sense that this light is only for the “Gnostic.” In fact, considering the strong social critique within the Gospel, it appears that the command to “light up the whole world” 166 is a call for Christian social action in the present. The Gospel of Thomas criticized other early Christian interpretations of Jesus which understood him within the context of apocalyptic eschatology, which looked to the future for the Reign of God, placing responsibility for its fulfillment solely in the hands of God, or in Jesus as the Son of Man . . . Thomas’ Jesus preaches a Reign of God that is actualizing itself even as Jesus preached his word. As persons accept his social cri(!nsyre !mpeiwt etonh). If the concept of resurrection was to be found in Thomas, it most likely would have been rendered by either the Greek loan word ’ανάστασις for resurrection, or the Coptic twoun for “to arise.” 166 “His disciples said to him, ‘Show us the place where you are, since it is necessary for us to seek it.’ He said to them, ‘Whoever has ears, let him hear. There is light within a man of light, and he lights up the whole world. If he does not shine, he is in darkness.’” (Gos. Thom 23)

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tique and his basic human affirmation, the Reign of God becomes a present reality. (Kloppenborg, Meyer, Patterson and Steinhauser 1990, 119)

Instead of the Gnostic redeemer figure which is a staple of summary statements of Gnosticism (King 2003, 109) and assumes an aloof revealer who is only understood by the Gnostic elite, Thomas’ Jesus is more “akin to the figure of Jewish wisdom, descending to call her children to their created purpose” (King 2003, 197). In the Gospel of John, however, salvation is not a function of any ethical or moral stance. In particular, the Johannine Jesus is portrayed as a “naively docetic” (Brown 1979, 16) 167 figure who descends from heaven 168 and unveils the true knowledge of God, not though any moral or ethical stance, but through his very presence. “You are from below, I am from above; you are of this world, I am not of this world . . . Very truly, I tell you, before Abraham was, I AM” (John 8:23; 58, emphasis mine; see also John 14:6–7). And while both Thomas and John understand Jesus as pre-existent (see Gos. Thom 77; John 1:2–3), the Johannine construction lacks any ethical engagement with, or critique of, the world. Instead, the nature of the Johannine Jesus seems entirely of that which is “above” and as such, utterly alien to that which is “below” (John 8:23): “The one who comes from above is above all; the one who is of the earth belongs to the earth and speaks about earthly things. The one who comes from heaven is above all” (John 3:31). This heavenly nature of Jesus becomes particularly clear at the Crucifixion 169 when, after enduring an all but painless execution, 170 he frees the “Spirit [that descended on him] like a dove” (John 1:32) at his baptism, releasing it back to the heavenly realm of above, completing a descending / ascending motif similar to both Divine Wisdom and the Gnostic redeemer myth (Bultmann 1956, 163–64). “When [on the cross] Jesus had received the wine, he said ‘it is finished.’ Then he bowed his head and gave up his spirit” (John 19:30). As a way to distance the orthodox New Testament from the heresy of doceticism Hawkin states that the “label ‘naive doceticism’ may apply to the theology of the pre-Johannine tradition” but in the interest of maintaining orthodoxy cannot be applied “to that of the Evangelist himself” (Hawkin 2005, 9). 168 “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descends from heaven, the Son of Man” (John 3:13). 169 “When you have lifted up the Son of Man, then you will realise that I am he,” (John 8:28). 170 See John 19:16–30 and compare with Mark 15:34–37; Matt 27:46–50. 167

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D) Thomas and John: Demiurgical speculation Of all the “essential” dualistic differences constructed by scholars between orthodox Christianity and heretical Gnosticism, perhaps the most “Gnostic” of them all is that of demiurgical speculation. The side of this dualistic worldview which is opposed to the divine pole—often described as “light”—is “darkness,” which is often described in very varied fashion but principally in physical terms as matter and body (corpse), or psychologically as ignorance or forgetfulness . . . In [Gnosticism] however the realm of this anti-divine pole is very widely extended; it reaches even into the visible heavens and includes this world and the rulers who hold it in slavery, in particular the creator of the world. (Rudolph 1987 [1977], 58 emphasis mine)

In the Gospel of Thomas, there is no trace of demiurgical speculation, either in the form of a tyrannical ruler or a corrupted creator. While Thomas does have a strong element of social critique, the text does not equate negative social circumstances with a negatively valued earthly realm. Jesus said, “It is I who am the light which is above them all. It is I who am the all. From me did everything come forth, and unto me did everything extend. Split a piece of wood, and I am there. Lift up the stone, and you will find me there.” (Gos. Thom 77)

Instead of illustrating the inherent corruption of the earthly realm or revealing the “truth” of the demiurgical creator god, Thomas’ Jesus implies that there is a divine / heavenly presence not only located in the heavens, but one that can also be found within the earthly realm as well. The situation is quite different in the Gospel of John. Growing out of the strongly demarcated binary that runs throughout the text, there is a prevailing sense of alienation within the Gospel of John from those of “the world,” including the ruling powers—“Jesus [said], ‘This voice has come for your sake, not for mine. Now is the judgement of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out’” (John 12:30–31; see also 14:30)— and the unbelievers who sit outside the Johannine community: “I have given them your word, and the world has hated them because they do not belong to the world, just as I do not belong to the world” (John 17:14; see also 18:36; 16:8–11, 20). While the Johannine use of the “the world” 171 does not have The Johannine use of “the world,” while being multivalent, is used to indicate the “realm of unbelief, an area in which there is total rejection of the truth of God as revealed by Christ” (Kysar 1993 [1976], 61). 171

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the same overt devaluation of the material existence as can be found in such texts as On the Origin of the World (99:2–34), because it is part of the negative binary pole which links “the flesh,” “below” and “death,” which is then contrasted to the positive “spirit,” “above,” and “life,” there is at least the implication that the Johannine group saw the material world as, if not utterly corrupted, 172 then at least antithetical to the spiritual realm. Positive Johannine elements Negative Johannine elements ↓ Light ↕ Above ↕ Life ↕ Spirit ↕ Truth ↕ God ↑ Johannine Community

Í Í Í Í Í Í Í

John1:4–5 John 8:23 John3:36 John 3:6 John 8:44 John 13:12 John 17:14

Î Î Î Î Î Î Î

Darkness Below Death Flesh Falsehood Satan “Jews” / World

↓ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↕ ↑

It is this binary structure which divides everything into two opposed camps, that “defines and vindicates the existence of the community that evidently sees itself as unique, alien from the world, under attack, misunderstood, but living in unity with the Christ and through him, with God” (Meeks 1972, 77).

5.6 THE ORTHODOXY OF THOMAS AND THE GNOSTICISM OF

JOHN

By comparing the New Testament’s Gospel of John and the Nag Hammadi Library’s Gospel of Thomas in terms of their respective adherence to the “essentials of Gnosticism,” some surprising results occur, and some interesting questions are raised. If we highlight the “Gnostic” elements in each, the comparison shows that the Gospel of John has four points of contact with the “essentials” of Gnosticism, while the Gospel of Thomas has only two.

Thomas

John

172 It should be noted that not all deployments of “the world” in John are negative. For example, the world was loved by God (3:16) and appears to have had a divine origin (1:10). However, the Johannine Gospel understands the world to have fallen into a degraded state that is due, according to Rudolph Bultmann, to humanity’s “delusion that arises from the will to exist of and by one’s self [without God, which] perverts the truth into a lie [and] perverts the creation of the ‘world’” (Bultmann 1955, 29).

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Thomas Non-canonical Dualistic

No Gnosis Non-docetic No Demiurgical speculation

John // // // // //

Canonical

Dualistic Pseudo-gnosis / pre-destination “Naively” docetic Slight Demiurgical speculation

So what does this say about Thomas? Is it “orthodox” and left out of the New Testament by mistake? And what about John? Is it “Gnostic”? Can John be Gnostic if it is in the New Testament and not in the Nag Hammadi Library (King 2003, 163)? Considering that there are more Gnostic-esque elements in John than in Thomas, can placement in the Nag Hammadi Library still be used as a way of distinguishing Gnostic texts from “orthodox” ones (King 2003, 152)? The answer must be no. Keeping in mind that while both Thomas and John are understood to be respectively “heretical” and “orthodox” by the majority of scholars, there is some tension in regard to each text’s adherence to each category. While the Nag Hammadi Library is still marginalized in scholarly constructs, the Gospel of Thomas at least is getting some parity with the canonical Gospels in constructions of Christian origins. 173 Reciprocally, while John is part of the New Testament it is nonetheless not part of the normative “synoptic tradition” and has required separate consideration in scholarship (Mack 1995, 177). So the comparison of both Thomas and John was not just a random sampling of the New Testament and the Nag Hammadi Library, but was done intentionally to illustrate each text’s lack of adherence to the constructed scholarly binary. However, considering that there are exceptions to this binary and that the opposition between the Nag Hammadi Library and the New Testament is more tenuous than what scholars would like to believe, this should call into question the stability of terms like “orthodox,” “heresy” or “Gnostic.” Should, but rarely does. Given that John conforms so closely to the scholarly construct of Gnosticism, scholars have had to perform apologetic contortions in order 173 The Five Gospels, by Funk, Hoover and the Jesus Seminar includes the Gospel of Thomas in its reconstructions of the authentic words of Jesus. Even such apologetic scholars as John P. Meier and Christopher Tuckett have had to admit that, despite their insistence that “[t]he vast majority of material [in the Nag Hammadi Library] has nothing to do with our concerns” (Meier 1987, 123), the Gospel of Thomas and the canonical gospels “have parallel visions” (Tuckett 1986, 7; Meier 1987, 125) and as such require special consideration.

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to keep John, as part of the New Testament, as “orthodox” as possible. Possibly noticing how his own rendering of the “Gnostic redeemer myth” (Bultmann 1956, 163–64) was uncomfortably close to Johannine doceticism, Rudolph Bultmann proposed an explanation that allowed the canonical Gospel of John to remain “orthodox” while keeping the binary opposition of orthodoxy and heresy, gnosticism and Christianity, intact. The relationship of John’s Gospel to this Gnostic view was two fold . . . [material] John takes over or which he adheres to is Gnostic in outlook . . . [but the] relationship of the Gospel of John to Gnosticism is that in his Gnostic form a pointed anti-Gnostic theology is expressed. (Bultmann 1971, 8–9)

Here is the hermeneutical genius of Bultmann: a genius that, like Hans Jonas’ construction of the Gnostic religion, still haunts New Testament scholarship. In his treatment of the Johannine Gospel, Bultmann ingeniously subverted the presence of Gnostic-esque elements within the text and redeployed them within the ancient polemical discourses of the Church Fathers, recasting them as a critique. Hence, instead of John being a pseudo- or proto-Gnostic text that seriously questions the artificial binary framework, 174 Bultmann actually makes John the most “orthodox” Gospel. In essence, John is not “proto- or pre-Gnostic,” but, by virtue of its place within the New Testament, must be in fact anti-Gnostic. Even in light of the discovery of the Nag Hammadi Library which has seriously cast doubt on the validity of these kinds of oppositional models (King 2003, 152), scholars still maintain these apologetic stances in the interest of keeping John as orthodox as possible. For example, David Hawkin, in his 2005 Presidential address to the Canadian Society of Biblical Studies, on the importance of prioritizing Biblical texts within the field of Religious Studies, stated that: John had risen above his historical conditions, and radically reinterpreted the Christian message. He had taken the Gnostic myth and Christianised it . . . First, by his use of the Gnostic myth he was appealing to the educated Hellenists of his time. But he had reformulated the myth in a way which repudiated Gnosticism’s basic premise. Second, his de-mythologizing of eschatology had made it possible to transpose the Christian message into existential categories. Bultmann had always in-

174 “To this extent, the terms heresy and orthodoxy are anachronistic” (Robinson 1971a, 69).

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE sisted that the Gospel of John was not Gnostic because of the statement in 1:14 that the Word became flesh. (Hawkin 2005, 6–7)

Here we can see some of the binaries at play in the oppositional discourse of Gnosticism verses Christianity. For example, Hawkin assumes the author of the Gospel of John has somehow “risen above his historical conditions,” essentially transcending his context. That is simply impossible (Lincoln 1989, 7–8). The transcendence that Hawkin is constructing has more to do with the modern need to buttress the unique status of Christianity by virtue of its “religious” texts than with any kind of objective historical observation. Second, by claiming that the “Gnostic myth had become Christianized” he assumed an opposition between the two categories, in essence investing them both with contrastive (and unarticulated) natures. 175 Finally, assuming that this so-called “the Gnostic myth” would be easily recognizable by “educated Hellenists of his time” he assumes that Gnosticism must be an essentially Hellenistic construction, a descriptor that is the antithesis of the necessary sui generis purity of the New Testament. Like Bultmann before him, Hawkin has gone to great hermeneutical lengths to ensure that John is not Gnostic in any way. The question is why? Why must John be so fundamentally orthodox? The answer is that if the distinctions between texts of the New Testament canon and the Nag Hammadi Library are found to be simply an issue of hermeneutics, then the ideological system begins to fall apart (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245). For example, if “Gnostic” elements can be found, not just within the Nag Hammadi Library, but also within the New Testament, then the categories of difference that have been used to contrast the two collections, are also called into question.

Since Hawkin does not explain what he means by Gnostic or Gnosticism, we can only assume that he is evoking the essential “sick sign” (Williams 1996, 4) that Gnosticism has become in scholarship. However, as Jonathan Z. Smith has rightly stated, these kinds of categories of difference are only urgent or even needed in relation to, not the radical other, but the proximate other, as a method self-definition for the categorizer (J.Z. Smith 2004a, 245). In other words, since the categorizer is even able to engage in a discourse of difference, this implies that the two categories used are analogous to each other and not radically separate. 175

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New Testament Gnostic sui generis from pristine source Unique Unified “Superficially” dualistic Transhistorical “Orthodox”

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Nag Hammadi ÍÎ //// //// //// //// //// ////

Gnostic multiple “foreign” sources Syncretistic Multiple “Radically” dualistic Historical “Heretical”

Because the categories within this system have been constructed as mutually exclusive, any blurring of the line between “orthodoxy” and “heresy” must be erased. With so much at stake in maintaining this difference, any kind of hermeneutics used to keep John orthodox and distinct from Gnosticism is ideologically necessary. Hence scholars, instead of looking at the intellectual significance of both the Nag Hammadi Library and the New Testament, have become apologists (Lincoln 2000, 120–21) by insisting on the validity of the Christian mythical narrative (Figure 1), that needs Gnosticism to be the other for Christianity, but also insists that the Nag Hammadi Library is either derivative of, or secondary to, the New Testament in importance. 176 But these categories are simply theological and polemical exercises and have no value in regard to historical reconstructions of nascent Christianity. 177 When the texts of the New Testament and the Nag Hammadi Library were written: Orthodoxy and heresy had not yet separated into different ecclesiastical organizations; they had not even yet separated their theological conceptions. Rather, from a common body of traditions, ambiguous in their concrete meaning, each side transmits interpretively, in terms of understandings that only gradually came to objectify themselves into fixed positions that could be branded as right or wrong, in and of themselves.” (Robinson 1971b, 62)

176 However, “the Gospel of Thomas, must be considered as historically of equal value with the canonical writings; [it] cannot be depreciated by reason of [its] non canonical nature” (Koester 1971, 119). 177 “A re-description of Christian origins [will] ultimately account for the emergence of the [canonical] gospels themselves, turning them into interesting products of early Christian thinking instead of letting them determine the parameters within which all out data must find a place to rest” (Mack 1996, 248).

6 PROPHETS, SCRIBES AND THE BOOK OF WATCHERS AT QUMRAN AND NAG HAMMADI 6.1. INTRODUCTION One cannot doubt that the Bible holds a central place in Western culture. Mined by those who produce not only the West’s religion, but also its literature, laws, art, etc. (Mack 1995, 2), the Bible influences both how we construct knowledge about ourselves and about the world. 178 This is not only true for the “Christian Right” or “fundamentalists” who evoke the Bible as the touch stone of truth. In the West, the Bible’s authority is far subtler than these kinds of obvious and somewhat hysterical appeals to the “Word of God” would have one believe. 179 Outside of the obvious “religious” context, the Bible holds a certain mystique in the West, where it is simply “taken for granted as a special book. . . work[ing] its magic in [Western] culture without ever being acknowledged, consulted or read” (Mack 1995, 1). It is this mystique that has essentially “canonized” the Bible’s themes and narrative into more than moral, intellectual or religious truths. This mystique has elevated the Bible to the status of myth: “that small class of stories that possesses both credibility and authority” (Lincoln 1989, 24). But why has this collection of multiple and contradictory texts been given “mythic” status? How can a book that was produced by so many different groups thousands of years in the past be so authoritative for the present? This mythic authority given to the Bible cannot be understood as a function of any specific text within the canon. Individually, the various books of the Bible are analogous to a variety of other “religious” documents from the Ancient Near and Middle East, and as such are relatively unremarkable. However, when this collection of Jewish and Christian texts “[T]he biblical traditions is regarded as the source for the values that make [western] society respectable and legitimate” (Mack 1995, 3). 179 Case in point is the recent debate over same-sex marriage in Canada (Arnal, 2005b). 178

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are deployed within a unified “biblical” cultural narrative as a singular entity, then it gains its “mythic” status. Beneath all the ways in which the Bible is regarded, lies the fundamental reason for the Bible’s importance. It is the story of God’s purpose for humankind. The Bible is where the Christian notions of God and history are intertwined, the paradigms of salvation are set, the thrust toward the future is generated and the charter for Christianity to expand throughout the world is given. The Bible is the Christian myth. The Christian myth is the Bible. (Mack 1995, 276 emphasis mine)

For the vast majority of the Western (and predominantly Christian) world, the Bible is not simply the sum of its constituent parts, but is read as a progressive, interlocking whole that serves as a mythic “charter statement” for the Christian West (Mack 1995, 308), one that was anticipated by “Old Testament” Hebrew prophets, inaugurated through “the Christ,” disseminated by the apostles and their followers, and canonized in its final form by the Church Fathers. Considering the progressive, linear nature of the narrative, while the so-called “biblical account” (Mack 1995, 275) has been granted a “mythic” status, it is the final summation within the New Testament that gives the Christian mythical narrative its particular discursive weight and “creates a circular, interlocking pattern of authentication in which the New Testament is both the result of and the documentation for the conventional view of Christian beginnings” (Mack 1995, 5). For this Judeo-Christian narrative to function the primary purpose of the “Old Testament” is to anticipate and be fulfilled by the “Good News” of the Christian New Testament. Unsurprisingly, this has granted the New Testament a certain pride of place, not simply in a “religious” context, but also with scholars of religion (Mack 1995, 9). 180 180 For example, David Hawkin, in his Presidential address to The Canadian Society of Biblical Studies on May 29, 2005 on the perceived encroachment upon the academic priority given to biblical texts, stated that “[t]he central issue was whether Christianity and biblical studies should cease to be distinct areas within the department. The prevailing view was that in a ‘modern’ department of religious studies Christianity should have no special status and, a fortiori, biblical studies . . . In our new course curriculum both Christianity and biblical studies were removed from their previous central positions and relocated to the very periphery . . . In response to the comment that it would be ridiculous to have someone graduating in a religious studies department without a single, solitary course in Christianity, one member of the department had replied that it was no more ridiculous than someone graduat-

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As argued in the previous five chapters, scholars have reinforced this priority by consistently constructing an ideological model that, in the interest of creating a sans pareil Christianity, has prioritized the New Testament as an essentially unique literary expression. In the interest of this agenda, ing in religious studies without a course in Wicca. When it was pointed out that the modern world was unthinkable without Christianity, and that this merited it being given some pre-eminence in the curriculum, the reply was that the modern world was pluralistic, and in such a context a religion such as Confucianism was just as important as Christianity” (Hawkin 2005, 1–2, emphasis mine). While Hawkin is correct that the modern (Western) world has been fundamentally influenced by its use of the “Holy Bible,” it is also true that this should have no bearing on the academic study of the Biblical texts. The relative importance of a text in the present has no bearing on its significance within its historical contexts. For example, because Revelation has a significant influence on the modern world does not mean that it is any more important for historic scholarly constructions than the Potter’s Oracle or the Sibylline Oracles. If a modern broad-based acceptance of a given text is used as the criterion for assigning priority within the field of Religious Studies, then the Hindu Vedas or Mao’s Little Red Book should be as centrally placed (if not more so) within the curriculum as the Bible. That being said, however, Hawkin’s statement is a clear articulation of the predominant model used in scholarship that refuses to treat all “religious” expressions in parity with each other and has consistently constructed two classes of religions and associated texts: the centrally important Bible and Christianity and “Others.” And while this may be valid for a class that examines Biblical influence on the modern western Nation-State, or a class that is focusing on modern interpretations of the Bible, problems occur when these same kind of prioritizations are retrojected back and are factored into historical reconstructions of the variety of ancient Christianities. Again, to quote Fredrick Wisse, “it is important to distinguish between the historical situation which [the canonized New Testament] reflects and the historical situation [it] created” (Wisse 1986, 179). For example, Hawkin in concluding his paper constructs biblical texts not as products of Late Antiquity, but as examples of “universal” or trans-historical texts that are as historically significant now as they were (apparently) 2000 years ago: “I am now able to articulate far more clearly why it is that I believe that biblical studies still has a place in a liberal education, and more significantly, within a department of religious studies. My own journey in biblical studies has brought me to what I think is a deeper understanding of the world in which we live. It has been a wonderful journey of discovery, facilitated by my encounter with biblical texts such as the Gospel of John and Genesis . . . My firm belief is that what makes biblical studies a most exciting area is that it contributes in a genuinely significant way to this quest. By helping us to understand both ourselves and the modern world in which we live, biblical studies is a discipline which can help to bring light into a darkened world” (Hawkin 2005, 26; emphasis mine).

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scholars have created two binary textual categories—Apocalypticism and Gnosticism—whose purpose is to shore up and insulate the New Testament texts (and the sans pareil Christianity they represent) from the greater Hellenistic context of Late Antiquity. (Figure 1) Scholars have deployed both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library within a binary system so that “the contrast [between the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library] are such as to make it clear that the religion of the . . . Dead Sea Scrolls cannot be subsumed under the category of Gnosticism” (Pearson 2000, 314). This binary opposition has essentially used the “Apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls as that which should or could be legitimately Christian, and the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library is that which should not or cannot be legitimately Christian. As with all artificially constructed systems, these “fundamentally different” categories are far more similar than scholars would like to believe. Strikingly, Gnosticism and apocalypticism are not particularly distinct in their social characteristics. Both typically characterized literate and welleducated groups. Both theological constructions foster a strong sense of community identity, group definition and social cohesiveness, especially for marginal persons. In the documents’ rejection of the value of the world as it stands and in their predictions of better states to come, both are convenient vehicles for socially marginal or critical stances. (Arnal 1995, 492–493)

In particular, various texts from both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library express these kinds of “socially marginal or critical stances” through the incorporation of various themes found within 1 Enoch 1–36, or the Book of Watchers. As a more elaborate rendition of the story of the Nephilim (see Gen 6:1–4) the Book of Watchers narrates how Watchers or Angels came to earth, disseminated forbidden knowledge to humanity and mated with women to create destructive “giants” who sowed discord and corruption in their wake, forcing God to bring the Deluge. 181 Unlike the canonical “history” of the Bible which located sin with a human “fall,” the

Compare with Gen 6:5: “The Lord saw that the wickedness of humankind was great in the earth and that every inclination of their thoughts of their hearts was only evil continually” (emphasis mine). 181

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Book of Watchers places the origin of overwhelming sin 182 within the heavenly realm. While this narrative may seem bizarre to modern readers—especially to those who have internalized Genesis 1 and 2 as the “one, true” creation story—the Book of Watchers was considered authoritative by a large number of Christians and Jews until the 3rd century CE (VanderKam 2001, 146). Responding to the inherent tension between a “good” creator deity and an “evil” world, the Book of Watchers offers a paradigmatic and plausible mythological explanation that can be invoked in response to a perceived increase of worldly “sin” and “corruption.” The question that needs to be asked is why does this account root sin in the heavenly realm? Why was the purely “human” cause in Gen 6:5 unfulfilling? The evocation of this Enochic construction is a cosmological reflection of a socio-political reality. Humanity simply “wanting forbidden fruit and fratricide were not sufficient as explanations for the violence and sin before the flood. Evil grew so powerful because it has received a supernatural boost” (VanderKam 1995, 42). Hence the need for God to destroy the world in the Deluge. The pre-Deluge world had, through the actions of the giants and the fallen Watchers, become so corrupt that God needed to intervene with a divine reordering throughout the entire world to re-establish the proper “nostalgic” social order. Therefore the Book of Watchers reconstructs the Deluge as a paradigmatic apocalyptic model that dictates that, when the world is overwhelmed with “wickedness,” God will intercede. In essence, the Book of Watchers sets the stage for God to intervene vigorously on behalf of the pious during a time of extreme wickedness. This kind of mythological apocalyptic construction tends to occur “[w]hen historical patterns are correlated within cosmonic and kingship traditions and when the attendant structure of woes and promises are directed towards a condition of foreign domination” (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 115). This Enochic construction of overwhelming wickedness that emanated not simply from human actions but from the divine realm, while incorporating motifs and traditions from as far as the Jewish exile in Babylon (VanderKam 1984, 6–8; Cohn 2001, 165–66) was specifically invoked to address Hellenistic domination (i.e. 300 BCE–100 BCE), be it under direct foreign control (such as Ptolemaic and Seleucid rule) or under “Hellenized” native rule, such as While the “fall” in Genesis is still seen as part of the overall narrative of the Book of Watchers, the presence of overwhelming or endemic sin within the world seems to have needed a “supernatural” agency. 182

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King Jonathan (152–42 BCE). 183 Therefore, with both the cessation of Jewish native kingship in the sixth century BCE, and the subsequent repression of the Jewish ancestral traditions in the third century BCE 184 a cosmological re-ordering was needed. As the terrestrial kingdom was a reflection of the celestial realm, the cessation of a native and ancestral rule requires a reordering of cosmological constructions. It is a similar “apocalyptic situation” of the cessation of native kingship or rule and suppression of ancestral traditions that produced the apocalyptic and cosmological expressions of the Book of Watchers. 185 But who would produce such literature? What is the social-political need for this kind of expression? Considering that apocalyptic literature is both a written phenomenon and one based on the “wisdom tradition,” the construction of such cosmological models can be understood to be products of a scribal class that has lost a patron king or had been disenfranchised somehow. Therefore, it is unsurprising that, under Hellenistic rule, this same marginalized scribal class “recycled” Enochic conceptions, producing both “apocalyptic” literature like that found within the Dead Sea Scrolls, would also be used by writers of various Nag Hammadi texts to produce “gnostic” literature. Using Jonathan Z. Smith’s “apocalyptic” and “gnostic” typologies (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 109; 1982, 94), this final chapter will argue that the “apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls and the “gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library are linked in three ways: (1) a shared Enochic worldview (2) that was used by 183 While the later Hasmonean rulers such as John Hyrcanus I (138–104 BCE) and Alexander Janneus (103–76 BCE) were nominally “Jewish”, they were perceived by some Jewish groups as being excessively “Hellenized.” (Schiffman 1994, 77). 184 While the Northern Kingdom of Israel was destroyed in 721 BCE by the Assyrians and the Southern Kingdom of Judah was destroyed, along with the Temple, in 586 BCE by the Babylonians there is little or no evidence of Jewish apocalypticism expressing concerns with Babylonian / Persian rule (Hultgard 2003, 60; Cohn 2001, 163) But with Hellenistic hegemony following in the wake of Alexander’s conquests (3rd century BCE), instead of the relatively “hands-off” approach in regards to various ethnic units as was practiced by the Persians, subsequent Ptolemaic and Seleucid rule—in particular the reign of Antiochus IV Ephiphanes, who desecrated the Jewish Temple in 167 BCE—was much more heavyhanded and infringed upon the ancestral traditions of conquered peoples (Cohn 2001, 166–67). 185 The Book of Watchers is dated from third centuries BCE (VanderKam 1995, 60).

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marginalized elements of the scribal class (3) who were reacting to the political reality of suppression of ancestral traditions, the cessation of native kingship and the lack of a royal patron under Hellenistic and Roman rule. Within the Dead Sea Scrolls this Enochic understanding was constructed into “apocalyptic literature,” which understood that, despite “the wrong king being on the throne,” the right God was still in heaven. However, this same Enochic model, when used to address the same political situation of foreign rule, can also be reconfigured in such a manner to address a “gnostic situation” (such as in the Nag Hammadi Library), where the wrong king being on the throne is an indication that the wrong God is in heaven 186 (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94).

6.2 PROPHETS, SCRIBES AND “LEGITIMATE” APOCALYPTICISM Before an examination of the scribal class’s production of both apocalyptic and gnostic literature, the issue of the prophetic pedigree of “legitimate” apocalypticism needs to be addressed. While “the two leading candidates [for a source of apocalypticism] are biblical prophecy and biblical wisdom” (VanderKam 1984, 1–2), there are nonetheless certain ideological assump-

186 While the dating of the texts examined—such as the Book of Watchers (third century BCE), the “apocalyptic” texts of the Dead Sea Scrolls such as the War Scroll (first century BCE to first century CE) and the “gnostic’ texts of the Nag Hammadi Library such as the Apocryphon of John (late first or second Century CE)—does imply a genealogical or chronological progression between wisdom, apocalyptic and gnostic literatures, this may not have been the case in antiquity. As illustrated by both the porous nature, and lack of any clear-cut demarcation, of “apocalyptic” and / or “gnostic” literatures (Chapter 2, 4 and 5), it is quite reasonable to assume that a “gnostic situation” did not first require the perception of “failed” apocalyptic resolution, nor an “apocalyptic situation” would necessarily become reconfigured along gnostic modes over an extended period of time. Hence, the production of a document like On the Origin of the World or Hypostasis of the Archons, would not first require the “failure” of the apocalyptic resolution found in Revelation or Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association. For as “the old forms of kingship became idealized objects of nostalgia, as in messianism [or] . . . archaic combat myths were revisioned as resistance myths to foreign kings resulting in new religious formations . . . such as millenarianism” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332), it is quite reasonable—depending on the socio-political location of author or group that produced a given text—for the reconfiguration of older myths to address the perception of either an “apocalyptic” or “gnostic” situation in response to cessation of native rule and the suppression of ancestral traditions.

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tions that inevitably dictate the course of scholarly constructions. For example, while: [t]he apocalyptic visionaries drew material from many sources: ancient myths, bible prophecies, Greek and Persian traditions . . . what they produced was a new kind of literature that had its own coherence and should not be seen as a child or adaptation of something else. (Collins 2003, 76, emphasis mine)

Despite the obvious points of contact between Jewish and non-Jewish groups in the Ancient Near and Middle East 187 and the similarities between the various apocalyptic expressions produced by a wide-range of subjugated groups under Greco-Roman rule there is an assumption that the Jewish apocalyptic tradition “constituted a new and distinctive worldview” (Clifford 2003, 8). Why is it so important for Jewish apocalypticism to be unique? The answer, as argued in chapters 2 and 3, lies in the discursive potential that apocalypticism has for both scholarship and the Christian mythical narrative. Based on the assumption that Jewish apocalypticism offers a transitional link between both “pure” Judaism and nascent Christianity, there is a reciprocal need for this “link” to be insulated from “foreign” contamination. While there are concrete links between wisdom literature and apocalypticism (J.Z. Smith 1982b), there is also a problem with the ideological “purity” of those who produced wisdom literature: the scribal class. Understood as an international elite that facilitated a cross-cultural flow of knowledge (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103; Alexander 2002, 241), members of the scribal class could be found in many of the great centres of the Ancient Near and Middle East, where their education was often only minimally related to their specific native traditions (Schiffman 1994, 197). Unsurprisingly, this kind of cosmopolitan and “syncretistic” characteristic of the scribal class is also associated with their wisdom literature. Before and after Alexander’s conquest, the Jews and the Persian were, not only in close geographical contact but also close cultural contact as well. Not only were there many important Jewish communities in Mesopotamia up to the Parthain and Sassanian periods, but Palestine was under Persian (Achaemenian) rule for 200 years, from 538 BCE until the Macedonian conquest. One of the most obvious links can be seen in the “religious and social affinities between the priestly classes of the Jews and the Persians in the Hellenistic Period. The Zadokites among the Jews fulfilled the same religious function as and occupied the same position in society as the Magi among the Persians. This common interest could have facilitated contacts on both personal and official levels” (Hultgard 2003, 60). 187

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The similarities in form and content between Israelite and Egyptian didactic wisdom literature have been so well established that there can be no doubt that Israelite wisdom is part of an international genre (which includes Mesopotamian wisdom) and cannot be properly studied in isolation. (Fox 1980, 120, emphasise mine)

The international affiliations of both the scribal class and its associated wisdom literature is well attested in scholarship. Considering the niche that apocalypticism fills as a transitional link between sui generis Judaism and its “fulfillment” in Christianity, the presentation of wisdom literature as a source for legitimate apocalyptic texts is ideologically unpalatable. If Jewish apocalypticism is to remain pure, having its source rooted in the international and syncrestic scribal class places its discursive purity in jeopardy. Unlike the scribal class, however, the prophetic office and its associated texts do not have the same “polluting” baggage as their scribal counterparts. As in many genres . . . we can conclude that prophecy in Israel had much in common with the phenomena at large in the ancient Near East . . . However [Israelite prophecy was] unique in the ancient world, largely because [it was] integrally related to the covenant between YHWH and Israel—which was also unique in the ancient world. (Walton 1989, 214, emphasis mine)

Much as Nock constructed Judaism as a “cultural ghetto” so too has Walton constructed the Jewish prophetic office as “unique in the ancient world” by virtue of its “anti-cultic” and monotheistic relationship with God (Walton 1989, 213–14). However, while the editors of the Hebrew Bible 188 constructed the history of Israelite religion as essentially monotheistic, recent archaeological evidence has increasingly shown that even the royal or state cult of ancient Israel was heterodox by later standards. 189 Initially, the 188 The Deuteronomists were a “school” who subscribed to an overall and consistent principle that insisted on a patriarchal and monotheistic understanding of YHWH to ensure the success of Israel, and who are thought to have edited Deuteronomy to 2 Kings (Bowker 1997, 271). 189 The recent archaeological finds at Khirbet el-Qom of a Judean crypt seems to give credence to a heterodox model for Hebrew religious practise, in particular for a Goddess-consort paired to YHWH. The crypt carries the inscription: “Uriyahu, the Wealthy . . . Blessed be Uriyahu by YHWH . . . [by Y]HWH and by his Asherah . . .” (Dijkstra 2000b, 33). This inscription, among other archaeological finds at Kuntillet el-’Ajrud which record the blessing, “YHWH . . . and to his Asherah” (Baile 1982, 253). The placement of Asherah with YHWH in something as important as a burial epitaph demonstrates the importance the goddess must

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various deities associated with the proto-Israelite pantheon consisted of the senior god El, his consort Asherah, the warrior Baal, his sister / consort Anat and an unnamed solar deity (M. Smith 1990, xix), with YHWH behave played in ancient Israelite religious practice. It should be noted, however, that this “heterodoxy” or lack of exclusive monotheism was not limited to the “nostalgic” past of ancient Judaism, but was a legitimate configuration into Late Antiquity. According the Paula Fredriksen “[a]ncient monotheism spoke of the imagined architecture of the cosmos, not the absolute population. Ancient monotheism means ‘one god on top,’ with other gods ranged beneath, lower than and in some sense subordinate to the high god” (Fredrikson 2006, 241). For instance, the Samaritans believed that it was not YHWH who was the Creator, but an Angel of the Lord who held demiurgical power via possession of the Divine Name (Fossum 1985, 4, 19, 24, 281); a position that was analogous to that of the author(s) of the Similitudes of Enoch (1 En 69:13-25) and the purveyors of the “Two Powers in Heaven” heresy (Segel 1977, 84-135). While these examples have been nominally understood as being on the “fringes” of Second Temple Judaism, this deuteros theos can also be found in such “mainstream” Judaisms as the Wisdom of Solomon which grants a cosmic and divine function to Divine Wisdom (Hartin 1993, 38–40) as “the fashioner of all things” (7:22) and Philo who makes a similar distinction between God and Logos (Martens 2003, 78). In particular, Philo can been seen as representing “one branch of pre-Christian Judaism [were] there was nothing strange about a doctrine of a deuteros theos, and nothing in that doctrine that precluded monotheism . . . Further, it can hardly be doubted that for Philo the Logos is both a part of God and also a separate being, the Word that God created in the beginning in order to create everything else: the word that both is God, therefore, and is with God. We find in Philo a passage that could have just as easily fit into Justin’s Apologies: ‘To His Word, His chief messenger, highest in age and honour, the Father of all has given the special prerogative, to stand on the border and separate the creatures from the Creator. This same Word both pleads with the immortal as suppliant for the afflicted mortality and acts as ambassador of the ruler to the subject. He glories in this prerogative and proudly describes it in these words “and I stood between the Lord and you” (Deut v. 5) that is neither uncreated by God, nor created as you, but midway between the two extremes, a surety to both sides.’ (Quis rerum divinarum heres sit, 205–206) Philo oscillates on the point of the ambiguity between separate existence of the Logos, God’s Son, and its total incorporation within the godhead. If Philo is not on the road to Damascus here, he is surely on the way that leads to Nicaea and the controversies over the second person of the Trinity.” (Boyarin 2001, 249–51) Hence, despite the a priori assumption that Second Temple Judaism (singular) was exclusively monotheistic, it seems that well into the second century many “non-Christian Jews did see the Logos (or his female alter ego Sophia) as a central part of their doctrines about God.” (Boyarin 2004, 38: see also 112-26)

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coming ‘adopted’ into the pantheon only later. 190 Despite the Deuteronomists’ attempts to vilify the heterodoxy of ancient Israelite practice—“The Israelites did what was evil in the sight of the Lord . . . worshipping the Baals and the Asherahs” (Judg 3:7)—archaeological evidence seems to indicate that the ancient Hebrews had cultic practices outside those of exclusive Yahwehism. With this in mind, it should not be surprising that the clear demarcation between a monotheistic Judaism and its associated prophetic office and foreign and polytheistic prophets (Walton 1989, 312) simply does not reflect the actual historical situation. Instead it appears that the Israelite prophetic office—much like that of its religion—was not limited to “normative” or Yahwist Judaism, but included other deities. For example, even after Deuteronomistic redaction, the Hebrew Bible still shows evidence of the heterodox nature of the Israelite prophetic offices. For example, in 1 Kings, Elijah states: I have not troubled Israel; but you have, and your father’s house, because you have forsaken the commandments of the Lord and followed the Baals. Now therefore have all Israel assemble for me at Mount Carmel, with the four hundred fifty prophets of Baal and the four hundred prophets of Asherah, who eat at Jezebel’s table. (1 Kgs 18: 18–20 emphasis mine)

Despite the polemical tone of this passage against both the “pagan” deities (1 Kgs 16:30–33) and the foreign Queen Mother Jezebel (Brenner 2000a, 101), the sheer number of the clergy “who eat at Jezebel’s table” must be an indication that neither deity was an interloper in Hebrew religion. In particular, there is a readily felt presence of Asherah within the state cult, as the “carved image of Asherah that he had made he set in the house of which the Lord said to David and to his son Solomon, ‘In this house, and in Jerusalem, which I have chosen out of all the tribes of Israel, I will put my name for ever . . .’” (2 Kgs 21:7). Hence, in spite of the Deuteronomists’ efforts, the fact that the Queen Mother supported priests / prophets of both Baal and Asherah and that the goddess’ image could be found in the Temple indicate heterodox practice within even “biblical” Israelite religion. 191 And while there can be no doubt that the functions of the diverse prophetic offices varied from group to group and court to court (Barstad 190 “El was the god of Israel. [Then] YHWH became the god of Israel. Somewhere in the history of Israel, the name of El became a title for YHWH” (Dijkstra 2000a, 102). 191 It should be noted, however, that the Queen-mother Jezebel is rendered as essentially “illegitimate” due to being “foreign” (Brenner 2000, 100–101).

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2000, 9), the prioritization of the Jewish / Yahwist prophets “as unique in the ancient world” appears to be nothing more than the a priori construction of a nostalgic and unique Judaism 192 that can be used for a variety of mythic ends, including establishing a prestigious pedigree for apocalypticism (Huffmon 2000, 48). This is not to say, however, that the absence of a unique prophetic office prohibits any contact between prophetic writings and apocalypticism. Isaiah, Zechariah, Joel and Ezekiel 193 all share features similar to Jewish apocalypticism, such as “mediated revelation, otherworldly realities and transcendent eschatology” (Collins 1979b, 29). These links, however are far from conclusive in demonstrating apocalypticism’s prophetic pedigree (Collins 2003, 64). Considering that both the prophetic and apocalyptic texts grew out of similar mythological bricolage (Levi-Strauss 1995 [1978]) mined from both Jewish and other Ancient Near and Middle Eastern groups, it is unsurprising that there would be similarities. But when these similarities between prophetic texts and Jewish apocalypticism are constructed as somehow “essential” (Koch 1983 [1972], 41) especially when similar links between Jewish and non-Jewish writings 194 do not (or cannot) be interpreted as anything more that coincidental, says more about the root assumptions of scholarship than about the source of Jewish apocalypticism. 195 The overriding concern with linking the Jewish prophetic tradition with apocalypticism appears to be not one of intellectual significance, but whether or not such a link can serve as a means of establishing proper Jewish pedigree for Christianity (Perrin 1983 [1974], 128). This scholarly tenFor example, see comparative prophetic literature from Egyptian sources, especially Mari (Huffmon 2000, 48–56). 193 It is interesting to note that the so-called “prophetic oracles” (Collins 1979b, 29) are a legitimate source for apocalyptic writings because of the prophetic affiliation, where other Jewish oracular literature (such as the Sibylline Oracles) is constructed as fundamentally different. 194 E.g., the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn has more points of contact with Jewish apocalyptic literature than the Israelite prophets. 195 Ideological self-definition has always played a part in the construction of Christian origins, from antiquity (Christian / Jewish or Christian / “Pagan”) to the modern period (Protestant / Catholic). “The comparison of the enterprise of comparison with respect to early Christianity, then and now, leads one to voice the same sorts of criticisms and queries with respect to methods, periodizations, data, and above all, to those tacit assumptions, to those matters which are taken as selfevident, which govern the scholar’s work” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 34–35). 192

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dency to construct the prophetic tradition, as opposed to wisdom literature and its scribal authors, as the source for Jewish apocalypticism can be traced back to the time-honoured strategy of nascent Christianity’s laying claim the salvation history of ancient Israel (Perrin 1983 [1974], 127). For example, within the New Testament, there is a positive, nostalgic value assigned to the prophetic office, particularly in how it is applied to Jesus. In the mythic biographies of the Gospels, Jesus is repeatedly affiliated with various “Old Testament” prophets, either seen in their company (Mark 9:13), being mistaken for one (Mark 6:14–15 & 8:27), or taking the mantle of prophet for himself (Luke 4:24). While there is a high value assigned to the prophetic office in the New Testament, reciprocally, the producers of wisdom literature—the scribal class—are repeatedly vilified (Matt 12:38; 23:2; Luke 20:46) and placed in the same negative categories as other New Testament villains such as the Pharisees (Luke 11:53; 15:2; etc.; Matt 23:2, 13, 23, 25, 27, 29; etc.). Even though there are obvious mythical similarities between the presentation of Jesus and scribal anthropomorphization of Divine Wisdom (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103), such as the descent motif in John (1:1–18), there is nonetheless a scholarly need for Jesus—as the spokesman of Christianity—to stand, not just in continuity with the salvation history of Israel, but to also be a member of its most legitimate class. Combined with the various christological associations, the prophetic Jesus becomes the Prophet par excellence: both part of the ancient salvation history of ancient Israel and the transcendence of that history and the inauguration of a new “Christian” era. “He has abolished the law with its commandments and ordinances, that he might create in himself one new humanity in place of the two, thus making peace” (Eph 2:15). Therefore, by becoming a transcendent “paradigm” of Judaism’s most legitimate and nostalgic religious class, Jesus can be construed as offering a way for Christianity to first adopt the legitimacy of Judaism and then transcend it. Since scholarship has prioritized both Christianity (Hawkin 2005) and the canonical texts (Cameron 1999; Meier 1987), these ancient theological claims of self-definition that link Jewish prophecy with Christian legitimacy are, more often than not, simply taken for granted and used to retroactively construct a legitimate pedigree for Christianity. Since, “[i]t was the claim of early Christianity that prophecy had returned to them as an eschatological gift, but that prophecy largely took the form of apocalyptic” (Perrin 1983 [1974], 127), in the interest of maintaining ideological continuity between Judaism and Christianity, ancient Christianity’s theological appropriation of apocalypticism has remained all but unchallenged within scholarship.

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Hence, while the scribal class were the producers of lore in antiquity (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103), apocalypticism has been assumed to be the product of the mythically pure prophetic office. While this creates an elegant model of continuity between the legitimating pedigree of the salvation history of ancient Israel and nascent, sans pareil Christianity, this construction is simply unconvincing when examined closely. When taking into consideration the wide dissemination of apocalyptic material in the Ancient Near and Middle East and its overt political implications, out of the two leading candidates for the source of “legitimate apocalypticism,” only the scribal class offers a plausible source for the production of apocalyptic literature.

6.3 THE SCRIBAL CLASS OF THE ANCIENT NEAR AND MIDDLE EAST The development of “apocalyptic” and subsequent “gnostic” literature must be understood as a phenomenon that was not part of any broad-based or popular piety in the Ancient Near and Middle East. For those on the low end of the social spectrum, such as the average farmer or artisan, issues such as the cosmological implication of foreign domination likely did not figure large in their reflections. On the opposite end of the social spectrum, for those who held power, a conception of an inherently “evil” or “wicked” world would also be irrelevant, considering their position of influence was the result of the proper—at least from their point of view— “divine” ordering. The production of “apocalyptic” and “gnostic” literature—despite the claims of the majority of scholars—requires a specific segment of society, such as scribal groups that have been left politically marginalized and without a royal patron. Historically, the “scribal class” spanned the entire Near and Middle East in the fifth and sixth centuries BCE, and acted as an international class that perpetuated the exchange of ideas among the educated elites (Alexander 2002, 241) found within all great centres, from Babylon to Egypt to Judea: Nearly every ancient Near Eastern civilisation participated in a common tradition based in what modern scholars call wisdom schools, many apparently for the training of scribes. The schools emphasised practical wisdom, often unrelated or only minimally related to the specific religious traditions of the local groups or culture. (Schiffman 1994, 197)

This elite group of learned, literate men—the equivalent of an intellectual aristocracy of antiquity—played an invaluable role in the administration of the various kingdoms, in both “religious” and “political” functions. Serving

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as guardians of cultural heritage, these scribes facilitated a cross-cultural flow of wisdom, law, medicines, astrology, divinations, magic and language, which was in turn disseminated within the various royal courts. 196 But above all “they talked, they memorized, they remembered, they wrote” (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103). Hence, despite their function in the service of the state, their greatest achievement—and their greatest study—was the wide ranging phenomena of “wisdom literature”: the transmission of their teachings, biographies, hagiographies and their ancestral prototypes in written form. These kinds of scribal activities—as court functionaries, as producers of all lore—was unsurprisingly projected onto an anthropomorphic figure of divine Wisdom, who revealed the beginning and the end of the universe as mediated by a god who held court in heaven and who created through the use of divine law and according to a divine, written plan (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103). Basing their knowledge on this kind of celestial model and the re-incorporation of older myths and categories, “it seems that scribes eventually strove to record all possible ominous situations, regardless whether they had ever been witnessed and attached standardized prognostications to them” (VanderKam 1984, 54). As such, their basic article of faith was in finding relevance within a limited number of paradigms and applying them to every new situation. Their goal—whether the scribe be called dubshar, sopher, “Chaldean” or rabbi—was nothing less than absolute perfection, the inclusion of everything within their categories. In the quest for this perfection, they developed complex hermeneutic and exegetical techniques to bridge the gap between paradigm and particular instance, between past and present. (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 104)

For the scribe, if events were to have any significance, it was largely in terms of how they related to previously established precedents. As such, it is not surprising that the same text or myth, could be—and was—used to describe two widely separated historical events so long as their patterns and their “value” was perceived to be the same. “The significance of history was 196 “Canaanite scribes in the employ of royal courts in the major cities knew Mesopotamian literature . . . These texts were understood by the Levantine scribes, for Akkadian was the diplomatic language in the late second and early first millennia. One can assume that some scribes employed in Canaanite and Israelite temples and palaces were trained in the traditional manner by copying canonical texts. It is thus not surprising to find Mesopotamian influences on Canaanite and biblical literature. A good example . . . is the creation-flood story” (Clifford 2003, 16).

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increasingly discovered in future fulfilment” (Clifford 2003, 23). It is here, in the production of this “scribal” literature that the kernel of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern apocalypticism can be seen. Within this international scribal class, “wisdom” literature was used and reused, glossed, interpreted and reinterpreted in a continual process of “updating” the material. This was not just a re-invention or recycling of shared mythic or textual sources but had a specific purpose that was tied to the shared and paradigmatic understanding of the Ancient Near and Middle Eastern figure of the sacred king as a representative of “god” in heaven. From Egypt to Judea to Babylon, the function of the sacred king was tied into a cosmological understanding of a world that was: dominated by the equivalence, “as above, so below” . . . [which was] mediated by structures such as kingship and temple, in which the “above” served ideologically as the template for “below” in which a variety of human activities served to bring the “below” ever closer to the above through ritual words of repetition and, when breaches occurred, through ritual worlds of rectification. (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 328)

This paradigm was maintained within the various royal courts of the Ancient Near and Middle East by the international scribal class, who detailed the various ideologies and mythologies in which the king, through divine wisdom, was the centre of the social and cosmic order. In the archaic protoapocalyptic or “court” literature, the salvific power of the king, the destruction of the national enemies and the establishment of royal rule and law “were correlated with mythic traditions of the creation of cosmic and social order by a god in the beginning through the defeat of chaos” (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 109). These proto-apocalyptic or wisdom texts amount basically to political propaganda created by the scribe for his patron king and represented the use of paradigmatic types for typological ends—the preservation of a specific king as the fulfilment (or repetition) of an ancient pattern. But what happens to this privileged scribal class when native kingship ceases under foreign domination, and ancestral traditions are suppressed? As Macedonian, Greek, then Roman power swept the Ancient Near and Middle East, what is the recourse of the scribe who, under this hegemonic foreign rule, is left without a royal patron, as happened in Egypt, Judea and Babylon? They did what they always have done: they wrote. However, the literature of the scribal class that still functioned under the model of “as above, so below” unsurprisingly underwent a radical shift post-Alexander to an “apocalyptic pattern,” in which “the wrong king is on the throne, that the cosmos will be thereby destroyed, and that the right god will either re-

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store proper kingship (his terrestrial counterpart) or assume kingship himself” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94). Hence, with the cessation of native kingship and the destruction of terrestrial representation of the cosmos, scribes reinterpreted previous precedents, myths and ideologies and re-cast them into new and novel forms of apocalyptic literature. Apocalypticism is Wisdom lacking a royal court or patron. It is not an expression of religious trauma, but of an expression of trauma of the cessation of native kingship. Apocalypticism is a learned, rather than a religious phenomenon. (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 115)

In the Judeo-Christian apocalypses, the Asclepius Apocalypse, the Potter’s Oracles, the Fourth Sibylline Oracle, the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn and such Dead Sea Scrolls as the Damascus Document, we find the literary expression of this type of trauma that can only occur under foreign domination. As noted in Chapter 2, apocalypticism in the Ancient Near and Middle East was not limited to one tradition, nor was it necessarily part of a broad-based movement or popular piety. A cursory glance at the very specific themes, literary conventions and motivations of the apocalyptic texts leads one to conclude that apocalypticism was the result of a very specific socio-political niche; one that was not “trans-historical” or “religious,” but one that logically had both the desire and the means to produce apocalyptic literature. The only group that fits this niche is the Ancient Near and Middle Eastern scribal class who, under imperial domination, had been left politically marginalized or without a royal patron. From this contextual understanding, a new definition of apocalypticism(s) should be put forward: Apocalypticism(s): Ancient Near and Middle Eastern, scribally written protest literature which focuses on the loss of native kingship and expresses a phantasmagoric rectification thereof, particularly in terms of cosmic symbolism syncresticistically redeployed from Ancient Near and Middle Eastern cosmologies.

6.4 SCRIBAL APOCALYPTICISM AND THE BOOK OF WATCHERS One of the earliest literary expressions of a marginalized scribal group can be found in the Book of Watchers (1 En 1–36). The Book of Watchers was not simply a “secondary” exegesis of Genesis 6, but an important text that was affiliated with scribal circles throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East (Stone 1983a, 93–94). Sharing various themes and motifs, not just from

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Genesis, but also from a wide range of “foreign” myths such as the Enuma Elish 197 and the Baal Cycle (VanderKam 1995, 6), the Book of Watchers was considered by many within Jewish, Christian and “foreign” groups as authoritative up until the 2nd –3rd century CE. Beginning with an introductory vision (1 En 1–5) intended for the elect who are “not [of] this generation but for the distant one that is coming” (1 En 1:2) the Book of Watchers, like other Judeo-Christian apocalypses, predicts a future eschatological judgment where: [The] earth shall be rent asunder and all that is upon the earth shall perish. And there shall be judgment upon all, (including) the righteous. And on the righteous [God] will grant peace. He will preserve the elect, and kindness shall be upon them. They shall all belong to God and they shall prosper and be blessed; and the light of God shall shine unto them. (1 En 1:8)

What distinguished the Book of Watchers from its later Judeo-Christian counterparts is its detailed elaboration of Genesis 6:1–4, concerning the “fall” of a group of renegade angels who came to earth and committed various sins that subsequently lead to the Deluge. While on earth the fallen angels or Watchers, in particular Azaz’el, disseminated “forbidden” knowledge to humanity. 198 And Azaz’el taught the people (the art of) making swords and knives, and shields and breastplates; and he showed their chosen ones [the Watcher’s human wives] bracelets, decorations, (shadowing of the eye) with antimony, ornamentation, the beautifying of the eyelids, all kinds of precious stones, and all colouring tinctures and alchemy. And there were many wicked ones and they committed adultery and erred, and all their conduct became corrupt. (1 En 8:1–3)

Azaz’el’s Prometheus-like revelation of “forbidden” information to humanity is understood primarily as a transgression of boundaries established by divine law (VanderKam 1995, 33), which, in disclosing the secrets of metallurgy, “inspired men to make weapons and women to adorn themselves

197 The figure of Enoch appears to be modelled after the seventh Mesopotamian antediluvian king Enmenduranna / Enmeduranki, both of whom were understood to have resided in the divine realm (VanderKam 1995, 9), and who also “walked with God” (Gen 5:22). 198 See also 1 Enoch 7:1–2, where the “magical medicine, incantations, the cutting of roots” is taught by unspecified angels.

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with gold, silver and cosmetics . . . Thus the fallen angels . . . incited in both sexes violence, greed and lust” (Pagels 1995, 50). Parallel to Azaz’el’s instruction, another group of Watchers, led by Semyaz, descended to take wives for themselves among the Daughters of Man: (Moreover) Semyaz, to whom you [the watchers] have given power to rule over his companions, co-operating, they went in unto the daughters of the people of the earth; and they lay together with them—with those women—and defiled themselves, and revealed to them every (kind of ) sin. As for the women, they gave birth to giants to the degree that the whole earth was filled with blood and oppression. And now behold, the Holy Ones will cry and those who have died will bring their suit to the gate of heaven. Their groaning has ascended (into heaven) but they could not get out from before the face of the oppression that is being wrought on earth. (1 En 9:7–11)

Because they were the product of a transgresive sexual union that “mixed” heavenly and earthly types (Stroumsa 1984, 35), these giant offspring were not the semi-divine heroes such as found in Greek mythology, but were a race of dangerous entities that oppressed the world. And the women became pregnant and gave birth to great giants whose heights were three hundred cubits. These giants consumed the produce of all the people until the people detested feeding them. So the giants turned against (the people) in order to eat them. And they began to sin against the birds, wild beasts, reptiles, and fish. And their flesh was devoured the one by the other, and they drank blood. And then the earth brought an accusation against the oppressors. (1 En 7:2–6)

Hearing this accusation, God decided that a divine re-ordering was required and caused the Deluge “to come upon all the earth; and all that is in it will be destroyed . . . [in the interest of giving] life to the earth which the angels have corrupted” (1 En 10:2, 7). To accomplish this task, however, God first ordered his heavenly angels to battle the Watchers and provoke conflict among their giant offspring: [And God said] “Go, bind Semyaz and his associates who have united themselves with women so as to have defiled themselves with them in all their uncleanness. And when their sons have slain one another, and they have seen the destruction of their beloved ones, bind them fast for seventy generations in the valleys of the earth, till the day of their judgement and of their consummation, till the judgement that is for ever and ever is consummated.” (1 En 10:11–13)

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After the heavenly angels bound the Watchers and destroyed the giants and “those who collaborated with them” (1 En 10:13), God promised a resolution that would “[d]estroy injustice from the face of the earth” (1 En 10:15), allow “the righteous ones [to] escape” (1 En 10:17) and re-establish the proper, nostalgic social ordering: And all the children of men shall become righteous, and all nations shall offer adoration and shall praise Me, and all shall worship Me. And the earth shall be cleansed from all defilement, and from all sin, and from all punishment, and from all torment, and I will never again send (them) upon it from generation to generation and for ever. (1 En 10:21–22)

However, before the Deluge, “Enoch, the scribe of righteousness” (1 En 12:4), who “was hidden, and no one of the children of the people knew by what he was hidden and where he was” (1 En 12:1), is thrust into the role of a heavenly court functionary, taking the warning of the coming Deluge to the fallen Watchers (1 En 12:4–6). When this message was delivered, the Watchers, perhaps knowing that they had sinned, 199 and in “fear and trembling” (1 En 13:3), asked Enoch to intervene on their behalf, begging him to: [W]rite for them a memorial prayer, in order that there may be for them a prayer of forgiveness, and so that [Enoch] may raise their memorial prayer unto the Lord of heaven. For, as for themselves, from henceforth, they will not be able to speak, nor will they raise their eyes unto heaven as a result of their sins which have been condemned. (1 En 13:4–5)

However, the pleas of the Watchers do not move God and while the Book of Watchers does not explicitly say so, it is implied that the Deluge then occurs. Despite the “unorthodoxy” of this story, the Book of Watchers is a basic apocalyptic narrative of sin and judgement that stipulates that the source of the endemic evil that caused the Deluge was not the result of a human “fall” but occurred because the “world had been corrupted by an original sin of angels who had contaminated God’s creation by crossing the bound199 Semyaz, speaking to the host of fallen Watchers says, “‘I fear that perhaps you will not consent that this deed should be done, and I alone will become responsible for this great sin.’ But they [the Watchers] all responded to him. ‘Let us swear an oath and bind everyone among us by a curse not to abandon this suggestion but to do the deed’” (1 En 6:3–4). Both Semyaz and the angels knowingly committed the transgression of sexually mixing angelic and human types with the result being appropriately disastrous.

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ary between heaven and earth and by revealing secret knowledge to human beings” (Boccaccini 2000, 69). Considering that the Ancient Near and Middle Eastern scribal class was “devoted to the task of interpreting the ever changing relevance of ancient precedents and archetypes [so that] texts are used and reused, glossed, interpreted and reinterpreted in a continual process of ‘updating’ the material” (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 108), the Book of Watchers should not be seen as simply idle speculation, but as a text with a very specific agenda. But what were the circumstances in which these “Enochic” scribes found themselves that led to this elaborate “updating” of Genesis 6:1–6 and the Flood story? Beyond simply creating a narrative that stressed the importance of the scribal figure of Enoch, 200 what was it about the circumstances of the third to second century BCE that required such a radical re-interpretation of the paradigmatic stories of the Nephilim and the Flood? Why does evil and sin not simply result from human action but require an “apocalyptic” boost from the Watchers and their Giant offspring? As noted above, the production of apocalyptic literature is the result of a very specific trauma; the cessation of native rule under hegemonic and foreign domination (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 115). Taking this into consideration, the Book of Watchers appears to be not simply an “heretical” elaboration of Genesis 6 (Civ 15:23) but a biting scribal critique of Macedonian rule: Are the Jews who thus embellish the story of angels that mate with human beings covertly ridiculing the pretensions of their Hellenistic rulers? . . . [F]rom the time of Alexander the Great, Greek kings claimed to be descended from Gods as well as human women; the Greeks called such hybrid beings heroes. But their Jewish subjects, with their derisive tale of [Semyaz], may have turned such claims of divine decent against the foreign usurpers. (Pagels 1995, 50)

Suffering under the trauma of Macedonian domination following the conquests of Alexander the Great, these Enochic scribes, instead of composing various ideologies in which the native ruler, through Divine Wis200 Acting as an apocalyptic revelatory figure with links to Persian / Babylonian scribal figures, Enoch can also be understood as a paradigm of a court scribe, a mediator and recorder of the divine court, and one that can travel between the heavenly and terrestrial realms. By emphasising the importance of Enoch as righteous, as a scribe who writes prayers for the Watchers and as a heavenly court functionary who reveals hidden knowledge (1 En 13:6–8), the Book of Watchers constructs the character of Enoch as the Scribe par excellence

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dom, was the centre of the social and cosmic order, recast these mythologies and paradigms into novel formations that expressed their discontent with foreign rule and their hope for an apocalyptic restoration. “The story of the Watchers, then, is not only an etiology of the spread of wickedness before the flood. It is also paradigmatic of the way the world was changed in the author’s own time in the Hellenistic age” (Collins 2003, 70). Moreover, as the scribes took older mythologies and paradigmatic stories and reconfigured them to apply to their present circumstances, they also took older eschatological resolutions and applied them to their understanding of the coming divine re-ordering. In essence, the critique of foreign rule in the Book of Watchers is the scribal promise that: God did it once, and he will do it again, not with a flood, but in the final judgment that will resemble the destructive and universal scope of the deluge, the first end. The wise were then to take heed and live in the light of this fact. (VanderKam 2001, 146)

Therefore it is unsurprising that later scribal groups, under this same type of foreign oppression, used the same themes and motifs found in the Book of Watchers and applied them to their own situation. There is evidence that these Enochic apocalyptic themes were taken up by the “apocalyptic community” of Qumran, and found their way into a variety of Dead Sea Scrolls, in particular the Damascus Document, the War Scroll and the Charter for a Jewish Sectarian Association.

6.5 THE BOOK OF WATCHERS WITHIN THE DEAD SEA SCROLLS Since the collection of texts from Qumran held 12 fragments of 1 Enoch (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 195), 201 it should come as no surprise that many documents within the Dead Sea Scrolls, such as the Book of Giants (4Q203, 1Q23, 2Q26, 4Q530–532, 6Q8) and Enoch and the Watchers (4Q227) are either literarily dependant upon, or are a direct exegesis of, the Book of Watchers. But while the Book of Watchers was a fairly common text in Christian and Jewish circles until the third century, 202 it appears that the yahad not 20111 fragments from the Book of Watchers and other “booklets” that comprise 1 Enoch (such as the Similitudes) were discovered in cave 4, and 1 fragment from cave 7 (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 195). 202 Despite being understood as “canonical” by many Jewish and Christian groups of antiquity, the Book of Watchers was dismissed from “orthodox’ lists because of its “heretical” story of the “sons of God” (the Watchers) fathering children on human women. To quote Augustine: “Let us omit, then, the fables of

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only collected many texts ascribed to Enoch but also reconfigured very specific Enochic themes for some of their most distinct and “foundational” documents (Wise, Abegg Jr., and Cook 1996, 123). For example, the Damascus Document, the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association and the War Scroll all adopt a very distinct Enochic schema that is recast into a new “apocalyptic pattern” specific to the yahadic political situation. In particular, within the Dead Sea Scrolls, there is the recurring Enochic motif of the corrupting influences of semi-divine figures or “Watchers” which in the yahadic rendering are intimately tied to the “apocalyptic situation” of foreign domination and societal collapse of nostalgically-conceived Israel. For example, within the Damascus Document, there is a clear reconfiguration of the fallen Watchers who instigated “all (forms of) oppression upon the earth” (1 En 9:6) into the yahadic semi-divine ruler of “the present age, Belial [who] is unrestrained in Israel” (Geniza A. 4:13). [M]y children, listen to me that I may uncover your eyes to see and understand the deeds of God . . . For many have gone astray [through lechery] . . . even strong and doughty men of old faltered through them, and still do. When they went about in their wilful heart the Guardian Angels of Heaven [the Watchers] fell and were ensnared by it, for they did not observe the commandments of God. Their sons, who were as tall as cedars and whose bodies were as big as mountains fell by it. Everything mortal on dry land expired and became as if they had never existed, because they did their own will, and did not keep the commandments of their Maker, until fi-

those scriptures which are called apocryphal, because their obscure origin was unknown to the fathers from whom the authority of the true Scriptures has been transmitted to us by a most certain and well-ascertained succession. For though there is some truth in these apocryphal writings, yet they contain so many false statements, that they have no canonical authority. We cannot deny Enoch, the seventh from Adam, left some divine writings, for that is asserted by the Apostle Jude in his canonical epistle. But it is not without reason that these writings have no place in the canon of Scripture which was preserved in the temple of the Hebrew People by the diligence of successive priests; for their antiquity brought them under suspicion, and it was impossible to ascertain whether these were his genuine writings . . . So that the writings which are produced under his name, and which contain these fables about the giants, say that their fathers were not men, are properly judged by prudent men to be not genuine; just as many writings are produced by heretics under the names both of other prophets, and, more recently, under the names of the apostles, all of which after careful examination, have been set apart from canonical authority under the title Apocrypha” (Civ 15:23 emphasis mine).

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While this section of the Damascus Document is nominally a homily against lechery and a wilful heart, 203 the deliberate comparison of the fallen Watchers and the people who “did not observe the commandments of God” in antediluvian times with those who “still do” ignore the law in this age of Belial is a scribal reconfiguration of previous mythological precedents that were re-cast to fit the current political situation facing the yahad. Because the apocalyptic paradigm of the Book of Watchers was “not restricted to a historical situation, but . . . can be applied whenever an analogous [apocalyptic] situation arises” (Pagels 1995, 51), the scribal yahad were able to take their circumstances of Hasmonean (2nd–1st century BCE) and Roman (from mid-1st century BCE) domination, and cast it within the Enochic model which offers a rational explanation for the presence of societal impiety and corrupted native rule or foreign domination and usurpation, through the presence of the corrupting, semi-divine figure of Belial. In the Book of Watchers, however, the world is not only affected by the “fallen” angelic beings, but also feels the presence of those “holy ones” who were moved to intervene when they heard the “cry of [humanity’s] voice unto the gates of heaven” (1 En 9:2) and were dispatched by God to thwart the Watchers and “give life to the earth which [had been] corrupted” (1 En 10:7). In the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association, there is a similar use of this Enochic construction that describes two classes of angelic beings: those who are helpful to humanity and those who are harmful. God has appointed these [two classes of] spirits as equals until the last age, and set an everlasting enmity between their divisions. False deeds are thus an abomination to the truth, whereas all the ways of truth are for perversity equally a disgrace. Fierce disputes attend every point of decisions for they can never agree. In his mysterious insight and glorious wisdom God has countenanced an era in which perversity triumphs, but at the time appointed for the visitation He shall destroy such forever. Then shall truth come forth in victory upon the earth. (1QS Col. 4:16–19 emphasis mine)

203 The remainder of the section goes on to detail how various mythological characters, when they followed their “willful hearts” ignored God’s Laws and were summarily punished. “[T]he sons of Noah and their families went astray, and by it they were exterminated . . . But the sons of Jacob went astray by them and were punished for their errors” (Geniza A. 3:1–4).

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As in antediluvian times when evil was endemic, the yahad understood their current social and political context as an analogous “era in which perversity triumphs.” 204 However, this contest between two opposed groups of angels was not simply a random occurrence or one that was instigated by the angels, but was understood in the Dead Sea Scrolls to be part of God’s overall predetermined plan. 205 While the Book of Watchers presupposes that the heavenly angels had overthrown the renegade Watchers (1 En 10:1–22), for the author of the Charter this celestial battle was still in progress; an unsurprising result considering that at the time of the Charter’s composition, Rome (and by proxy Belial) was still firmly in power. While the forces of evil still ruled when the yahad were composing the Dead Sea Scrolls, as in all apocalyptic texts there is a hopeful sense that “the power of evil is [nonetheless] of limited duration and the final judgement will bring an end to Belial” (Steudel 2000, 334). But unlike the Enochic use of the Deluge as a vehicle for this final eschatological resolution, the yahadic divine re-ordering is more in line with the introductory vision of Enoch (1– 5) and older, Ancient Near and Middle Eastern combat myths such as Enuma elish, the Baal Cycle and Psalms (Clifford 2003, 22–26). 206 As with these combat myths that list the variety of foes that will be vanquished by

“For [Israel] sought flattery, choosing travesties of true religion; they looked for ways to break the law; they favoured the fine neck. They called the guilty innocent and the innocent guilty. They overstepped the covenant, violated the law; and they conspired together to kill the innocent, for all those who lived pure lives they loathed from the bottom of their hearts” (Geniza A. 1:18–21). 205 For example “He created humankind to rule over the world, appointing for them two spirits in which to walk until the time ordained for his visitation. These are the spirits of truth and falsehood. The authority of the Prince of Light extends to the governance of all righteous people; therefore they walk in the paths of light. Correspondingly, the authority of the Angel of Darkness embraces the governance of all wicked people, so they walk in the paths of darkness” (1QS Col. 3:17–21). However in the Book of Watchers, in particular chapters 6–8, there is a sense that the Watchers’ actions were of their own accord and unknown to God. In particular, despite the statement by Michael that “everything is naked and open before Your [God’s] sight” (1 En 9: 5), it was not until the Angels brought word to God of the “oppression [Azazel brought] upon the earth” (1 En 9:6) that God finally acted. 206 See Psalms 18:8–20; 29; 77:12–21 where Israelite poets celebrated the victories of the storm-God Yahweh. 204

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the divine king, 207 the War Scroll (1QM, 4Q491–496) lists the forces of darkness under the sway of the Watcher-ruler Belial that will suffer God’s wrath. For the In[structor, the Rule of] the War. The first attack of the Sons of Light shall be undertaken against the force of the Sons of Darkness, the army of Belial; the troops of Edom, Moab, the sons of Ammon, the [Amalekites], Philistia, and the troops of the Kittim of Asshur. Supporting them are those who have violated the covenant (1QM, Col. 1:1–2)

Here the political critique of foreign rule found in the Damascus Document reaches its eschatological resolution, as the Romans 208 and those collaborating Jews “who have violated the covenant” are cast as products of Watcherruler composite Belial and situated against God and the yahadic Sons of Light. And as was foreshadowed in the apocalyptic consummation of the Book of Watchers when “[t]he God of the Universe . . . will come forth from his dwelling . . . and appear in his camp emerging from heaven with a mighty power” 209 (1 En 1:3–4), the War Scroll predicts that God will take an active role during the final eschatological battle with the forces of Belial. There shall be a time of salvation for the People of God, and a time of domination for all the men of His forces, and eternal annihilation for all the forces of Belial. There shall be g[reat] panic [among] the sons of Japheth, Assyria shall fall with no one to come to his aid, and the supremacy of the Kittim shall cease, that the wickedness be overcome without remnant There shall be no survivors of [all the Sons of] Darkness. Then [the Sons of Rig]hteousness shall shine to the end of the world, continuing to shine forth until the end of the appointed seasons of darkness. Then at the time appointed by God, His great excellence shall shine for all the Sons of Light . . . [and] the great hand of God shall overcome [Belial and al]l the angels of his domination, and all the men of [his forces shall be destroyed forever]. (1QM, Col.1:5–15, emphasis mine)

Here is the eschatological hope of the yahad, where nostalgic kingship will be established and, as in the introductory vision of the Book of Watchers,

207 For example, the Enuma elish lists Tiamat (Heidel 1952, 128), while the Baal Cycle lists “Death” and “Sea” (Clifford 2003, 21). 208 The Kittim are understood, depending on the scroll being used, to be either the Greeks or in this instance, Rome (VanderKam and Flint 2002, 281). 209 Much like the ancient Israelite psalmists who celebrated Yahweh as he fought Israel’s enemies, such as the Pharaoh and his army (Clifford 2003, 22).

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the righteous will live in eternal peace by ruling over and humiliating their former oppressors. All they that oppressed you shall bow down to you, and the dust [of your feet they shall lick. O daughter of my people, shout with a voice of joy, adorn yourselves with ornaments of glory. Rule over the kingdom of the . . .], [. . . and I]srael to reign eternally. (1QM Col.12: 14–16)

This elaborate use of angelology within such foundational yahadic documents as the War Scroll, the Damascus Document and the Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association, when combined with the various copies of, and exegesis about, the Book of Watchers shows that it was far from a secondary exegesis of Genesis 6 or part of the yahad’s pseudepigrapha. Because these Enochic themes were so centrally placed within the Dead Sea Scrolls—the use of the “fallen” or negative angels and the promise of God’s divine judgement (1 En 1–5)—it can reasonably be assumed that the Book of Watchers offered a template for the yahad’s apocalyptic literature by offering older, mythological paradigms that could be reconfigured in true scribal fashion to present the current reality of Roman domination within ancient apocalyptic models.

6.6 GNOSTICISM AND THE DISENFRANCHISEMENT OF THE SCRIBES While the category of “gnosticism” is to a considerable degree the discursive “other” to normative Christianity, there nonetheless appears to be, within a variety of Jewish, Christian and “pagan” texts, various thematic elements that, for lack of better word, are “Gnostic.” But unlike the scholarly constructions that have used these elements to create a “dualistic, sui generis religion of salvation” (Stroumsa 1984, 1; see also Jonas 1963 [1958], Pagels 1989, and Logan 206) these themes should be understood as merely “a structural possibility within a number of religions traditions” (J.Z. Smith 1978, 151, n.12). Considering that this structural possibility was not limited to either Judaism or Christianity, but—like apocalypticism—was widely disseminated throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East, what was the social, historical or political situation that produced these “Gnostic” themes? What was the “gnostic situation” of the Ancient Near and Middle East that was the impetus for the creation of literature that follows a “gnostic pattern” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94)? As noted above, from the fifth and sixth centuries BCE, there existed throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East a “scribal class” that acted as a vector for the international exchange of ideas among the educated elites (Alexander 2002, 241). From this broad-based and cosmopolitan learned

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class, there developed a common “school of thought” that emphasised the construction of wisdom, law, medicine, astrology, divination, magic and language that was often unrelated or only minimally related to the specific religious traditions of the local groups or culture (Schiffman 1994, 197). Despite the minor idiosyncratic differences between the various national religions and royal courts, the scribes followed a common overriding hermeneutic that functioned along the lines of equivalence, “as above, so below” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 328). This system, found throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East, “was mediated by structures such as kingship and temple, in which the ‘above’ served ideologically as a template for the ‘below,’ in which a variety of human activities [such as ritual] served to bring the ‘below’ ever closer to the above” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 328). While the scribe not only produced and preserved “wisdom literature” for each court, as a select group of religious specialists, they were also responsible for recording and maintaining the rituals and formula that allowed “human activity to be successful in achieving the maintenance of the cosmos . . . [therefore, it was essential that] the intricacies of the order of above / below, must be known” (J.Z. Smith 2004b 329). Functioning in a symbiotic relationship to the Ancient Near and Middle Eastern scribe was the office of divine king where the ruling monarch was the terrestrial counterpart of the king-god, and the kingdom functioned as the terrestrial counterpart of the divine realm. From the standpoint of “as above so below,” wisdom texts were constructed basically as political propaganda created by the scribe for his patron king, using paradigmatic types for a specific king as the fulfilment (or repetition) of an ancient pattern (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 110). However, a situational incongruity occurred within the scribal class when native kingship ceased under foreign domination and produced “the situation of apocalypticism” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94). The cessation of native kingship under foreign domination acted as the crucible for apocalyptic literature. So what are the consequences of foreign domination without any apocalyptic or eschatological resolution? What was the scribal response to the inability, or lack of desire, of the national deity to restore native kingship? As shown, apocalyptic literature of all varieties presupposes that, despite the current state of foreign domination and societal collapse, the titular national god or gods will play an active role in the restitution of the nostalgic social ordering. However, what one group perceives as an apocalyptic situation could easily be re-interpreted as a gnostic pattern in which, “if the wrong king is sitting on the throne, then his heavenly counterpart must likewise be the wrong god” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94).

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Unsurprisingly, this kind of “gnosticization” of ideology can be found in the post-Alexander era (i.e., after 359–323 BC) after the total cessation of various native kingships in the Ancient Near and Middle East (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332). Since the king as the divine mediator was one of the foundations of Near and Middle Eastern religion, his removal from the throne was naturally traumatic, causing a variety of novel political and religious formulations. In some traditions of Late Antiquity (such as the Christians who produced the Gospel of Matthew), these old forms of native kingship became idealized objects of nostalgia or messianism. At the same time, groups like the yahad reconfigured archaic combat myths into new religious formations such as apocalypticism and millenarianism, as a method of resistance to foreign kings. Other traditions, however, appeared to have pressed the logic of archaic sacred kingship into different directions, creating a “gnostic pattern” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 331). For example, if the national king functioned as the terrestrial image of the deity, and if a foreign or illegitimate king sat on the throne, then reciprocally, there must be a counterfeit or illegitimate king of the gods. This gnosticization of the archaic mode of Near and Middle Eastern kingship was also exacerbated when the new “king” was a distant and Imperial ruler who was geographically and culturally remote from the native scribal elements. This situation of the distant emperor, whose imperial power was mediated via regional satraps, governors, or vassal kings, must have played a significant role within these modified religious cosmological formations (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332). With this in mind, “Gnosticism” should not be deployed as simply the heretical or “other” to what has been understood as “orthodox” Christianity or normative, sui generis Judaism. Growing out of the same social, political and religious context that provoked an apocalyptic pattern (and subsequent apocalyptic literature), gnosticism should be understood as the result of an ontological system that, while initially postulating a “good” deity and a corrupted world, is logically reconfigured when foreign domination persists without eschatological resolution. Out of this contextual understanding, a new definition of gnosticism should be considered. Gnosticism(s): An analogous expression of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern apocalypticism where, under the domination of a hegemonic foreign power, there is a belief in the inability, or lack of desire, of the titular national god to instigate an apocalyptic resolution. Hence, gnosticism—as an expression of the inherent tension within an ontological system that postulates a good deity with a corrupt world—recasts notions of “as above, so below” so that where once the wrong king would be replaced by the right god, it now is reconfigured so that the wrong

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE king must reflect the wrong or illegitimate god in heaven (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332).

6.7 THE BOOK OF WATCHERS WITHIN THE NAG HAMMADI LIBRARY. As with many of the Dead Sea Scrolls, there is the readily observed presence of Enochic themes and motifs in a variety of texts from the Nag Hammadi Library. In particular, Hypostasis of the Archons, On the Origin of the World and the Apocryphon of John clearly borrow—both thematically and literarily—the motif of the corrupting influence of semi-divine Watchers or angels upon the human world. Unlike the “apocalyptic situation,” the political critique of the Nag Hammadi texts is based on a “gnostic situation” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94) 210 where the cessation of native kingship and the presence of a foreign usurper on the throne reflects an illegitimate and usurper deity in heaven who is either unwilling or unable to orchestrate a divine reordering. Hence, while the Enochic story is still recognizable and still serves the same critical function as the Book of Watchers and the Dead Sea Scrolls, the formulations found in Hypostasis of the Archons, On the Origin of the World and the Apocryphon of John nonetheless take on novel forms (J.Z. Smith 2004, 332). In Hypostasis of the Archons, the author reconfigures the Enochic construction of the uncontrolled libido of angelic beings and casts it upon the corrupted creator of the world, the Demiurge. As the Enochic Watchers knowingly 211 let their desire for human women be the cause of their ultimate downfall, a similar motif can be found in Hypostasis of the Archons, where the semi-divine figures of the Demiurgical creator and his Archons (Hyp. Arch 87:4–8) also experience uncontrolled sexual desire. After viewing what they thought was a “spiritually” endowed Eve: 212 210 While the “gnostic pattern” is present in Hypostasis of the Archons On the Origin of the World and the Apocryphon of John, it should be noted that not all Nag Hammadi texts (such as the Gospel of Thomas) follow this pattern. 211 “As Semyaz, being their leader said unto them, ‘I fear that you will not consent that this deed should be done and I alone will become (responsible) for this great sin.’ But they all responded to him, ‘Let us all swear an oath and bind everyone among us by a curse not to abandon this suggestion but to do the deed’” (1 En 6:3–4). 212 When the Archons attempted to rape Norea who “was a virgin whom the forces did not defile” (Hyp. Arch 92:2), “Their supreme chief said to her, ‘Your mother Eve came to us.’ But Norea turned to them and said to them, ‘It is you

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[The Archons] said to one another, “Come, let us sow our seed in her,” 213 and they pursued her. And she [the Aeon] laughed at them for their witlessness and their blindness; and in their clutches, she became a tree, and left before them her shadowy reflection resembling herself; and they defiled [it] foully—And they defiled the stamp of her voice, so that by the form they had modelled, together with [their] (own) image, they made themselves liable to condemnation. (Hyp. Arch 89:19–31 emphasis mine)

Much like the Enochic Watchers who “fell from grace” when they “went to the daughters of the people of the earth and they lay together with them— with those women—and [the Watchers] defiled themselves” (1 En 9:7–8 emphasis mine), the Archons through their rape of either Eve or Sophia’s shadowy reflection also show their negative behaviour, their corrupted status and how they are “liable to condemnation.” But considering the gnostic situation that the author of Hypostasis of the Archons is addressing, the Archons—unlike the Watchers who were once the “children of heaven” (1 En 6:1) but who “fell” because of their uncontrolled libido—were never part of the divine realm of Above but simply ignorant interlopers (Hyp. Arch 86:26–87:11) who have always been “witless and blind.” Their deviant sexual behaviour is simply an illustration of the novel reconfiguration of the scribal model of “as above” in this “gnostic situation” that is reflected “so below.”

who are the rulers of the darkness; you are accursed. And you did not know my mother; instead it was your female counterpart that you knew. For I am not your descendant; rather it is the world above that I am from’” (Hyp. Arch 92: 19–26). While the Archons assume that they had had intercourse with Eve because of their “witlessness and their blindness” it is grammatically uncertain whether or not it was Eve whom the Sophia had left, or simply a human-like shape in female form that was Sophia’s “shadowy reflection.” In either case, the Archons’ sexually deviant behaviour is an indication of their “corrupted” birth and is affected as a prohibition against mixing (semi-) divine and earthly types (Stroumsa 1984, 35–37). 213 “And the angels, the children of Heaven, saw [the women] and desired them; and they said to one another, ‘Come, let us choose wives for ourselves from the daughters of man and beget us children” (1 En 6:2). While Hypostasis of the Archons uses a more violent image of rape as perhaps an indication of the greater estrangement felt in the gnostic pattern, on the surface both renderings appear to be a loose critique of the angelic type mixing with the human type. But considering the political implications of both, this could be an indication of the “unnaturalness” of foreign conquers “defiling” the women of the people conquered.

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Considering the gnostic pattern that underwrites Hypostasis of the Archons, the author subsequently reinterprets the Deluge, not as a positive eschatological action that obliterates evil, 214 but as an attempt by the Archons to kill, not simply the wicked, but the entirety of humanity. “[As] mankind began to multiply and improve, the rulers took counsel with one another and said, ‘Come, let us cause a deluge with our hands and obliterate all flesh, from man to beast’” (Hyp. Arch 92:6–8). Hence, while the Book of Watchers and the Dead Sea Scrolls 215 use the Deluge as a paradigmatic model of eschatological resolution (Collins 2003, 70; VanderKam 2001, 146) 216 the Hypostasis of the Archons reconfigures the Flood to illustrate, under the gnostic situation, the “Reality of the Rulers” as corrupted interlopers. Finally, within the Hypostasis of the Archons, there is the adoption of the Enochic motif of two classes of conflicting angelic beings: those who have remained in heaven and kept God’s commandments, and the Watchers who disobeyed God and “fell.” In particular, within the Book of Watchers narrative, just prior to the Deluge, God ordered his heavenly host to subdue the Watchers and their giant offspring, in particular tasking Raphael to bind Azaz’el hand and foot and make; a hole in the desert which was in Dudael and he cast [Azaz’el] there; he threw on top of him rugged and sharp rocks. And he covered his face in order that [Azaz’el] may not see the light; and in order that he may be sent into the fire on the great day of judgement. (1 En 10: 4–7; see also Jude 6)

The fate of Azaz’el is reformulated under the gnostic pattern in Hypostasis of the Archons to illustrate the ultimate banishment of the Demiurge by the Aeons of Light. And Zoe, the daughter of Pistis Sophia cried out and said to him, “You are mistaken, Sakla!”—for which the alternate name is Yaltabaoth [the Demiurge]. She breathed into his face, and her breath became a fiery “And [God] sent Asuryal to the son of Lamech, (saying) “Tell him in my name ‘Hide thyself!’ and reveal to him the end that is approaching: that the whole earth will be destroyed, and a deluge is about to come upon the whole earth, and will destroy all that is on it . . . Destroy all wrong from the face of the earth and let every evil work come to an end: and let the plant of righteousness and truth appear: and it shall prove a blessing; the works of righteousness and truth shall be planted in truth and joy for evermore” (1 En 10: 1–15). 215 In particular, see Commentaries on Genesis (4Q252–354a). 216 See 1 En 10:21–22. 214

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angel for her; and the angel bound Yaldabaoth and cast him down into Tartaros below the Abyss. (Hyp. Arch 95:5–12)

Much like the eschatological resolution found in the majority of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern apocalyptic literature that constructs an anthropomorphized negative semi-divine figure(s) which is in control of the present age, 217 Hypostasis of the Archons maintains that the power of these negative entities is of a limited duration. “The authorities will relinquish their ages; and their angels will weep over their destruction; and their demons will lament their death” (Hyp. Arch 97:6–10). A more direct adoption of these Enochic themes can be found in another Nag Hammadi text entitled On the Origin of the World. Like Hypostasis of the Archons, On the Origin of the World contains a rendering of the negative consequence of the Archons’ sexuality (117:1–15), in particular how, as in the Book of Watchers (1 En 7–8), the offspring of these unions negatively affect the human sphere. Let us now return to the aforementioned rulers, so that we may offer some explanation of them. Now when the rulers were cast down from their heavens onto earth, they made for themselves angels, numerous, demonic, to serve them. And the latter instructed mankind in many kinds of error and magic and potions and worship of idols and spilling of blood and altars and temples and sacrifices and libations to all the spirits of the earth. (Orig. World 123:5–14)

In a direct adoption of the Book of Watchers 218 that is remarkably similar to Justin Martyr, 219 the author of On the Origin of the World understands the See Rev 1:13; Dan 7:13; 4 Ezra 12:32; 2 Bar 39:7; Zand-i Vohuman Yasn 9:23; 6:13; 1QM Col. 18:1–3; 1QS Col. 4: 16–19. 218 “The spirits of the angels who were promiscuous with women . . . made men unclean and will lead them astray so that they ascribe to Demons as gods” (1 En 19:1). 219 Justin Martyr covers several aspects of the Watcher story such as their lust, fatherhood of the giants and their dissemination of knowledge, and makes the claim that the Giants / demons that was the product of the Watchers’ sexual union with human women, resulted in the creation of the Greek Gods. “But the angels transgressed . . . and were captivated by love of women, and begat Children who are those that are called demons; and besides, they afterwards subdued the human race to themselves, partly by magical writings, and partly by fears and the punishments they occasioned, and partly by teaching them to offer sacrifices, and incense, and libations, of which things they stood in need after they were enslaved by lustful passions; and among men they sowed murders, wars, adulteries, intem217

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presence of other “pagan” deities to be a direct result of the Archons’ / Watchers’ influence on the earth. As a result of the presence of these demonic forces influencing humanity, On the Origin of the World unsurprisingly predicts a divine eschatological re-ordering that, like the Judeo-Christian and Qumran apocalyptic literature, narrates the overthrow of the evil rulers of this age and the establishment of a new social reality. Before the consummation of the age, the whole place will shake with great thundering. Then the rulers will be said, [. . .] their death. The angels will mourn for their mankind and the demons will weep over their seasons, and their mankind 220 will wail and scream at their death . . . Their kings will be intoxicated with the fiery sword, and they will wage war against one another 221 so that the earth is intoxicated with bloodshed . . . And their heavens will fall one upon the next and their (the rulers’) forces will be consumed by fire. Their eternal realms too, will be overturned. And his [an Archon’s] heaven will fall and break in two. And his [the Demiurge’s] heaven will fall and break in two. (Orig. World 125:33– 126:33)

As is common in all apocalyptic literature that insists on nostalgic divine social re-ordering, On the Origin of the World predicts that the Archons will be overthrown and “their (the rulers’) forces will be consumed by fire [and their] eternal realms too, will be overturned” (Orig. World 126:30). However, within both the Book of Watchers and On the Origin of the World, there is not the clearly demarcated “us versus them” binary system found within many of the Dead Sea Scrolls or some of the Judeo-Christian perate deeds, and all wickedness. Whence also the poets and mythologists, not knowing that it was the angels and those demons who had been begotten by them that did these things to men, and women, and cities, and nations, which they related, ascribes them to god himself, and to those who were accounted to be his very offspring, and to the offspring of those who were called his brother, Neptune and Pluto, and to the children again of these their offspring. For whatever name each of the angels had given himself and his children, by that name they called them” (2 Apol 5). 220 Compare 1QS Col. 3:17–21 in n. 204. 221 As with the reference from the Book of Watchers that speaks of the Giants struggling “against one another so that they may be destroyed in the fight” (1 En 10:9) this section appears to be a vaticinium ex eventu of the collapse of Alexander’s empire after his death and the conflict between the remnants of his empire, the Ptolemies and the Seleucids.

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apocalypses. In particular, the War Scroll constructs the “elect” or “Israel” as not only the benefactors of a divine re-ordering, but also the new “Archons” who, with the help of God, will subjugate the world. O Zion . . . Open [your gates forever, so that] the wealth of the nations [might be brought to you, and their kings shall serve you. All they that oppressed] you shall bow down to you, and [they shall lick the dust of your feet. (1QM, Col.19:15–16; see also A Vision of the New Jerusalem 1Q32, 2Q24, 4Q544–555, 5Q15, 11Q18)

Within the Book of Watchers, this hope for world domination is not present. Instead, there appears to be a more “egalitarian” vision of a future without the corrupting influence of the Watchers or their Giant offspring. For example: And then shall all the righteous escape and become the living ones until they multiply and become tens of hundred; and all the days of their youth and the years of their retirement they will complete in peace . . . [and] all of the children of the people will become righteous and all nations shall worship and bless me [God] and they will all prostrate themselves to me. (1 En 10: 17–21 emphasis mine)

Outside of “those who collaborated with [the Watchers]” (1 En 10:14), who will suffer the same fate as the rulers and the giants, 222 the Book of Watchers appears to include the entirety of humanity as not just sharing in the eschatological rewards of a world free from “all injustice and from all defilement, and from all oppression and from all sin, and from all iniquity” (1 En 10:20), but also allows all to be included as part of the “elect” (or “Israel”). As opposed to the War Scroll or 2 Baruch 61:7, where “the land [which] was then beloved by the Lord [and] because its inhabitants sinned not, it was glorified beyond all lands [and] the city Zion ruled then over all lands and regions,” the Book of Watchers implies that the “righteous” will not establish another political power that will subjugate other nations or people, but allow “all of the children of the people [to] become righteous and all nations shall worship and bless me.” There is a similar situation in On the Origin of the World where, after the nostalgic social re-ordering in which not just the “elect” (in this case called “those who are called perfect”) will find their final eschatological fulfillment, but all humanity.

222

This kind of a “purge” is a common fate after political revolutions.

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE When the prophecy and the account of those that are king become known and is fulfilled by those who are called perfect, those who—in contrast—have not become perfect in the un-begotten father will receive their glory in their realms and in the kingdoms of the immortals; but they will never enter the kingless realm. For everyone must go to the place from which he has come. Indeed, by his acts and his acquaintance, each person will make his nature known. (Orig. World 127:7–17)

While the scenario of On the Origin of the World does essentially construct two levels of eschatological resolution—the nostalgic “kingdom of the immortals” where it is assumed that the bulk of humanity will go, and the second tier of the “kingless realm” 223 which is reserved for the Perfect ones, for “everyone must go to the place from which he has come” 224 —there is still, in contrast to such texts as 2 Baruch and the War Scroll, no overt political subjugation in the post-eschatological world within the text. One of the most overt adoptions of the Enochic motif of the corrupting influences of semi-divine beings is found in the Apocryphon of John. In a reconfiguration of the Enochic tale of the Watchers’ illegitimate sexual union and the production of giants whose rampages were to such a “degree that the whole earth was filled with blood and oppression” (1 En 9:9), the Apocryphon of John depicts these demonic offspring of the Archons as “Children of Darkness”: And he (the Chief Archon) sent his angels to the daughters of men, that they might take some of them for themselves and raise offspring for their enjoyment . . . And they begot children of the darkness according to the likeness of their spirit. (Ap. John 29:17–20; 30:7–9)

Much like the demonic “Sons of Darkness” who, as part of “the whole multitude of Belial” (1QM Col. 17: 11; 18:1–3) are naturally evil, and the 223 A similar motif is found in the Damascus Document where political reordering will not include the re-instalment of the Davidic line, but “[w]hen the total years of the present age are complete, there will be no further need to be connected to the house of Judah, but instead each will stand on his own tower” (Geniza A. 4:10–12). 224 It is this kind of “deterministic” language that has led to the stereotype of gnostic elitism. However, despite its (apparent) presence in On Origin of the World, “there is not very much evidence to support the classic stereotype of ‘gnostic determinism,’ in which individuals are simply born into fixed classes with different destinies, with no hope for those unlucky enough to be in the inferior group and no possible jeopardy for those fortunate enough to be born in the superior group” (Williams 1996, 208; King 2004,201–208).

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Enochic giants who, because they were the product of a transgressive sexual union, “filled [the whole earth] with blood and oppression” (1 En 9:9), so too are the Archon’s “children of darkness” inherently evil by virtue of their negative “spirit” which they inherited from their parents. 225 The Apocryphon of John directly takes the Enochic notion of Azaz’el’s Prometheus-like revelation of “forbidden” information to humanity 226 under the gnostic pattern and applies it to the Chief Archon / Demiurge who sends angels and demonic offspring to humanity. [And] they brought gold and silver and a gift of copper and iron and meal and all kinds of things. And they steered people who had followed them into great troubles, by leading them astray with many deceptions. They (the people) became old without having enjoyment. They died, not having found truth and without knowing the God of truth. And thus the whole creation became enslaved forever, from the foundation of the world until now. (Ap. John 29:30)

However, because of the Gnostic pattern that is in play, the Enochic motif undergoes a reformulation. This forbidden knowledge is not simply a dissemination by renegade angels whose actions corrupted humanity, but the direct action of the creator god who is actively trying to subvert humanity

225 See also the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn where “the divs [Greeks] are the seed of darkness [and will] be smitten” (8:6). 226 Ironically this dissemination of “divine” knowledge in other “gnostic” texts like Hypostasis of the Archons was not a danger to humanity, but to the semi-divine rulers or Archons, (Hyp. Arch 86:28–87:32). The serpent, in the form of a Instructor of Light, responds to Eve’s concerns about eating from the Tree of Knowledge by saying, “‘With death you shall not die; for it was out of jealousy that [God, the Chief Archon] said this to you. Rather your eyes shall open and you shall come to be like gods, recognizing evil and good” . . . And [Eve] took from the tree and ate; and she gave to her husband as well as herself; and these beings that possessed only a soul, ate. And their imperfection became apparent . . . and they recognized that they were naked of the spiritual element and took fig leaves and bound them upon their loins” (Hyp. Arch 90:4–19). To distract humanity from this “enlightenment,” the Demiurge cast Adam and Eve from the garden and the Archons “threw mankind into great distraction and into a life of toil, so that their mankind might be occupied by worldly affairs, and might not have the opportunity of being devoted to the holy spirit” (Hyp. Arch 91:7–11).

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and keep them ignorant of both their true nature 227 and the presence of the Invisible Father. In all three examples taken from the Nag Hammadi Library, while the use of the Enochic story varies from text to text, the subsequent reconfigurations are firmly rooted in the Enochic construction found in the Book of Watchers.

Apocalyptic Pattern of the Book of Watchers Yahweh the Creator Angels (Michael) Semayz / Azaz’el Watchers Giants

Gnostic Pattern of Selected N.H.C. ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ ÍÎ

The Invisible Father The Aeons of Light (Sophia) Yaltabaoth the Demiurge The Archons Demons / Children of Darkness

Although the names have been changed, the relative positions of the main characters in both the apocalyptic and gnostic patterns are consistent with the Enochic template. Beginning with the supreme deity at the top, he is followed by his divine agents, the “fallen” / “ignorant” semi-divine entities, their followers and finally their corrupted offspring. The only major difference between the apocalyptic and gnostic pattern is the value of the Creator; a reflection of the difference between the apocalyptic and gnostic situations. In the apocalyptic situation expressed in apocalyptic literature like the Book of Watchers, the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, while a “wrong” or foreign king may be on the throne, nonetheless the “right” or national deity in heaven will re-order the cosmos into a nostalgic formulation. In the gnostic situation, expressed in texts like Hypostasis of the Archons, On the Origin of the World and the Apocryphon of John that follow the ontological model of “as above, so below” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 328), this “wrong” or foreign king is an indication that the “wrong” god is in heaven and is either unwilling, or unable to formulate a nostalgic re-ordering. And considering that the knowledge or γνῶσις of this gnostic situation is what the wrong god 227 This “gnostic pattern” of the wrong king equalling the wrong god is also illustrated with the Flood. “And he (the Chief Archon) repented for everything which had come into being through him. This time he planned to bring a flood upon the work of man. But the greatness of the light of the foreknowledge informed Noah and he proclaimed it to all the offspring which are the sons of men” (Ap. John 28:33–29:4).

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is actively trying to suppress, it is unsurprising that all three of the “gnostic” texts examined speak either of “celestial journeys to or the receipt of messages from the true king of the gods who was above, or antagonistic to, the king-god of this world” (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332). 228 Considering this, could not these stories of the ignorant rulers or Archons, like Enochic Watchers and giants who “consumed the produce of all the people until the people detested feeding them” (1 En 7:3) be offering the same type of social and political critique of foreign domination as found in the Book of Watchers, the Dead Sea Scrolls and any number of JudeoChristian and “pagan” apocalypses? 229 Considering the scribal ontological model of “as above, so below” 230 combined with the scribal method of reconfiguring ancient myths and precedents to represent the salvific power of the current king, does not this kind of “gnostic literature” function as the same kind of socio-political critique as the Enochic scribes who found themselves under the apocalyptic situation of Greek rule? Functionally, do not these kinds of texts offer the same critique as the texts produced by the yahad who struggled against foreign oppression? While many scholars, such as Bultmann, Jonas and Pagels, have looked at the “heretical” nature of the Gnostic texts and their relationship to normative Christianity, they have often overlooked the profound social critique that these texts have to offer. “What if [these “gnostic” myths are] not so much an expression of the intellectual and moral vacuity arising when ideology becomes divorced from social reality as it was an evaluation of political rule? What if the 228 “The Monad [is a] monarchy with nothing above it” (Ap. John 2:25–27). “Eleleth, the great angel spoke to me. ‘It is I,’ he said, ‘who am understanding . . . [and] who stand in the presence of the great invisible spirit’” (Hyp. Arch 93:18–21). “Seeing that everybody, gods of the world and mankind, says that nothing existed prior to chaos, I in distinction to them shall demonstrate that they are all mistaken, because they are not acquainted with the origin of chaos, nor with its root” (Orig. World 97:24–29). 229 See the Potter’s Oracle: “[T]he farmer who did not sow will be asked to pay taxes” (P2 Col.1,7–8) and in the Zand-i Vohuman Yasn “the men, who will have the sacred thread girdle on their waists will desire death as a boon, on account of the hurtful demands of the evil rule and the many a false regulation which they have come up to, whereby their life will not be worth living” (4:49–50). 230 “And she [Divine Wisdom] established each of his [the Demiurge’s archons] in conformity with its power—after the pattern of the realms of above, for starting with the invisible world the visible world was invented” (Hyp. Arch 87:8– 10 emphasis mine).

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE “experience” underlying estrangement were to be analysed less in terms of psychology [as Jonas] than in terms of the social-political conditions of imperial violence? How might we read a myth that describes the power that rules the world as malignant forces motivated by the will to dominate and coerce? How then might we understand the representation of these powers as evil and ignorant?” (King 2004, 136 emphasis mine)

Considering that the Greeks and Romans justified their right to rule a vast empire by insisting that the gods had favoured them and gave them divine sanction, the insistence that the rulers of the world are arrogant, unjust, and malicious was a bold and subversive position to take in a world whose rulers styled themselves as servants of the gods and purveyors of justice. The Romans justified their right to rule a vast empire by asserting that the gods had favoured them due to their exemplary virtue; those who opposed them stood against divine providence. Widely honoured as the chosen agent of the gods on earth, the emperor was worshipped in provinces throughout the Empire (King 2006, 157).

From this political standpoint, how might texts such as the Apocryphon of John be read? For example: And when she [Sophia] saw the consequences of her desire [to create parthenogenically] . . . She cast [The Demiurge] away from her . . . and surrounded it with a luminous cloud and she placed a throne in the middle of the cloud . . . This is the first Archon who took power from his mother [divine wisdom] . . . He became strong and created for himself other aeons with a flame of luminous fire which (still) exists now. And he joined with his arrogance which is in him and begot authorities for himself . . . And he placed seven kings—each corresponding to the firmaments of heaven—over the seven heavens, and five over the depths of the abyss, that they might reign. And he shared his fire with them.” (Ap. John 10:7–11:8)

Instead of being simply nihilistic and “mythical—crude, something of a freak” (Jonas, 2001 [1958], 320) or academically quarantined as a syncretistic “mixture of mysticism, asceticism, pantheism and polytheism” (Meier 1987, 126) how could this section of “heretical” description of “above” be understood to fit the gnostic situation as it is experienced “below”? The product of Sophia’s disastrous creative act 231 which she places on the 231 “And Sophia of the Epinoal, being an aeon, conceived a thought from herself and the conception of the invisible Spirit and foreknowledge. She wanted to

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throne is not simply idle mythmaking, but is a rationalization of the “gnostic situation” of a foreign ruler or interloper king equalling a counterfeit god in heaven. In particular, the Demiurge’s usurpation of his mother’s power is not simply the usurpation of the national throne, but also a usurpation of the legitimating power of Divine Wisdom. For if the figure of Divine Wisdom functioned as the one “who revealed the beginning and the end of the universe as mediated by a god who held court in heaven and created by the use of divine law and according to a divine, written plan” (J.Z. Smith 1983 [1975], 103), the Demiurge’s taking “power from his mother” could be read as a critique of a foreign king who not only takes a national throne, but also tries to legitimate those same claims. In the inverse of those scribes who, through ritual words of rectification (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 328), offer a way to legitimate a foreign king’s position of power, 232 this section of the Apocryphon of John appears to be a scribal attempt to actively undermine the position of a foreign king who nonetheless claims legitimacy for his position. Much like the king’s heavenly counterpart who is “blind; because of his power and his ignorance and his arrogance he said, with his power, ‘It is I who am God; there is none apart from me” (Hyp. Arch 86:27–31) the foreign ruler has not received the “blessing” of the scribal construction of Divine Wisdom, but has illegitimately taken it and as such is simply a corrupt pretender. This illegitimate king-god who is presented as attended by a whole variety of subordinate and secondary semi-divinities, such as Archons, Watchers, principalities, and “aeons with a flame of luminous fire” is analogous to an imperial power structure in which a distant emperor holds the throne with the appearance of law and “shared his fire” by delegating power to various satraps, governors and vassal kings who rule with imperial authority (J.Z. Smith 2004b, 332). From this standpoint of political critique from disenfranchised elements of the scribal class, comes the bewildering array of archons, powers and demiurges, and “anti-cosmic” dualism. Instead of composing various stories in which the native king, through divine wisdom, was the centre of bring forth a likeness out of herself without the consent of the Spirit . . . and without her consort, and without his consideration . . . And when she saw (the consequences of) her desire, it changed into a form of a lion-faced serpent . . . And she called his name Yaltabaoth” (Ap. John 9:26–10:19). 232 For example, the Babylonian Atiku ritual in the Seleucid era changed from an archaic omen procedure concerning native kingship to a scribally reconfigured “ritual for the rectification for a foreign king” (J.Z. Smith 1982b, 94, emphasis original).

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the social and cosmic order, these disenfranchised scribes reconfigured older apocalyptic paradigms and myths into new formations that expressed their discontent with foreign rule. But unlike the scribes who reconfigured texts like the Book of Watchers into apocalyptic patterns to express their discontent, these Nag Hammadi texts, while produced by the same scribal elements, who reconfigured the same type of myth, perceived not an apocalyptic situation but a gnostic one and as such produced gnostic instead of apocalyptic literature. While this may seem the greatest heresy in orthodox Christian terms (Haer 1, 3), it is simply a matter of exegetical aesthetic that used the same scribal methods and the same scribal myths to address the same situation of foreign domination.

7 CONCLUSION Within scholarly constructions of the religions of Late Antiquity, there is a priority given to what is understood as normative or “biblical” Judaism and normative or “biblical” Christianity (Mack 1995, 1–4). While part of this priority may be based on the wide dissemination in modern times of the various texts that are used to construct these normative traditions, there is also an a priori assumption within scholarly discourse that both ancient Judaism and nascent Christianity were essentially “special” traditions within the context of Late Antiquity. In particular, scholars have deployed ancient Judaism as a sui generis tradition that, despite the presence of foreign rule in Judea from the sixth century BCE, 233 remained isolated from the social and historical context of the Ancient Near and Middle East. As a result, scholars have constructed an ancient Judaism that was an “enclosed world living its own life, a ghetto culturally and linguistically, if not geographically” (Nock in J.Z. Smith 1990, 71). Unfortunately, behind this sui generis Judaism, with such notable exceptions as Lawrence Schiffman, there has been the need to construct a prestigious and “pure” tradition, whose sole purpose is to act as a crucible for nascent Christianity. And while this kind of “Judeo-Christian” ideological discourse would seem more appropriate within a theological context, it is also “endemic to the field of Christian scholarship . . . [in which] Judaism has been made to play in discourse on early Christianity, serving both as an insulating device against ‘Hellenism,’ and as an ancestor to be transcended” (J.Z. Smith 1990, 117). To facilitate this appropriation of the “authenticity” of a sui generis Judaism, scholars have created the discursive category of “legitimate” or “Judeo-Christian” Apocalypticism to serve as a transition between the mythic salvation history of ancient Israel and nascent Christianity (Perrin 1983 [1974], 127). After establishing a prestigious pedigree for nascent Christianity, there is a reciprocal discursive need within scholarship to protect this sans pareil construction. Considering the wide variety of Hellenistic religions of Late Antiquity that are not only analogous to, but all but indis233 With the Maccabean Revolt Judea gained its independence in 165 BCE and was under self-rule until the end of the Hasmonean Dynasty in 37 BCE.

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tinguishable from, nascent Christianity (J.Z. Smith 1990, 112–13; Snyder 1991 [1985], 163–69) scholars needed a second discursive category to sit opposite “legitimate” apocalypticism to construct a unique Christianity. So in the interest of shoring up and defining the boundaries of “nominal” Christianity and granting it a sans pareil status, scholars have created the category of Gnosticism. (Figure 1) Despite the methodological problems with this “Judeo-Christian” ideological system, it has remained, with a few notable exceptions such as Jonathan Z. Smith and Karen L. King, essentially unchallenged in scholarship. The reason for the persistence of this ideological construction may simply be that, from a hermeneutical perspective, it provides an elegant model that works. For example, when read from the a priori hermeneutic of nascent Christianity’s unique status, the “legitimate”—or more specifically the “Judeo-Christian”—apocalypses 234 not only offer a transition between the salvation history of ancient Judaism and nascent Christianity, but also a palatable “theological” model that presents the Judeo-Christian apocalypses as anticipating the Christian movement. 235 On the other side of this construct, the relationship between a “unique” sui generis Judaism and a “singular” sans pareil Christianity has also provided scholars with a series of discursive parameters such as “foreign,” “pagan” and “Hellenistic” to sequester this “Judeo-Christian” expression from “the multitude of those Gnostics” (Haer 2, praef. 1) who “disregard the order and the connection of the Scriptures, and . . . dismember and destroy the truth” (Haer 1, 8:1). Despite the elegance of this construction, and its palatability for modern Christians, there are some serious problems with it that cannot be ignored. Apocalypticism was not simply an expression confined to Judaism, but could also be found throughout the Ancient Near and Middle East from at least the fourth century BCE onward. And while scholars deployed a variety of discursive categories such as “foreign,” “Hellenistic” and “genre Apocalypse” to construct a palatable Judeo-Christian expression that is “a new kind of literature that had its own coherence and should not be seen as Daniel 7–12, Revelation, 1 Enoch, 2 Baruch and 4 Ezra. For example, the author(s) of Revelation (11:2–11) intentionally used motifs from Daniel (9:24–27) as a method of appropriating the salvation history of ancient Judaism. “Understood in this way Daniel mediated through a . . . Jewish-Christian interpretation, was the theological foundation for the idea that the temporal and genealogical succession of the post-exilic high priests formed the legitimate link between the end of the Old Testament history and the advent of Christ and the Church” (Adler 1996a, 238). 234 235

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a child or adaptation of something else” (Collins 2003, 76), these efforts, as argued in chapter 2, are simply ideological hermeneutics that have no bearing on the intellectual significance of the phenomenon of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern apocalypticism. Concurrently, as argued in chapter 4, because the modern constructions of Gnosticism adopt the polemical strategies used by early Church fathers like Irenaeus, “it is largely apologetic concerns to defend normative Christianity that make Gnosticism intelligible as a category at all” (King 2003, 3). Because “normative” or “orthodox” Christianity was then (and still is) a porous concept that changes depending on the discourse used, these kinds of constructions of Gnosticism, based on the categories of the heresiologists, can only be a cipher for the “heretical” and as such is a useless typological category inappropriate for scholarship. Since the publication of both the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library, 236 these kinds of ideological constructions should have faced serious questions. Even considering that both collections are the products of different centuries and that both consist of a wide range of diverse and contradictory material, the potential that the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library had to significantly challenge our historical assumptions is astounding. No longer were scholars limited to the apocalypses of the Bible and the Pseudepigrapha that have been prioritized through the process of canonization and sanitized by later Christian redaction. With the Dead Sea Scrolls, there was unaltered evidence of an apocalyptic community that was both thoroughly “Jewish” and yet analogous to any number of “syncretistic” or “foreign” apocalyptic expressions of Late Antiquity. Reciprocally, with the Nag Hammadi Library, scholars finally had descriptions of these so-called “Gnostics” that were not mediated through the polemical rhetoric of the Church Fathers. For the first time the “multitude of Gnostics” could speak for themselves. With the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library firmly in hand, scholars were finally armed with primary sources from non-canonical groups that could help illustrate the diverse and heterodox nature of the variety of Judaisms and Christianities present in Late Antiquity. It is unfortunate then, that despite this potential, scholars have done little except impose Judeo-Christian ideological models on both sets of texts, configuring the Dead Sea Scrolls as an apocalyptic “cipher of The Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in 1947 and were widely published by 1991. The Nag Hammadi Library was discovered in 1945 and was widely published by 1978. 236

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orthodoxy” and as such, inherently different from the “gnostic heresy” of the Nag Hammadi Library. An examination of these two collections that does not invoke theological categories may generate some interesting results. For example, as argued in chapter 3, while scholars have attempted to configure the “apocalyptic community” of the Dead Sea Scrolls—be they Essene or Sadducee— within the insulated, non-Hellenized and hence “authentic” construction of sui generis Judaism, a close examination of the texts of the yahad has instead shown that the Dead Sea Scrolls (and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses in general) are analogous to any number of Ancient Near and Middle Eastern “apocalypticisms” that were expressing discontent with foreign rule. Instead of re-enforcing the sui generis construction of Judaism, the Dead Sea Scrolls can help us to dismiss this ideological fantasy and discourse that the multiple “authentic” Judaisms of the Second Temple period were neither limited to the “three philosophical schools” of Josephus, nor were isolated cultural “ghettos” quarantined from the Hellenistic context of the Ancient Near and Middle East (Newsom 2004, 3). As argued in chapter 5, while scholars have consistently constructed the Nag Hammadi Library as a secondary collection or “anti-canon” in comparison to the “authority” of the New Testament, comparisons of the “gnostic” Gospel of Thomas and the “orthodox” Gospel of John have shown that Gnosticism was not the radically different “other” that Irenaeus’ and other polemicist’s rhetoric had constructed, but were analogous expressions of legitimate and “authentic” Christianities that, without the hermeneutics of “orthodoxy” and “heresy,” can emerge to claim their own face within Christianity, and in relationship to the apocalypticism of Judaism. Finally, despite the insistence of such scholars as Joseph Fitzmyer who stated that the Nag Hammadi Library is “in no way comparable in importance [to] the Qumran documents . . . [since they show that the “Gnostics”] did indeed teach what the church Fathers, such as Irenaeus, said they did” (Fitzmyer 1993, 22), chapter 6 has argued that the “Apocalyptic” Dead Sea Scrolls and the “Gnostic” Nag Hammadi Library are not diametrically opposed expressions, but are linked in three important ways: 1) a shared Enochic worldview that (2) was used by marginalized elements of the scribal class (3) who were reacting to the political reality of suppression of ancestral traditions, the cessation of native kingship and the lack of a royal patron under Hellenism. While Fitzmyer is a good example of this need to discursively distance the Dead Sea Scrolls and the Nag Hammadi Library, he is far from alone. Despite its problems, the majority of scholars still insist on a historical

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model that needs to keep the Dead Sea Scrolls (and the Judeo-Christian apocalypses) as distinct as possible from the Gnosticism of the Nag Hammadi Library. While these distinctions may be vigorously defended as part of a Jewish or Christian faith perspective, or even from the simple immersion within the scholarly reification of the “biblical” paradigm (Mack 1995, 9), these kinds of ideological claims that construct a sui generis Judaism and an utterly unique Christianity should be limited to, and are only appropriate for, a theological or devotional context, and should not be occurring within academic constructions of Late Antiquity: When one permits those whom one studies to define the terms in which they will be understood, suspends one’s interest in the temporal and contingent, or fails to distinguish between “truths,” “truth-claims,” and “regimes of truth,” one has ceased to function as a historian or scholar. In that moment, a variety of roles are available; some perfectly respectable (amanuensis, collector, friend and advocate), and some less appealing (cheerleader, voyeur, retailer of import goods). None, however, should be confused with scholarship. (Lincoln 2000, 120–21)

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Said, Edward W. 1994 [1978]. Orientalism: 25 Anniversary Edition. New York: Vintage Books. Schiffman, Lawrence H. 1994. Reclaiming the Dead Sea Scrolls. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society. Schweitzer, Albert. 1949. Out of My Life and Thought. Trans. C. T. Campion. New York: Henry Holt and Company. —1954. The Quest of the Historical Jesus (Third Edition). Trans. W. Montgomery, B.D. London: Adam & Charles Black. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1978. Map is Not Territory. Leiden: E. J. Brill. —1982a. “Introduction.” In Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown, xi– xiii. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —1982b. “A Pearl of Great Price And A Cargo of Yams.” In Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown, 90–101. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —1983 [1975]. “Wisdom and Apocalyptic.” In Paul D. Hanson, ed., Visionaries and Their Apocalypses, 101–120. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. —1990. Drudgery Divine. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —1998. “Religion, Religions, Religious.” In Mark C. Taylor, ed., Critical Terms for Religious Studies, 269–284. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —2004a. “Differential Equations.” Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion, 231–49. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. —2004b. “Here, There and Anywhere.” Relating Religion: Essays in the Study of Religion, 323–39. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Mark S. 1990. The Early History of God: Yahweh and the Other Deities in Ancient Israel. New York: HarperSanFrancisco. Snyder, Graydon F. 1991 [1985]. Ante Pacem: Archaeological Evidence of Church Life Before Constantine. Mercer University Press. Stark, Rodney and Bainbridge, William Sims. 1985. The Future of Religion: Secularization, Revival, and Cult Formation. University of California Press: London. Steudel, Annette. 2000. “God and Belial.” In L. Schiffman, E. Tov and J. VanderKam, eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls Fifty Years After Their Discovery, 332–340. Jerusalem: Israel Exploration Society. Stone, Michael. 1983a. “Enoch and Apocalyptic Origins.” In Paul D. Hanson, ed., Visionaries and Their Apocalypses, 92–100. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. —1983b. “New Light on the Third Century.” In Paul D. Hanson, ed., Visionaries and Their Apocalypses, 85–91. Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1983.

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—1984. “Apocalyptic Literature..” In Michael Stone, ed., Jewish Writings of the Second Temple Period, 383–437. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Stroumsa, Gedalishu A.G. 1984. Another Seed: Studies in Gnostic Mythology. E. J. Brill. Talmon, Shemaryahu. 1994. “The Community of the Renewed Covenant: Between Judaism and Christianity.” In E. Ulrich and J. VanderKam, eds., The Community of the Renewed Covenant: the Notre Dame Symposium on the Dead Sea Scrolls, 3–26. Notre Dame: Notre Dame University Press. Thiering, Barbara E. 1983. The Qumran Origins of the Christian Church, Sydney: Theological Explorations Trinh, T. Minh-Ha. 1989. Woman, Native, Other: Writing Postcoloniality and Feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Tuckett, C.M. 1986. Nag Hammadi and The Gospel Tradition. Edinburgh: T & T Clark. Tyson Joesph P. 2006. Marcion and Luke-Acts: A Defining Struggle. Columbia, South Caralina: University of South Carolina Press. VanderKam, James C. 1984. Enoch and the Growth of an Apocalyptic Tradition. Washington, D. C.: Catholic Biblical Association. —1995. Enoch: A Man For All Generations. Columbia SC: University of South Carilonia Press, 1995. —2001. “The Interpretation of Genesis in 1 Enoch.” In Peter W. Flint, ed., The Bible at Qumran, 129–48. Grand Rapids, Mich: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company. VanderKam, James C. and Peter Flint. 2002. The Meaning of the Dead Sea Scrolls. New York: HarperSanFrancisco. Walton, John H. 1989. Ancient Israelite Literature in its Cultural Context. Grand Rapids, MI: Zondervan Corporation. Wellhausen, Julius. 1973 [1878]. Prolegomena to the History of Ancient Israel. Gloucester, Mass: Peter Smith. White, Hayden. 1973. The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe. London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Williams, Michael Allen. 1996. Rethinking “Gnosticism”. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Wise, Michael, Abegg Jr., Martin and Cook, Edward. 1996. “Prolegomena.” In Michael Wise, Martin Abegg, Jr. and Edward Cook, eds., The Dead Sea Scrolls: A New Translation. New York: HarperCollins Publishers. Wisse, Frederik. 1986. “The Use of Early Christian Literature as Evidence for Diversity and Conflict.” In Charles W. Hendrick and Robert Hodgson Jr, eds., Nag Hammadi, Gnosticism & Early Christianity, 177– 191. Peabody, Mass: Hendrickson Publishers, Inc.

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Yamauchi, Edwin. 1983. Pre-Christian Gnosticism (Second Edition). Grand Rapids: Baker Book House.

INDEX OF SUBJECTS Anat, 132 Apocalyptic pattern, 138, 145, 151 Apocalypticism, vii, 2, 9, 12, 13, 17, 32, 65, 126, 129, 139, 165, 166 "Judeo-Christian", 8, 17, 20, 29, 36, 165, 166 as a transitional link, 5, 7, 8, 131 definition, 41, 139 Egyptian, 8, 9, 26, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 41, 63, 70, 131, 134 foreign domination, 27, 28, 29, 33, 38, 39, 40, 67, 127, 136, 138, 139, 143, 145, 146, 150, 151, 161, 164 genre, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45, 46, 47, 50, 51, 52, 58, 89, 102, 131, 166 Iranian, 39, 40 Persian, 6, 8, 9, 11, 36, 38, 65, 105, 128, 130, 143 vaticinium ex eventu, 21, 22, 26, 27, 33, 38, 50, 156 Archons, 152, 153, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 163 as above, so below, 138, 150, 151, 160, 161 Asherah, 131, 132, 133 Atiku ritual, 163 Axis mundi, 21, 22, 24, 26, 27, 29, 33, 39, 51 Azaz’el, 140, 141, 154, 159, 160 Baal, 132, 133, 140, 147, 148

Belial, 50, 51, 52, 66, 67, 145, 146, 147, 148, 158 Canon, 3, 72, 73, 74, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 96, 97, 98, 103, 120, 123, 145, 168 Christianity, vii, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17, 19, 20, 23, 25, 29, 32, 35, 37, 42, 43, 47, 48, 49, 52, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 64, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 82, 83, 84, 85, 87, 88, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 103, 105, 106, 107, 108, 116, 119, 120, 121, 124, 125, 130, 131, 134, 135, 149, 151, 161, 165, 166, 167, 168, 169 "Normative", 2, 3, 7, 72, 74, 80, 84, 85, 88, 92, 93, 94, 96, 133, 167 Christianities, 1, 3, 60, 72, 73, 74, 88, 96, 98, 100, 103, 125, 167, 168 Mythical Narrative, vii, 8, 9, 12, 14, 16, 21, 23, 30, 31, 32, 35, 40, 42, 43, 46, 47, 48, 53, 59, 71, 97, 98, 100, 107, 121, 124, 130 sans pareil, vii, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 11, 13, 16, 17, 20, 23, 25, 26, 29, 32, 37, 43, 45, 48, 62, 70, 71, 90, 107, 125, 126, 136, 165, 166 Dead Sea Scrolls, vii, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 24, 32, 45, 46, 47, 49, 50, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65, 95, 100, 126, 128, 129, 139,

183

184

AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

144, 147, 149, 152, 154, 156, 160, 161, 167, 168, 177 pesher, 26 pesherium, 24, 50 Standard Model, 48, 57 Deluge, 126, 127, 140, 141, 142, 147, 154 Demiurge, 152, 154, 156, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163 Demiurgical speculation, 91, 108, 116, 118 Deuteronomists, 131, 133 Dualism, 60, 69, 96, 107, 108, 109, 163 El, 132, 133, 174 Enochic worldview, vii, 4, 128, 168 Essenes, 47, 48, 49, 52, 53, 54, 55, 59, 60, 61, 65 Gnosis, 72, 80, 108, 110, 118 Gnosticism, vii, 2, 3, 8, 9, 30, 69, 70, 71, 72, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 101, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 110, 112, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120, 121, 126, 149, 151, 166, 167, 168, 169, 181 definition, 151 Gnostic Cult, 88, 90, 92 Gnostic pattern, 149, 150, 151, 152, 153, 154, 159, 160 Gnostic Redeemer, 112, 113, 115, 119 Gnostic Religion, 3, 9, 72, 81, 83 Hellenism, vii, 2, 4, 9, 31, 32, 35, 41, 42, 63, 64, 74, 76, 77, 78, 165, 168 Heresy, 1, 3, 34, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 78, 80, 85, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 104, 105, 108, 115, 118, 119, 121, 132, 164, 168 Heretical, vii, 3, 9, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 80, 81, 84, 94, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 104, 105, 106, 107, 109, 116, 118, 143, 144, 151, 161, 162, 167

History of Religions School, 78 Israel, vii, 5, 7, 8, 10, 11, 15, 17, 19, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 32, 33, 39, 49, 50, 51, 52, 55, 56, 64, 65, 66, 67, 76, 77, 90, 102, 128, 131, 133, 135, 136, 145, 147, 148, 157, 165 Jesus, 2, 9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 24, 47, 59, 60, 61, 74, 88, 92, 97, 102, 104, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 118, 135 Jezebel, 133 Josephus, 3, 48, 49, 53, 54, 55, 57, 58, 63, 64, 65, 100, 168 Judaism, vii, 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 14, 15, 17, 18, 19, 20, 23, 25, 29, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 49, 52, 53, 58, 59, 61, 62, 63, 64, 65, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 76, 77, 91, 92, 93, 106, 130, 131, 132, 134, 135, 149, 151, 165, 166, 168, 169 as Christian pedigree, 10 exile, 11, 127 Hebrew prophesies, 50 Prophetic office, 9, 10, 11, 131, 133, 134, 135, 136 Second Temple, 7, 12, 13, 14, 15, 32, 48, 49, 52, 53, 56, 58, 62, 64, 65, 66, 132, 168 sui generis, vii, 2, 3, 7, 8, 9, 11, 14, 17, 19, 20, 23, 25, 26, 29, 31, 32, 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 53, 63, 64, 66, 69, 70, 71, 74, 76, 96, 99, 105, 106, 107, 120, 121, 131, 149, 151, 165, 166, 168, 169 Yahwist, 133, 134 Khirbet el-Qom, 45, 48, 131 Kingship, 4, 6, 40, 66, 67, 127, 128, 129, 138, 139, 148, 150, 151, 152, 163, 168 Kittim, 51, 148 Marcionites, 73, 74, 87

INDEX OF SUBJECTS Monotheism, 132 Nag Hammadi Library, vii, 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 84, 87, 93, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 126, 128, 129, 152, 160, 167, 168 “anti-canon”, 3, 96, 97, 101, 168 anti-canonical, 101, 102 syncretism, 19, 35, 36, 40, 65, 67, 78, 82, 98, 99, 105, 106, 107 Nephilim, 126, 143 Orientalism, 78 Orthodox, 1, 2, 3, 7, 8, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 83, 84, 85, 92, 94, 97, 98, 99, 103, 104, 105, 107, 108, 109, 115, 116, 118, 119, 120, 121, 144, 151, 164, 167, 168 Orthodoxy, 1, 3, 8, 44, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 78, 94, 95, 96, 97, 99, 100, 104, 105, 107, 108, 115, 119, 121, 168 Pharisees, 48, 53, 54, 56, 58, 64, 135

185

Qumran, 1, 3, 45, 46, 48, 49, 50, 52, 55, 57, 58, 61, 63, 64, 95, 123, 144, 156, 168 Sadducees, 48, 49, 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 63, 64, 65, 177 Scribal Class, vii, 4, 128, 129, 130, 131, 135, 136, 138, 139, 143, 149, 150, 163, 168 Semyaz, 141, 142, 143, 152 Valentinianism, 71, 73, 87, 97 Valentinians, 87, 89, 91 Watchers, 65, 123, 126, 127, 128, 129, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161, 163, 164 Wisdom Literature, 88, 90, 130, 131, 135, 137, 150 Yahad, 49, 65, 66, 67, 144, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 161, 168 YHWH, 131, 132, 133 Zadok, 56, 57, 66 Zoroastrianism, 43, 44

INDEX OF NAMES Adler, William, 7, 12, 16, 18, 19, 166 Alexander, P. S., 2, 65, 128, 130, 136, 138, 143, 149, 151, 156 Allegro, John M., 47, 60, 61, 63, 64 Arnal, William E., ix, 7, 92, 96, 123, 126 Asad, Talal, 7, 92 Attridge, Harold W., 7, 8, 20, 26, 29, 31, 32, 46, 70 Baile, David, 131 Bainbridge, William Sims, 86, 91, 92 Barnstone, Willis, 71 Barstad, Hans, 133 Berrin, Shani, 24 Blumenberg, Hans, 93 Boccaccini, Gabriele, 143 Bowker, John, 5, 108, 131 Boyarin, Daniel, 32, 64, 132 Boyce, Mary, 36, 38, 40, 43, 65 Braun, Willi, 92 Brenner, Athalya, 133 Brown, Raymond, 60, 115 Bultmann, Rudolph, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19, 23, 24, 25, 80, 81, 86, 97, 101, 113, 115, 117, 119, 120, 161 Bush, George W., 24, 25, 26 Cameron, Ron, 103, 108, 135 Charles, R. H., 10, 11, 12, 14, 17, 19, 24, 25 Clifford, Richard J., 6, 66, 130, 137, 138, 147, 148 Cohn, Norman, 43, 44, 127, 128 Collins, John J., 5, 6, 18, 19, 30, 33, 35, 38, 41, 42, 44, 46, 130, 134, 144, 154, 167

Cross, F. M., 46, 110 Davies, Phillip R., 45, 57, 59 Dijkstra, Meindert, 131, 133 Dimant, Devorah, 46 Eisenman, Robert, 47, 57, 59 Fitzmyer, Joseph A., 1, 2, 47, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 168 Flint, Peter, 47, 48, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 63, 144, 148 Foucault, Michel, 53, 94 Fox, Michael V., 131 Funk, Robert, 118 Garcia Martinez, Florentino, 46 Gilbert, Sandra M., 85 Ginzberg, Louis, 53 Grenet, Frantz, 65 Hanson, Paul D., 10, 11, 12, 14, 16 Harnack, Adolf, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 86, 90, 93 Hawkin, David, 108, 115, 119, 120, 124, 125, 135 Hedrick, Charles, 100 Heidel, Alexander, 148 Huffmon, Herbert B., 134 Hultgard, Anders, 43, 44, 128, 130 Jonas, Hans, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 90, 93, 105, 108, 109, 113, 119, 149, 161, 162 King, Karen L., 30, 53, 57, 69, 70, 72, 73, 74, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 86, 87, 88, 91, 94, 95, 96, 97, 98, 99, 100, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 112, 113, 114, 115, 118, 119, 128, 158, 162, 166, 167 Klinghardt, Matthias, 66

187

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AS BELOW, SO ABOVE

Kloppenborg, John S., 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 115 Koch, Klaus, 41, 134 Koenen, Ludwig, 28 Koester, Helmut, 71, 90, 103, 105, 121 Kuhn, Heinz-Wolfgang, 97 Kuhn, Thomas, 94 Kwok, Pui-lan, 80 Kysar, Robert, 110, 117 Lincoln, Bruce, 93, 120, 121, 123, 169 Logan, Alastair H. B., 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 149 Mack, Burton, 2, 11, 12, 24, 25, 61, 98, 102, 103, 118, 121, 123, 124, 165, 169 Main, Emanuelle, 56, 177 McCutcheon, Russell T., 53, 92 Meeks, W. A., 111, 117 Meier, John P., 97, 98, 99, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, 109, 118, 135, 162 Meyer, Marvin, 71, 115 Miller, Robert J., 12, 16 Mills, Sara, 78 Murphy, Tim, 73, 88 Newsom, Carol A., 64, 168 Osiek, Carolyn, 111 Pagels, Elaine, 27, 83, 84, 85, 86, 90, 93, 108, 141, 143, 146, 149, 161 Pearson, Birger A., 91, 93, 126 Perrin, Norman, 134, 135, 165 Riley, Gregory, 113 Robinson, James M., 98, 100, 119, 121 Robinson, Lillian, 85 Rudolph, Kurt, 14, 80, 95, 97, 108, 112, 113, 116, 117, 119 Sacchi, Paolo, 17, 37 Said, Edward W., 11, 24, 79

Schiffman, Lawrence H., 32, 49, 53, 55, 56, 57, 58, 62, 63, 64, 65, 128, 130, 136, 150, 165, 177 Schweitzer, Albert, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 19 Smith, Jonathan Z., 2, 6, 7, 10, 16, 19, 20, 32, 33, 36, 47, 61, 67, 70, 73, 77, 79, 92, 97, 105, 107, 120, 127, 128, 129, 130, 134, 135, 136, 137, 138, 139, 143, 149, 150, 151, 152, 160, 161, 163, 165, 166 Smith, Mark S., 132 Snyder, Graydon F., 61, 89, 166 Stark, Rodney, 86, 91, 92 Steudel, Annette, 147 Stone, Michael, 5, 6, 8, 20, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 37, 46, 47, 139 Stroumsa, Gedalishu A.G., 141, 149, 153 Thiering, Barbara E., 47, 57, 59 Trinh, T. Minh-Ha, 74 Tuckett, C.M., 103, 108, 118 Tyson, Joesph P., 73 VanderKam, James C., 47, 48, 53, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 63, 127, 128, 129, 137, 140, 144, 148, 154, 177 Walton, John H., 37, 131, 133 Wellhausen, Julius, 11 White, Hayden, 83 Williams, Michael Allen, 72, 82, 86, 88, 93, 98, 100, 101, 102, 103, 104, 105, 107, 109, 111, 114, 120, 158 Wise, Michael, 46, 47, 48, 50, 54, 55, 66, 145, 171 Wisse, Frederik, 85, 95, 100, 103, 104, 125 Yamauchi, Edwin, 91

INDEX OF ANCIENT TEXTS Asclepius Apocalypse, xi, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 33, 34, 35, 38, 40, 45, 46, 67, 70, 139 Augustine City of God, xi, 143, 145 Dead Sea Scrolls A Commentary of Habakkuk, xi, 46, 50, 55 A Sectarian Manifesto, xi, 49, 55, 56 A Vision of the Son of God, xi, 59, 60 Charter for Israel in the Last Days, xi, 55, 64 Charter of a Jewish Sectarian Association, xi, 2, 46, 50, 51, 54, 58, 66, 129, 146, 147, 149, 155, 156 Commentaries on Psalms, xi, 55 Enoch and the Watchers, xi, 144 In Praise of King Jonathan, xi, 57 Redemption and Resurrection, xi, 58, 59, 60 Thanksgiving Psalm, xi, 55, 58 The Book of Giants, xi, 65, 144 The Coming of Melchizedek, xi, 46 The Damascus Document, xi, 50, 52, 55, 56, 64, 139, 144, 145, 146, 148, 149, 158 The Temple Scroll, xi, 55 The Vision of Amran, xi, 45, 50 The Vision of Daniel, xi, 46, 50 The War Scroll, xi, 46, 50, 51, 52, 58, 67, 129, 144, 145, 148, 149, 155, 157, 158

Hebrew Bible 1 Kings, xi, 133 2 Kings, xi, 131, 133 Amos, xi, 50 Daniel, xi, 6, 8, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 30, 31, 32, 34, 35, 37, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 45, 46, 50, 65, 155, 166 Ezekiel, xi, 34, 134 Genesis, xi, 2, 53, 101, 102, 125, 126, 127, 139, 140, 143, 149, 154 Isaiah, xi, 34, 50, 134 Numbers, xi, 50 Psalms, xi, 55, 76, 90, 147 Zechariah, xi, 104, 134 Hebrew Bible Pseudepigrapha 1 Enoch, xi, 6, 23, 27, 37, 41, 42, 45, 50, 65, 126, 132, 139, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 158, 159, 161, 166 2 Baruch, xi, 6, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 31, 34, 40, 41, 42, 45, 155, 157, 158, 166 4 Ezra, xi, 6, 18, 21, 22, 23, 25, 31, 34, 41, 45, 155, 166 Fourth Sibylline Oracle, xi, 8, 33, 34, 35, 38, 40, 44, 45, 46, 47, 52, 70, 139 Irenaeus Against Heresies, xi, 2, 72, 86, 87, 88, 95, 99, 100, 105, 164, 166

189

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Josephus Antiquities of the Jews, xi, 53, 54, 57 Jewish War, xi, 2, 12, 48, 53, 54, 58 The Life, xi, 55, 117 Justin Martyr Second Apology, xi, 156 Mishna Yadaim, xi, 56 Nag Hammadi Library Apocryphon of John, xi, 2, 86, 91, 99, 101, 102, 107, 129, 152, 158, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163 Gospel of Philip, xi, 102, 104 Gospel of Thomas, xi, 2, 3, 71, 95, 97, 100, 102, 103, 104, 108, 109, 110, 111, 113, 114, 116, 117, 118, 121, 152, 168 Hypostasis of the Archons, xi, 2, 99, 102, 129, 152, 153, 154, 155, 159, 160, 161, 163 On the Origin of the World, xi, 99, 109, 117, 129, 152, 155, 156, 157, 158, 160, 161

New Testament 1 Corinthians, xi, 97, 104 Galatians, xi, 84 Gospel of John, ix, xi, 2, 3, 6, 18, 37, 38, 41, 42, 60, 69, 71, 84, 89, 97, 104, 107, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112, 115, 116, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 125, 128, 135, 168 Gospel of Luke, xi, 60, 89, 104, 135 Gospel of Mark, xi, 34, 89, 115, 135 Gospel of Matthew, xi, 34, 104, 115, 135, 151 Revelation, xi, 5, 6, 8, 21, 22, 23, 25, 31, 35, 41, 42, 45, 46, 89, 98, 101, 102, 107, 125, 129, 155, 166 Romans, xi, 2, 60, 88 The Potter’s Oracle / The Apology of the Potter, xi, 28, 29 Zand-i Vohuman Yasn, xi, 6, 8, 9, 36, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 65, 67, 134, 139, 155, 159, 160, 161